Once An Angel

Chapter 15

London

Amelia Winters flinched as the thunderous crash of a door and shouting masculine voices shattered the quiet of her domain. Her fingers tightened into claws on the win-dowsill. Outside, sleet skittered from

the pewter sky, coating the tiny garden within the walled courtyard in a shiny layer of ice. Amelia stared absently at the dormant rosebushes. They needed to be pruned. She'd been forced to let the gardener

go with a tidy sum after he'd threatened to summon the constable when the Scarborough girl had stabbed his son.

The door behind her creaked open. Timid feet shuffled on the worn carpet. "His Grace, the Duke of Winthrop, to see you, ma'am."

"Show him in."

"Aye, mum."

Amelia smiled bitterly. Doreen always slipped back into cockney in moments of travail. It was a habit Amelia had bred out of herself after she had clawed her own way out of a rookery crib to found this school.

Heavy footsteps shuddered the floorboards. They might have been the footsteps of her executioner. London had been abuzz with the young duke's return for over a week, and now she knew her brief reprieve was done.

The door slammed into the wall. Cold air from the foyer buffeted her. Amelia steeled her spine and swung around, somewhat relieved to finally come face-to-face with her most dreaded nightmare.

Her relief was short-lived. A man stood in the doorway, tall, gaunt, but undeniably striking. Drops of melted sleet beaded the cape of his greatcoat. He was scandalously hatless, and his eyes burned like

twin flames beneath a sweeping fall of dark hair. His clenched jaw was shaded not with a proper beard, but by the stubble of a savage. She had heard rumors that he'd been living with cannibals for the past seven years. He looked more than eager to devour her frail bones.

His sheer masculine presence dwarfed the shabby parlor. The room seemed suddenly full of people. Doreen hovered at the door, her homely face more pinched and pale than usual. Barney stood behind their callers, eyeing them with ill-disguised hostility. The slender stranger at the duke's elbow tipped his bowler to her, his face a bland, affable mask that did not fool Amelia for an instant.

The duke moved toward her, his greatcoat swirling around his boots. She realized that despite the silver threads at his temples and the sun-etched lines around his eyes, Justin Connor was younger than she had expected. Much younger. And far more dangerous. She clutched at the high collar of her blouse.

"I have come for my ward," he announced, giving her a bow so brief as to be an insult. A volatile muscle twitched in his cheek. "Your Miss Dobbins has tried to tell me that she is not in residence at this school."

A sharp cough failed to unravel the knot in Amelia's throat. She was terrified his knowing eyes would burn away the layers of her deceit, exposing the ugly truth for him to see. "I fear she is correct."

"Then I demand an explanation. My partner David Scarborough left his only child, Claire, in your care seven years ago. I have written record of it."

"As do I. But as my staff tried to tell you, she is no longer here."

Justin raked a hand through his hair, thankful for Bentley Chalmers's unruffled presence at his elbow. This woman's cryptic explanations were maddening him to distraction. He had wasted a week working

up the courage to come to this place. A week in which his old insomnia had returned with a vengeance.

A week of driving past the school in his luxurious carriage, wondering which of the lighted windows

might be Claire's. He had risked everything to come here. Even Emily.

A maid carrying a bucket of coal slipped into the parlor. Justin sighed, summoning his last ounce of self-control. "Then would you mind telling me where I might find Claire Scarborough?"

Was it a reflection of the fire, or did he see a flicker of malicious satisfaction in the old woman's eyes?

"I haven't the faintest idea where the girl is. She ran away months ago."

Blood roared through Justin's ears. The room went dark, then red. Then he was moving forward, only dimly aware of hands tugging at him and a woman's terrified keening.

"Your Grace!" It was Chalmers's imperturbable voice, shaken to near hysteria, that finally reached him.

The room slowly lightened. Chalmers held his arm while the sullen lad with the big ears clung to his leg. Justin shook the boy off like a mongrel pup. The young teacher had pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to muffle a scream, her complexion as chalky as her mistress's. The maid was a vague white shape, open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the hearth.

Only Amelia Winters stood unmoving, almost as if she expected his blow, even welcomed it. Stricken to his soul, Justin lowered his arm.

Wringing her hands, the old woman began to babble. "I did everything in my power, but the child was always headstrong and wicked. I could not control her. I tried to guide her by the Christian principles of discipline and self-restraint, but she remained unrepentant and hopelessly ill behaved."

Justin gripped the spine of a rosewood armchair, sickened by how close he had come to striking this woman. He bowed his head. He was too late. The child was gone. He had come this close only to lose her, perhaps forever. His own cowardice had cost him the girl. What right did he have to berate this pathetic old woman?

Her voice soared on a note of hysteria. "Even with my limited means I gave her the best care and education I could afford. Why, I treated her like my very own child!"

"She's lying!"

The words burst out like a breath of wind in the stale air of the parlor. Justin jerked his head up. The

coal bucket clattered to the hearth in a cloud of ashes. The young maid marched toward him, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Shut yer trap, Tansy, or I'll shut it for ya," the boy snarled, starting for her.

With one smooth motion Justin grabbed Chalmers's cane and slammed it down across a table, neatly blocking the boy's path. He ducked his head and shot Justin a glare of pure hatred.

Even in his agitation Justin couldn't help but notice how startlingly pretty the maid was. Silky tendrils of black hair escaped her drooping mobcap. Her drab, stained apron couldn't hide the bold curves beneath the limp ruffles.

Her brilliant blue eyes brimmed with angry tears. "The old witch is lyin'. She treated the girl like a bloody

slave. Made 'er 'aul coal and work in the kitchens dawn to dusk. Made 'er teach the little ones so she wouldn't 'ave to pay no one else to do it. Fed er scraps just like she does me. Always throwin' it up in

'er proud little face she'd be on the streets fendin' fer 'erself if it weren't fer Miss Amelia Winters's

bloody Christian charity."

She grabbed his hand, painting streaks of coal dust between his fingers. "The girl weren't wicked, sir. I swear she weren't. High-spirited maybe, but not truly wicked." She nodded toward Barney and Doreen. "Not like them there. Why, before 'er da died, she was a regular angel, and even after that she was the best mate I ever 'ad."

A fresh pain jolted Justin's heart. The girl tried to withdraw her hand as if shamed by her own boldness, but he held it fast. She gazed up at him, awestruck. She must have known so little kindness in her short life, he thought, but was kind enough herself to befriend an orphaned child.

"Did she leave any clue as to where she might be going?" he asked. "A letter? A note? Anything?"

The maid ducked her head. "I couldn't 'ave read it if she 'ad. She just up and disappeared one night

when the wind was 'owling 'round the attic." Her accusing gaze flicked to Doreen. "About the same

time those two-"

"Tansy!" Barney barked.

Justin thought he might have seen a flash of genuine fear in the girl's eyes. "Show me where she slept,"

he said gently but firmly. He was determined to find some clue as to why the maid's confession was making them all fidget.

"Take one step, Tansy, and you'll be dismissed." The headmistress's voice rang out like a steel bell, then softened to a wheedling tone. "Just think of all I've done for you."

The girl wavered for only an instant before lifting her round little chin in proud defiance. "I am, Miss Winters. By gawd, I am."

With a regal swish of her stained skirt she gestured for Justin to follow. Chalmers took two steps, but Justin stayed him with his hand. There were some things he would have to do alone.

He followed Tansy up the stairs, making rapid mental notes to stave off his panic. The carpet was faded, its floral pattern worn bare in the center of each tread. Several of the balusters were cracked, and only

the newel post at the bottom of the stairs showed signs of being replaced in recent years. As they reached the upper landing, the patter of feet was followed by the slamming of a door. The sound echoed as if there were very few warm little bodies to absorb it.

Tansy took a candle from a hall table and led him to a rough-hewn door. Justin's dread swelled. As she opened the door, the flame quivered in a blast of cold wind. Narrow steps wound into utter darkness. He hesitated, knowing he did not want to see what awaited him. But the thought of Emily gave him courage. She would have charged headlong up those steps, banishing every shadow with her unrelenting light.

Wiping his clammy palms on his trousers, he started after Tansy. Chill, heavy air bore down on him. Before he was halfway up, his breath was billowing out in frigid clouds.

They reached a shadowy landing. Tansy pointed to a door. "That there is my room."

He understood her gentle prodding. There was only one other door.

He reached for it, his hand shaking. The battered knob felt like ice. He turned it and pushed, half hoping

it would be locked. The door creaked open. Tansy hung back as if reluctant to finish what she'd started.

As Justin saw where Claire Scarborough's weary steps had led her each night, something inside of him curled up and died. It would have broken David's heart to know his daughter had come to this.

The room was cramped, barely more than a closet tucked beneath the attic beams. As he ducked beneath the lintel, cobwebs brushed his hair.

A grimy window let in a thin sliver of winter light. Beyond the pigeons cooing on the sill he could see an endless ocean of chimneys and roofs, all dulled by a miasma of soot. A narrow bed sat in one corner,

still rumpled as if someone had just climbed out of it. He ran his hand over the lumpy tick, knowing it madness to wish it might still be warm. He sat down on it, dropping his head into his hands.

Someone was watching him. Tiny prickles danced along his spine. He twisted his head to find stoic blue eyes gazing at him. A doll sat propped against the pillow. He picked her up and brushed his hand over golden curls matted with age, touched the jagged crack in her porcelain skull.

Tansy's voice startled him. "That there is Annabel. I used to 'ear 'er talkin' to the doll when she thought

I weren't listenin'. Sometimes she'd cry." She shrugged apologetically. "The walls are thin."

The doll hung limp in his hands. Yes, the walls were thin, he thought. Even now he could hear within them the rustle of mice and other skittering creatures.

It shouldn't surprise him that the child had run away. It should only surprise him that she had stayed so long.

Icy fury poured through his veins, washing away the hopeless despair, sharpening his sense of purpose. His hands tightened on the doll. Damn Amelia Winters for condemning an orphaned child to this attic coffin! And damn himself most of all for letting it happen!

He rose and started down the stairs. Tansy followed, galloping behind him. As he strode into the parlor, still clutching the bedraggled doll, even Barney backed away, leaving the headmistress to face him alone.

The woman's name suited her, he thought maliciously. She was as gray and colorless as the peeling paint and faded carpet of her school. How could David have left his precious Claire with this grim creature?

Of course, he and Nicky had convinced David he would be gone for only a few months. Not forever.

His baleful stare fell on the old woman's gnarled hands. They were trembling as if palsied. Her steely fagade was cracking just like the paint on the medallioned ceiling. For the first time Justin saw her for what she was. A pitiful old woman whose school was crumbling around her head.

His empathy did not soften the bite of pure contempt in his voice. "My detectives are going to comb this city for Claire Scarborough. If so much as one curl on her little head has been harmed, I'll see you ruined. I'll tell all of London about that attic prison you built for David Scarborough's daughter. I'll ensure that even the poorest merchant wouldn't trust his dog to your care."

He spun on his heel, whipping his greatcoat around him. He paused in front of the wide-eyed Tansy and pulled a fat handful of pound notes from his pocket. Money meant little to him. He had lived too long

free of its encumbrance.

He pressed the notes into her hand. "If you remember anything else about the night Claire ran away, or

if you require any kind of assistance at all, come to Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square and ask for me."

"Gor blimey, sir! Ya really mustn't!" But she was already shoving the money into the bodice of her shirt.

"Lord Winthrop."

The voice raked down Justin's spine like a steely claw.

The headmistress's gray eyes bored into him. "I may have failed with the child, Your Grace, but your own care left much to be desired."

His jaw twitched. The clock on the mantel ticked in the utter silence. Then he dipped at the waist in a gallant bow. "I concede your point, madam. If I have the good fortune to find her, I intend to spend the rest of my life atoning for my neglect."

"Aye, that ya will. She'll see to it, I'll wager," Tansy muttered under her breath.

Chalmers cast her a curious look, but Justin hadn't heard her. The agent tipped his derby and gave his cane a jaunty toss. "A good afternoon to all of you," he wished them before following the duke's determined form into the winter afternoon.

* * *

Justin didn't think he would ever be warm again. The dawn sun shining through the carriage window

shed pale light but little else. His clasped hands were numb beneath their white gloves. The cold sank deep into his joints, chilling him to utter exhaustion. He tried to let his mind drift away, but each passing day made it harder to hear the chanted song of the sea, the taunting whisper of a balmy breeze against

his skin. His memories of Emily were his only warmth.

A month of searching had yielded nothing. Claire Scarborough had vanished into London's merciless

jaws without a trace.

Neatly trimmed lawns and iron gates drifted past the carriage. Portland Square was a world away from the slums he had haunted through the long night. He had spent it as he had a dozen others-combing the narrow streets, shoving his way through taverns and gin mills, growling questions at anyone who would listen. Even the motliest of scoundrels gave him wide berth. Perhaps there was something to be said for the reliable web of society gossip. News of the wild-eyed duke had filtered down even to their ranks.

He sighed, almost wishing for Chalmers's dapper form to steady him. But he had sent his chief agent with an efficient army of detectives to search the orphanages and cottages in the countryside around London.

The carriage turned a corner and clip-clopped down a cobblestone drive. Justin's spirits plunged further, as they did every time he saw his father's house. No, his house, he reminded himself ruefully. Grymwilde was a veritable Gothic nightmare of pitched roofs, gables, and bay windows. A crenellated tower perched like a clumsy growth on one side. The house's only symmetry had been achieved by planting two leering gargoyles on matching turrets at each end of the roof. Justin swore under his breath, cursing Mortimer Connor, the first Duke of Winthrop, who had been so enamored of his newly bought title that he had

built this vulgar monstrosity as a monument to his own bad taste.

Climbing down from the carriage, he commanded the droopy-eyed coachman to get some sleep. He slipped through the front door, thankful for the sleeping peace of the house.

His mother was more concerned with throwing a ball to introduce him to the eligible ladies of her acquaintance than with his vain search for his partner's child. His three sisters had all married vapid men who had promptly taken up residence at Grymwilde and had no discernible occupations other than wandering the house with the most current copy of the Times tucked under their arms. Justin was starved for privacy. He missed his simple hut and his native friends who had known when to speak and when to be silent.

Most of all he missed Emily. He missed her dimpled smile, the warmth of her golden skin beneath his palms, the intoxicating taste of her lips.

A hard ache curled deep inside of him. He peeled off his gloves and tossed them on a lacquered table, meeting his reflection in the mirrored panel above. He had avoided mirrors in the last few weeks, and

now he remembered why. His eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion, his hair wild as if raked too many times by desperate fingers. Against the incongruity of his finely cut evening clothes, he looked every inch the crazed savage half of society believed him to be.

He touched his cheek. His tan was fading as rapidly as his hopes. His seven years on the North Island were melting before his eyes like a forgotten dream, unbearably sweet in its poignancy. Only the daily letters he scribbled to Emily kept him sane. He posted them half mad with panic and frustration,

knowing it might take weeks, even months, for them to reach her.

Would she wait for him? he wondered. Or would the greedy sea take her back to punish him for being fool enough to leave her?

He shoved away from the table, too tired to do anything but stumble up the stairs and fall into the

dubious comfort of his cold, lonely bed.

Chapter 16

Emily's fingertips brushed something smooth and cold. She stretched out her hand. The object rolled

just out of her reach. She swore softly under her breath and craned her neck to peer over the edge of

the cart. An apple, fat, shiny, and red, taunted her from its perch, making her mouth water and her stomach snarl.

The vendor swung away from the cart to hand a sack to a gentleman in a tall beaver hat. Emily lunged, crooking her fingernails into claws to snag the tender skin of the apple.

The vendor would have been none the wiser if her shawl hadn't caught on the handle of the cart. As she broke into a run, the cart tipped, spilling apples in a stream of scarlet into the dirty snow.

"Thief!" the vendor bellowed. "Come back 'ere, ya bloody brat! Constable!"

She didn't dare look behind her. She could already hear running feet, confused shouts, and the all-too-familiar shrill of a constable's whistle. The thin soles of her boots slapped the snow as she sped down the narrow sidewalk, shoving her way through the crowds. A gray-haired matron screamed and dropped an armful of packages. Three grimy urchins joined in the chase, dogging her heels until they became bored.

The whistle sounded again, closer this time. She plunged into the busy street, darting between a hansom cab and an omnibus, narrowly missing the flailing hooves of the startled horses. A driver's jeering curse rang in her ears.

She rounded a corner into a narrow alley, then threw herself into a doorway and waited, her chest heaving as the slam of running feet passed and subsided. Without waiting to get her breath back, she

sank to a crouch on the filthy stoop and dug her teeth into the crunchy apple. She knew she was behaving like a piglet, but she was beyond caring. Her empty stomach knotted around the food. The core dropped from her fingers. She hugged herself as a sharp cramp seized her.

It passed as quickly as it had come, leaving her shivering in its aftermath. The overhanging roofs above blocked even the meager winter sunlight. She pulled her threadbare shawl tight around her shoulders, fearing all the stolen apples in the world couldn't fill the yawning void inside her.

She squared her chin, determined to rally her flagging spirits. What did she have to whine and moan about? It had finally stopped snowing and she was free at last after being crammed in a steamer cabin

for the past month with five other women, most of whom had never discovered the pleasures of daily bathing. It had taken the last of the money from the sale of her father's watch to book passage from Australia to England, but she was no longer reliant on the fickle charity of Amelia Winters. She was her own mistress now and London was hers.

She shoved herself to her feet and made her way toward the street, stepping gingerly over a snoring

drunk clutching a gin bottle. Her robbery had already been forgotten, replaced by the fresh scandal of a skinny ragamuffin caught stealing a gentleman's purse.

She wandered the streets, wondering how the city could have grown so much smaller and danker while she was away. Horse-drawn vehicles thronged the roadway, churning the snow into black slush. No one took any notice of her. She was just one of a sea of faces in this vast slum.

Before she realized it, she'd turned down a finer street with freshly salted cobblestones and broad sidewalks flanked by shops. Gas lamps flickered in shop windows, illuminating shining displays of goods nestled in fresh boughs of pine and holly. She paused at the window of a toy shop to watch a mechanical St. Nicholas beat a tiny green drum.

As she turned away, she came face-to-face with her own image tacked to a lamppost. A sigh caught in

her throat. Was this one photograph to haunt her forever? She pulled down the notice, her hands trembling more in shock than cold. The sketch was a very good one, obviously done by a professional from her father's old tintype. Her eyes widened at the staggering amount of the reward. She hadn't a halfpenny to her name and she was worth more than any notorious criminal stalking the London alleys.

Two words seemed to leap out of the elaborate script-

LOST CHILD.

She leaned her forehead against the cold lamppost, no longer able to fight the despair. More lost than Justin could ever know, she thought. Her hatred for him had sustained her for years. Now that it was gone, she felt nothing. Nothing at all but a desperate yearning for warmth. He had shed his sunlight

across her soul, then slammed the door, leaving her cold and alone. Would he return to New Zealand, seeking the woman he had known only as Emily Scarlet? By taking the coward's way out, she would never have to know if he didn't.

"Move along, girlie. We don't need your kind scaring the customers away." A fat shopkeeper shooed at her with his apron.

Emily gave him such an evil look that he began to bellow for a constable. She broke into a run, feeling

as if she might run forever and never get anywhere. She had no intention of trading one kind of cell for another, although the jail might be warmer than the park had been last night. Dusk was nearing and the temperature was plunging rapidly. Warm tears blurred her vision.

She never saw the soft, immovable object in her path until she slammed into it. She went sprawling.

A torrent of packages rained down on her head.

She glared upward, rubbing her brow and preparing to unleash a string of curses on the hapless shopper.

"Gor blimey, if it ain't Emily Claire Scarborough, as I live an' breathe!"

"Tansy?" Emily whispered in awe. She clambered to her feet, shoving boxes off her lap.

Surely this statuesque creature could not be her Tansy. A feathered hat perched jauntily on her nest of ebony curls. A dress of yellow satin sculpted her ample curves in scandalous relief, then tapered to scalloped ruffles piled high over a bustle. But surely no one else could possess eyes as big and blue as Dresden saucers.

"Tansy?" she repeated, her voice rising to a squeak.

"Oh, Em!"

All of her doubts flew away as Tansy threw her arms around her, enveloping her in a perfumed embrace. Time melted and suddenly they were just two frightened little girls clinging to each other in a lonely attic.

Emily drew back, still clutching Tansy's arms, loath to relinquish her familiar warmth. "What happened

to you? Did you inherit a fortune? Rob a bank? Finally snare a rich gentleman for a husband?"

Tansy cocked her head, preening with guileless abandon. "Not yet, but I might very soon. I'm workin'

fer Mrs. Rose now."

Emily frowned as the name struck a discordant note in her memory. "Mrs. Rose? She must pay you

very well indeed. Are you her personal maid?"

"She don't pay me at all. It's 'er gentlemen callers that pays me."

Emily felt her mouth fall open in shock. Tansy gently pushed her chin up with the tip of her finger. Her ringer was now smooth without a hint of a callus.

Emily swallowed hard. "You're working at a bordello?"

"That I am. Most of the gentlemen are very kind with gentle hands an' open purses. They luvs me, they do. They all tell me so. I'm one o' their favorites."

"I don't understand. What happened to Miss Winters?"

Tansy's full lips tightened in a pout. "She tossed me out, she did, after yer guardian plucked 'er nerves. Ya should 'ave been there. 'E tore into the old 'ag right and proper."

Emily's throat tightened. "You saw him?"

"Lordy, did I! And ain't 'e the prettiest fellow I ever did see!"

"Yes," Emily admitted softly. "He is that."

"Some of my gentlemen friends say 'e's rough and dangerous like, but I knows better. Gave me money,

'e did. Told me if I ever needed 'elp to march straight to Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square an' ask for 'im. If I 'adn't been set on provin' I could stand on me own two feet, I might 'ave done it, too."

For a dazed moment Emily's pain was so intense she couldn't see straight. She barely felt Tansy's gentle touch on her arm.

"Where've ya been, girl? Why'd ya go and run off like that without tellin' me?"

"I didn't run off. Barney and Doreen carted me off on some mad scheme of Miss Winters's."

Tansy's full lips tightened. "I knew them bloomin' buggers was up to no good. I shoulda told that nice gentleman when 'e came lookin' fer ya. 'Ed ave cooked both their skinny gooses."

"No!" Besieged by sudden panic, Emily gripped her arm. "You must swear to me that if your paths should cross again, you won't tell him you saw me. He mustn't know I'm in London."

"What is it, Em? Are ya in some sort of trouble? 'E's a good man. I know 'e'd lend a 'elpin' 'and if ya'd

let 'im."

Emily pressed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of Justin's graceful tan hands against her skin. When she opened them, they burned like raw flames. "He can't help me now. I've done something terrible. And if he finds out, he'll despise me forever."

"Come now, dearie. What could be that terrible?"

Falling in love with Justin. Making him fall in love with her while lying to him with every breath. Emily just shook her head, unable to choke a reply past the icy lump in her throat.

Tansy's blue eyes were painfully earnest. "Why don't ya come with me, then? Mrs. Rose'd be glad to

'ave ya and those fine gentlemen would gobble a pretty thing like you right up! You'd be able to earn yer own money right and proper with good honest work. You'd never 'ave to rely on anyone's charity again."

Emily almost shivered to hear her own thoughts echoed so clearly. For one shocking instant she was tempted. But the thought of a stranger's hands touching her the way Justin's had filled her with revulsion.

"I'm sorry, Tansy. I'm glad you're happy, but I simply can't."

They faced each other, awkward again, strangers on a busy street. The passing shoppers stared curiously. Emily caught a glimpse of her reflection in a darkened shop window-a small figure in a shabby black dress, torn stockings, and ragged shawl. Her bare fingers poked out the ends of her gloves. How dare she accost a fine lady on the street?

Her worst fears were founded as Tansy thrust a hand in her purse and pulled out a shilling. "I 'aven't

any pound notes with me. Won't ya let me buy ya a nice meat pie?"

Emily stared at the gleaming coin. The warm, yeasty aroma of a nearby bakery wafted to her nostrils.

She couldn't live on charity again. Not even Tansy's.

She put her hands behind her back to ease the temptation. "Oh, no. I'm quite full, thank you. I just ate

at a friend's house, you see, and had a splendid helping of roast pheasant. And gravy. A whole tureen

of gravy." She started to walk backward. "Tarts, too. Those charming ones you douse in brandy and set aflame. I ate half a tray of those, then polished them off with a pitcher of cream. You know how I love cream." She clasped her hands over her stomach. "Why, my little belly is so stuffed, I feel like a Christmas turkey!"

The jostling crowd was beginning to come between them. She caught a glimpse of Tansy perched like a bewildered canary among her scattered packages.

"Em, wait! Don't go!" she cried.

Emily lifted her hand in a cheery wave. "I'm glad you're happy in your new situation. Perhaps we can meet for tea soon."

A cloaked man tipped his hat to Tansy, offering his assistance in retrieving her packages. Emily took advantage of her divided attention to slip into a merry throng of carolers and be swept away on a tide

of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."

As she dodged around a corner, the carolers went on, their laughter ringing on the crisp air. An emptiness worse than hunger seized her heart. She had learned all she needed to know of Christmas as Justin read

to a circle of rapt Maori in his resonant voice.

Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.

The lamplighters had come out to coax the gas lamps to flickering life above her head. Her feet moved of their own accord, although even exertion wasn't enough to stave off the deepening chill. The bells of St. Paul's began to chime. She wondered if Penfeld was curled up somewhere before a cozy fire, savoring their sweet refrain and sipping a cup of hot tea.

Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.

The cacophony of the city streets faded to a muted hush. She stood in the falling darkness at the neck

of a broad street lined by wrought-iron fences and towering oaks. Their naked branches brushed stark fingers against the sky. Even the snow was clean here, laid in a milky blanket over rolling lawns and terra-cotta fountains. Emily felt like an intruder from another land.

Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.

Did she really think she could abide in the same city, walk the same streets without even trying to steal

a glimpse of him? Did he sit sad and alone in a deserted house with only his regrets for company? Did

he wander a cold, snowy garden, dreaming of her?

There was only one way to find out.

The sky began to spit snow. Sighing, Emily pulled her shawl up over her hair and hastened through the deepening dusk.

Chapter 17

Justin stood at the window and watched the fat snowflakes drift down to fur the lawn. Despite his

longing for sunlight and sea, the snow still captivated him with its purity, its eternal promise of fresh hope.

"Justin, oh, Justin, my darling, where are you?"

He blew out a breath of frustration, fogging the cold windowpane. Even the heavy damask of the drapes wasn't enough to deter his mother. She swept them aside, smothering him in the cloying fog of her perfume.

"There you are! I was beginning to think you were hiding under the bed as you used to do when you

were little."

"Fat lot of good that would have done me. You would have just sent the butler to drag me out by my heels."

She slapped his arm with her fan. "Don't be a bad boy. You promised to be civil to my guests, not spend the evening lurking behind the drapes. It was heartless of you to deny me my annual Christmas ball. The least you can do is grace my modest fete with your presence."

Justin sighed. The duchess's idea of a modest fete was cramming a hundred guests into the octagonal drawing room. "I warned you I wouldn't be good company, Mother. I have more pressing matters on

my mind than playing Simile with a bevy of sotted swells."

"I suppose you mean that infernal child. You must stop this ridiculous fretting. You've got the finest men in the business on it. They'll find the little lad soon enough."

"It's a girl," he explained for the hundredth time. "A girl."

"Speaking of girls," his mother said, rescuing a perfumed handkerchief from the bodice of her dress, "there's that charming du Pardieu woman I told you about. You simply must meet her daughter. Quite

a bewitching little creature. Fresh out of seminary." She fluttered the hanky in the air like a flag of surrender, calling out, "Over here, dear."

Justin jerked her arm down, cringing at her shrill titter. Now that she'd regained one rightful Winthrop heir, her primary mission in life seemed to be to ensure he produced another one. "I don't want to meet the charming du Pardieu woman and I don't want to meet her daughter. If Queen Victoria is here, I don't want to meet her either. I wish to be left alone."

The duchess's iron-gray ringlets quivered in indignation. "Very well, then. Perhaps I'll let them think you

a savage."

She sailed away, her formidable bosom jutting out like the prow of some mighty ship. The staring guests milled in her wake. Justin shook his head, understanding for the first time why his father, in his own besotted youth, had ordered a figurehead carved in her honor.

He turned away from the window, tugging irritably at his starched collar. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to be pleasant. He might want to bring Emily back here someday after they were wed, and

he didn't want her reputation besmirched by his.

He wandered through the crowd, managing a smile here, a friendly nod there. The diplomacy of his years with the Maori seemed to have deserted him. He felt stiff and awkward, beset by the painful shyness that had troubled him as a child.

His sister Edith was pounding out "Joy to the World" on the grand piano. He winced, his heart aching for the poor beleaguered instrument. Her husband Harold had thrown back his head and was baying along with her. Or was it Herbert? Justin frowned. He still could not keep his sisters' husbands straight.

He angled toward a punch bowl ringed with glossy leaves of holly, hoping to find a safe haven in its rum-soaked depths.

A gloved hand caught his arm in a velvety vise. "Hello, Justin. Haven't you a moment to spare for an old friend?" The familiar voice had the huskiness of mellow brandy ignited by flame.

"Suzanne," he said, turning to greet his former fiancée and lover.

The years had been kind to her, softening her nubile beauty to glowing maturity, betraying her only in

the faint puffiness beneath her eyes. Sweeping wings of auburn framed her face. Justin knew he should feel something for her, some hint of affection, or even nostalgia, but he felt nothing. She might have

been a stranger. She must have sensed his detachment, for her grip tightened.

"I thought perhaps you'd care to dance. I fear my husband is more interested in discussing the Bank Holidays Act with his friends than he is in dancing with me."

Justin glanced at the man she indicated-a dapper, gray-haired chap much older than she. And doubtlessly very wealthy.

His first instinct was to decline, but her possessive grip dissuaded him. "If you'll honor me . . . ?" he

said, spreading his arms.

She stepped into them, smiling. Edith had switched to a tinkling little waltz, and several of the guests

had begun to dance.

"Do you still play?" Suzanne said, breaking the awkward silence.

"Only when everyone else is asleep."

She laughed briefly, but stopped when she realized he was serious. "Did you ever make it to Vienna to study?"

He swept her past the gleaming windows. "No. I took a … detour along the way."

"Dreams are like that sometimes. We give up what we really want to reach for something else. If we could only go back . . ." Her wistful voice trailed off.

She rested her head against his shoulder, and for a moment Justin was content to hold someone else

who understood the terrible cost of hesitation. But as they spun in the arms of the music, his heart

balked, remembering another night when he had waltzed beneath the merry twinkle of the stars. He had danced to the wrong music, held the wrong woman, but nothing in his life had ever felt so right.

He closed his eyes, breathing in not the delicate lavender of Suzanne's perfume, but the haunting aroma of vanilla warmed by sun-honeyed skin. His body responded to the dangerous provocation with a will of its own.

"Perhaps we could meet again. My husband travels frequently in his work. He's leaving for Belgium next week."

The breathless voice scattered his memories. He opened his eyes. Suzanne was gazing up at him, her lips parted in glistening invitation.

"Oh, God." He pushed her away, holding her at arm's length. "I'm terribly sorry."

"For what?"

His words echoed his despair. "We can't go back, Suzanne. We can't ever go back."

He drew away from her, frantic to escape her crushed bewilderment. He pressed his way through the crowd, snatching a full bottle of rum from the tray of a liveried footman.

"But, Your Grace, that's for the punch!"

"Not anymore, it isn't," he replied, escaping into the deserted peace of a darkened sitting room.

Tall windows framed the front lawn in a swirling vista of moonlight and snow. Justin leaned against the window frame and tilted the bottle to his lips. The familiar heat failed to warm him or soothe his temper. His fingers bit into the smooth glass.

In the drawing room Herbert or Harold was crooning some maudlin ballad about a man who searched

the world over for his love, only to find her in the arms of another man. Groaning, Justin closed his eyes and rapped his forehead against the icy pane.

When he opened them, someone was standing just outside the gate.

Snowflakes danced in his vision. He blinked, thinking he might have imagined it. But the small figure

clad in black was still there, clinging in eerie stillness to the wrought-iron gate.

It must be a beggar child, he thought.

He had spent much time in the past few weeks reac-quainting himself with the orphans and urchins of

the London streets. There were no hungry children among the Maori. What was planted by one was harvested by all. It had appalled him to see the children of London starving in the slums. Perhaps one

of those he had helped had sent this bedraggled creature to his doorstep to beg for food.

A blast of wind rattled the windowpane. How very cold she must be! He would have Penfeld invite her into the kitchen for a hot meal.

As he turned from the window, a thought brushed him with icy fingers, an idea both so horrible and so magnificent, it chilled him to the bone.

He narrowed his eyes. The figure was still there. Motionless. Waiting.

He tore across the room, swearing under his breath as his knee slammed into a brass pedestal crowned

by a glowering bust of Prince Albert. He burst into the drawing room and shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the crash of a footman's tray and the startled cries of alarm. "Good Lord, where's the

lad off to now?" "Careful there, Millicent, he trod all over my train." "Where's the fire, son? Shall we

call out the brigade?" Justin flew across the entranceway and flung open the front door. Frigid air burned his lungs. Tears of cold stung his eyes. He blinked rapidly to dispel them.

Snowflakes tumbled and spun in a wind-driven waltz, frosting the world in white. Leaving the front door gaping, he ran, sliding across the icy lawn to the street.

He searched both ways. The street was empty. The iron gate swung in the wind, creaking an eerie refrain.

Justin sank down on the curb and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared blindly into the night, wondering if he was going mad and listening to the falling snowflakes whisper promises they could never keep.

* * *

Emily's long strides ate up the pavement. Her shoulder slammed into a passing chimney sweep, knocking his tools into the snow.

"Watch where you're goin', you little fool!" he growled.

She jerked up his metal broom and swung around to press the sharp bristles to his throat. "Why don't

you watch who you're calling a fool, pudding head."

He recoiled and lifted his palms in surrender. She tossed him the broom.

"And a merry Christmas to you, too," he called after her as she marched on.

Emily was madder than hell.

She rushed on to nowhere, nursing the cold ashes of her bitterness to raging flame. She toyed with her anger, ripping the familiar comfort of the old scar wide open. She knew her anger well. It had been her friend, enabling her to hold her head high despite the giggles and slights. It had been her enemy, driving her to stomp toes and tie Cecille's braids in knots. And it had been her lover, sustaining her through cold, dark nights shivering in her attic bed by building a stone wall of fury against the despair.

Most of the shop windows were dark now, their owners gone home to sit in front of crackling fires.

Emily heard the crunch of a footfall behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting the chimney sweep's broom to slam into her head. A shadow vanished into a narrow alley. She almost laughed aloud. Anyone contemplating robbing her had to be desperate indeed.

She crossed a broad street where light and laughter spilled from a corner coffeehouse. A familiar scrap

of paper on a lamppost caught her eye. A man stared as he passed, and Emily pulled her shawl up

around her face. The likeness in the tintype was still there. Not everyone in London was as blindly

stupid as Justin.

Poor, pathetic Justin.

Instead of finding him mooning for her in a deserted house, she had found him gliding past a shining expanse of glass, a beautiful stranger in his arms. He had slipped back into his life of noble decadence with alarming ease, leaving her once again on the outside, looking in.

Perhaps if she possessed the sophistication of his waltz partner, she would have known he was only toying with her on the island. Why shouldn't he? She was the only woman in miles except for the

Maori, and he had already seduced his way through their ranks before she arrived. Justin wasn't the pathetic one. She was.

That night on the beach she had allowed him to touch the most tender part of her, both in body and soul. Yet tonight he had clasped another woman to his heart as he had once held her beneath a foggy pearl of

a moon. He had been terribly handsome in his black evening garb, the rakish sweep of his hair over his starched collar oddly endearing. A wretched sense of betrayal closed her throat.

Her hands clenched into fists. She couldn't let the pain in. Not even for an instant. If she did, she would curl into a little ball right there in the street and they would find her in the morning, just another frozen casualty.

She marched on, achingly aware of her every misery. The soles of her boots were soaked through. Her naked fingers were numb. The blowing snow stung her cheeks like tiny shards of glass.

A well-dressed couple passed her. The woman tittered and the man raked her with a contemptuous glance. They knew she didn't belong there. She didn't belong anywhere.

A bakery door opened in a blast of warmth, sugaring the air with the tantalizing aroma of gingerbread. Emily stopped dead, as paralyzed and vulnerable as if she'd been caught naked on Piccadilly Circus.

She crept nearer and pressed her nose to the icy window.

Fresh rows of pastries cooled on the shelves, swollen to bursting with red and amber fruit. Flat scones rolled in cinnamon dotted the gleaming counter. Emily's breath fogged the glass.

Suddenly she was hungry. Wickedly, savagely hungry.

Her father had once taken her to such a place. He had lifted her in his strong arms so she could see the steaming array of treasures, then allowed her to pick three of the most tempting. They had sat in the bakery the rest of that cold winter afternoon, gorging themselves on pie and pastries until they had both retired to bed that night with aching bellies.

The door swung open again. A plump woman with her hands jammed deep in a fur muff was ushered into the bakery by her towering escort. Without hesitation Emily slipped in behind them.

She lurked behind the man's cloak while they made their choices. As the baker turned to fill a sack with powdery crumpets, Emily saw her chance.

She reached over the counter and snatched a fat tart, burning her fingers with its delicious heat.

"Ho there, little lady, you can't do that."

It was not the baker, but the man who spoke, his jovial tones ringing in the silence. Emily fled for the door. She tripped over the threshold and stumbled into the snow.

"Constable! Stop this thief!"

The baker burst out behind her. She scrambled to her feet, but had barely taken two steps when she heard pounding footsteps coming from both directions. The { blast of twin whistles deafened her. She spun around, not I knowing which way to run. Her hesitation cost her dearly. The baker's genial

customer caught her by the back of her dress and lifted her high.

"There now, little one, quit squirming. You mustn't be such a wicked gel. Wicked gels end up in jail,

you know."

He lowered her, but before she could flee, a uniformed constable caught her arm and wrenched it behind her back. The tart slipped from her fingers and plopped into the dirty snow. A heartbroken wail escaped her.

Caught in an implacable tangle of arms and legs, she fought wildly. Her foot connected with the shin of one of the constables with a satisfying thud. The other one howled as her teeth sank into his wrist. The shawl slid from her hair.

"Stand back, lad!" one of them shouted. "We don't need no crowds. She's a rabid wench."

A hand caught in her curls and tugged her head straight back, stilling her struggles. Tears of pain stung

her eyes.

"Aye, a rabid wench she is. But don't worry, gents. I'll muzzle her right and proper."

As Emily stared up into black, beady eyes glistening with lust and greed, she moaned in utter dread.

He jerked her hard against him and grinned at the gaping constables. "Mr. Barney Dobbins, mates, at

yer service."

* * *

Somewhere a child was laughing.

Justin sat bolt upright in bed. His heart pounded in his throat, deafening him for a long moment before

the shift of the coals on the fire penetrated his panicked haze. The blankets bound his legs in tangled cords, as twisted as the dreams that haunted his waking hours, and made sleep a nightly torment.

There was something he should know. Something hovering at the edge of his nightmares, taunting him.

He threw back the heavy drapes of the bed and struggled out of the feather tick. Like everything else

in this house, the bed was a monstrosity. Every inch of the dark mahogany had been carved with the serpentine vines and pronged leaves of miniature Venus's-flytraps. He dreaded climbing into it each

night for fear the mattress would swallow him without a trace.

A thread of light shone beneath Penfeld's adjoining door. The valet never slept without his lamp lit. Justin pulled a dressing gown over his nakedness, wishing light were enough to keep his own demons at bay.

He marched down the long, curving staircase, raking his hair out of his eyes. No one would dare trouble him. The servants had grown accustomed to him prowling the house at all hours. They gave him wide berth, frightened of the gaunt shadows beneath his eyes. He was beginning to feel as mad as they must think him.

He was the Duke of Winthrop now. He could buy a dozen gold mines. He could travel to Vienna and study music, as he had always longed to do. He could rent an opera house to feature nothing but his own symphonies night after night. But all he craved was the warmth of sunlight on his face and the music of Emily's laughter.

His shin slammed into a wooden pedestal in the dark and he bit off an oath. There wasn't an inch of

grace or simplicity to be found in this cramped house. He grabbed the teetering vase atop the pedestal

and threw it. It shattered against the far wall with a satisfying crash. Somewhere in the house a door closed as a curious servant beat a wise retreat.

The moon-drenched drawing room beckoned him. He slid onto the piano bench and sat in brooding silence. The snow lay in a serene blanket beyond the tall windows. Midnight bells chimed in the distance, and he realized with a shock that it was Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve. The night when hope had first entered the world. But not for him. Not while David's

child was out there somewhere, shivering in the dark. To him, the echo of the bells sounded the death knell of his dreams.

He lifted his gaze to meet the impassive blue eyes of Claire Scarborough's doll. She reigned on the piano with the aplomb of a ragged little queen. No one had dared to do so much as dust her since Justin had placed her there. He glared at her now, almost hating her for the secrets she withheld. What would she say if she could speak? Would she curse him, reproach him for his terrible cowardice?

He crooked his fingers over the keys and began to play. He chose not his own music, but the melancholy strains of Beethoven's "Fur Elise". Instead of losing himself in the music as he'd hoped, the notes flailed him like exquisite barbs.

What a fool he had been! He had let go of Emily to chase a phantom. Now he had neither.

He felt as if he were moldering in this mausoleum. He hungered to feel the powdery sand between his toes, to hear Trini's sonorous laughter and the welcoming song of the Maori shimmering on the balmy air. His hands flew over the keys, stroking, caressing the smooth ivory as he longed to caress the heated satin of Emily's skin. But how could he face her, knowing he had abandoned David's child to the merciless streets of London? Emily deserved more in life than a desolate man crippled by guilt.

His hands faltered. His fingers were stiff and callused, his left hand still inflexible from lack of practice. He struck the wrong note, then slammed his fist down on the keys in a burst of despair.

The discordant notes jarred the air. Justin dropped his face into his hands. Emily's features were already growing misty in his memory, blurring like a hazy watercolor into another face, a face he knew as well

as his own.

A polite cough broke the silence. Justin's head flew up. A dark shape was silhouetted against the moonlight, and for one crazy moment he thought it was David's ghost.

Bentley Chalmers's clipped tones rang out. "They've found her, sir."

Justin blinked, fighting to clear the fog of confusion from his brain. His thoughts were so rife with Emily that for a weary moment he didn't know who the man was talking about-Emily or Claire?

Chalmers turned his bowler in his hands. "They've found the girl, sir. She's alive."

"Alive?" he whispered.

The piano keys blurred before his grateful eyes, and a chiming carol broke free in his head as if all the bells of London had started to ring at once.

Chapter 18

"Criminy, Penfeld, I asked to be shaved, not beheaded." Justin bit back a yelp as the razor nicked his throat.

Penfeld dabbed at the welling dollop of blood with a towel, his hands shaking visibly. The water in the ceramic washbasin at his elbow was stained a pleasant shade of pink. "I am frightfully sorry, sir. I must confess I'm a bit nervous myself."

"You're nervous? What about me? I've never been a father before." He ducked beneath the approaching blade and bounded out of the chair to the mirror. Stroking the foreign smoothness of his chin, he cocked his head sideways, studying his profile. "Do I look like a suitable papa?"

Beaming proudly, Penfeld wiped the soap from the gleaming blade with a flourish. "The very model of paternal decorum."

Justin flicked a stray hair from the shoulder of his coat, then cast the ebony strands scattered around his chair a rueful glance. "I hope this is worth it. I feel naked."

"But you look splendid."

Justin jerked his coat straight, then reached to his chest for a watch that wasn't there. He remembered

the last time he had seen it, gleaming against the satin of Emily's skin. A smile touched his lips. If things went well today, he would retrieve it soon enough.

"What time is it, Penfeld?"

The valet checked his own watch. "Eleven-oh-two, sir, approximately three minutes since you last asked."

"Eleven-oh-two? Oh, dear God." He paced to the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. "Is my tie crooked?"

It wasn't, but Penfeld dutifully straightened it. Justin marched to the door again, but faltered halfway there.

His massive bed was swimming in a frivolous sea of lace and velvet. Sweeping away a dainty chintz frock, he sank down on the edge of the mattress and hooked his heels beneath the tester to keep from being sucked into a whirlpool of tiny silk gloves and mink muffs.

"In a few minutes David's daughter is going to walk through that front door. The first thing I must do is tell her the truth about her father." He lifted his bleak gaze to Penfeld. "How will I find the courage?"

"Shall I tell her, sir?"

A rush of affection flooded Justin. Penfeld had been known to blanch with terror at the mere sight of a child. "No. But you are a treasure to offer."

Emboldened by Penfeld's devotion, he jumped to his feet. "One more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

Justin gave him his warmest smile. "Merry Christmas, Penfeld."

The valet snapped to attention. "And a merry Christmas to you, too, sir."

* * *

As Justin strode down the corridor, a cheery whistle rose unbidden to his lips.

"Good morning, Mary," he called out, startling a shocked maid into dropping her load. Little polished boots and kid slippers scattered across the plush carpet. As he tripped down the stairs, one of his brothers-in-law passed him, his long nose tucked into a newspaper. "And a good day to you, Harvey," Justin said.

"Harold," the man mumbled, turning the page.

Justin stopped, frowned, then bounced back up three steps and peered into the man's face. "Why, I'll

be damned, it is Harold, isn't it!"

As he hit the bottom step, he grinned to discover the first floor of the mansion in utter chaos. Servants scurried from room to room, polishing gas lamps, scrubbing the baseboards, and draping the banisters with fragrant garlands of cedar.

A toothless cook thrust a tray of steaming biscuits under his nose. "Thirty dozen, Yer Grace, just as

you asked for."

The delicious aroma filled his nostrils. "Mmmm. Superb, Gracie! Did you bake any with raisins?

Children like raisins, don't they?"

"Mine allus did, sir."

He tweaked her plump cheek. "Twelve dozen more, then. Loaded with raisins."

"Aye, my lord. Right away." She bobbed a curtsy and scampered back toward the kitchen.

A disgruntled butler caught his elbow. "I really must protest, my lord. Someone has left a pony in the library."

Justin didn't even slow. "Imagine that. Take him into the ballroom. He'll have more room to frolic."

He came to a dead halt at the door of the drawing room, his eyes misting with wonder. Within the meager space of a day, the room had been transformed into a Christmas miracle. A towering tree crowned the corner, tickling his nose with the pungent scent of spruce. Edith perched on a ladder, lighting the tiny candles nestled in its boughs while his younger sisters, Lily and Millicent, giggled and offered her suggestions.

"What did you do, brother?" Lily called out. "Buy out every toy store in London?"

"Only the ones that would open on Christmas Eve." The flash of his purse had opened more than one door, and there was hardly room to walk for all the toys. There were mechanical elephants and drum-beating bears, skipping ropes and miniature stoves, paints and charcoals, clockwork trains and

even a cluttered dollhouse with a tiny grand piano. Two mechanical birds twittered from a golden cage hanging off one of the gasoliers.

Justin had no idea what a girl of ten would enjoy, so he had bought one of everything-including sacks

of glass marbles and a handsome regiment of iron Napoleon soldiers. Propped against the sleek spokes

of a velocipede was a shiny sled of just the sort he had always wanted as a boy. His father had denied him, but he would deny David's daughter nothing. He had already robbed her of too much in her life.

His mother swept in and gave the room a droll inspection. "I'm glad to see you're not planning on spoiling the child."

"Of course not. I shall rule her with a firm but gentle hand," Justin replied, kissing her perfumed cheek.

A grubby yardboy came pounding through the door, gasping for breath. "There's a carriage comin' this way, my lord. It looks to be the one."

Justin swallowed a jagged flare of panic. "Well done, lad." He tossed the boy a coin, then threw back his head and bellowed, "Penfeld!"

He took one last look around to reassure himself that everything was perfect. A dazzling array of dolls blanketed the top of the piano, pouting and simpering in yards of satin and lace. Out of their elegant depths protruded a grimy little porcelain nose. Seized by a strange compulsion, Justin rescued the doll

he had found in Claire's stark attic and set her on the music stand, arranging her stained skirts with painstaking care. Her haughty gaze seemed to mock him.

Penfeld came bouncing into the room, pausing long enough to pick an invisible speck of lint from

Justin's trousers. As a plain black carriage clattered up the drive, word flew through the mansion and the drawing room filled.

The servants lined up on one side, making last-second adjustments to their caps and aprons and trying

not to crane their necks to look out the window. Justin's sisters whispered together on the other side, backed by their stalwart husbands and the indomitable duchess.

The air quivered with a nervous hush as Justin took his place at the foot of the handsome tree.

When Penfeld tried to slip away and join the servants, Justin clutched his arm. "Stay, please," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "You can catch me if I faint."

They all watched through the windows as the driver threw open the carriage door. A bony hand protruded and Justin stiffened as Amelia Winters climbed out. His only regret lay in having to pay her the reward he had offered. It was her perverse good fortune that the child had returned to the only home she had known, however lacking in care and comfort it might have been.

The driver cast the house a surly look, and Justin recognized him as the same lad he had met at the seminary. His steps were hampered by a definite limp, and even from this distance Justin could see the mottled bruise blacking one of his eyes.

Justin's breath froze in his throat as a diminutive figure in a simple navy frock and wide-brimmed bonnet climbed out of the carriage, disdaining the driver's assistance.

Penfeld leaned over and whispered, "A bit large for a ten-year-old, isn't she?"

Justin frowned.

The severe parade made its way up the walk with the driver lagging behind. As the butler ushered them in, Miss Winters's cane clicked on the marble tile. The girl appeared in the doorway.

Justin's heart tripped into double time. He locked his hands at the small of his back and forced a smile

he feared was more grimace than grin.

She didn't even look up. Head bowed and hands shoved into a ratty muff, she marched past the somber column of servants and family, straight toward him. His frown deepened. There was something in the sway of her hips … a false submissiveness to her sullen stance that struck a disturbing chord of recognition. A bell of warning jangled in his head.

She stopped dead in front of him. He gazed at the top of her bonnet, holding his breath without realizing it. Even before she slowly tilted her face to his, he knew what he would see. Tumbled chestnut curls framed by the bonnet's brim. A mocking dimple slashed in a plump cheek. Coffee-brown eyes glittering not in merriment, but bitter triumph.

Her hand came out of the muff and crossed his face with a resounding crack. Someone in the room gasped. He stood there, paralyzed, feeling all the blood drain from his face except for the vivid burn of her handprint against his cheek.

Tilting her pert nose in the air, she dismissed him coolly and turned to Penfeld. "You may show me to

my room now. The attic will do if you've nothing more suitable. I've grown quite fond of rats and

pigeons over the years. They're far better company than most people."

Penfeld made a helpless gurgle, but Justin gave him a curt nod and he recovered enough to lead her past the gaping servants and white-faced family. She marched past the piles of toys and games without so much as a disdainful glance, but at the piano she paused.

A strange emotion flickered across her face, squeezing Justin's heart like a vise. Ignoring all the elegantly garbed and coiffed dolls, Emily picked up the ragged doll on the music stand and hugged it to her breast. As Penfeld led her from the drawing room, the doll peered at Justin over her stiffened shoulder and he would have almost sworn he saw mocking amusement sparkle in her vapid blue eyes.

Chapter 19

One by one the candle flames winked out, leaving the Christmas tree shrouded in darkness. Justin stood unmoving, hands in pockets, as the maid set down the brass snuffer and brushed past him, averting her eyes. Two footmen wheeled away the shiny velocipede, their voices lowered to somber whispers.

Outside the drawing room windows the sky faded from dull pewter to smoky black. Servants came and went, sweeping away the last traces of mistletoe and tinsel until Justin stood alone, the naked tree towering over him like the specter of his own folly. He reached up and plucked a stray holly leaf from

the gilt cage where the mechanical birds now hung in silence.

Penfeld appeared in the doorway, clutching a stuffed bear nearly as big as himself. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Sir, there's still the matter of the pony."

Justin ran his thumb over the sharp points of the leaf, remembering how Trini had laid the sprig of greenery at Emily's feet to welcome her into their lives. At least the native hadn't been foolish enough

to lay his heart there.

"Have the groom stable it for tonight. It can be returned in the morning."

"Aye, sir. As you wish." The valet hesitated as if he would have liked to say something more, then

hefted the bear to his shoulder and lumbered away.

How could he have been such a fool? Justin wondered. Emily had scattered clues like the crimson petals of the pohutukawas along every path he took, but his own obsessive desire had blinded him. Could he blame only himself, though, when she had deliberately and maliciously deceived him about her identity? As the full realization of her betrayal struck him, a new emotion ribboned through his self-contempt-anger, dark and compelling and dangerous. His gaze lifted to the ceiling above his head.

His terse interview with Miss Winters had provided some of the answers he sought, but he had some questions of his own for the elusive Miss Scarborough. Ignoring the prick of its points, he crumpled the shiny leaf in his hand and started for the stairs.

* * *

Justin scaled a mountain of pink taffeta and picked his way through a jungle of ribbons and sashes.

Toys, books, and beribboned frocks littered the burgundy carpet of the corridor outside Emily's room

as if someone had gathered careless armfuls and tossed them out the door.

He turned the knob, expecting the door to be locked. To his mingled regret and relief, it swung open soundlessly beneath his touch.

The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the flames on the grate and a slow, lazy creak.

Emily perched sidesaddle on the rocking horse he had ordered brought down from the attic that morning. She rocked idly, her pensive profile turned toward the dancing flames. The fresh shock of seeing her there buffeted Justin's senses, igniting a raw hunger to jerk her up and shake the answers out of her. Or did he just seek any pretense to drag her into his arms? A hint of white cotton stocking peeked out from beneath the navy wool of her skirt. He had seen her garbed in far less, yet the innocent sight made the blood roar in his ears.

He pushed the door shut and leaned against it, arms crossed. His puzzled family had witnessed enough

of their private little war. This battle would be their own.

The moments creaked away beneath the rhythmic shift of Emily's thighs. Finally, she lifted her hand.

A satin glove trimmed in tiny pearls dangled from her pinkie. "A bit small for me, don't you think?"

With agonizing effort Justin kept his face smooth and expressionless. "I thought you were just a baby when your father died. The only photograph I ever saw was the one in the watch. David used to tell

me stories about you. About the time you ate the buttons off his coat. The time you crawled onto the window ledge and fell asleep in the flower box. Those were hardly the actions of a girl on the verge of womanhood."

Her winsome smile never reached her eyes. "No, but they were Daddy's favorite stories."

"How was I to know?"

The glove fluttered to the floor. "You might have tried the conventional ways. A visit. A letter."

The curtain between past and present seemed to blur. "I've written you every day since I've been in London."

"Writing letters was never a problem for you, was it? Posting them was always the challenge." Her legs swung in childish defiance.

"Why didn't you simply tell me you were David's daughter?"

"We all live by our expectations, don't we, Mr. Connor? You expected Claire Scarborough to be a little girl and I expected you to be an unfeeling monster who would steal his best friend's gold and abandon

a child entrusted to his care."

Justin's jaw tightened, but he refused to quail before her taunts. "Forgive me if I disappointed you. If I'd have known you were coming, I'd have sharpened my horns. The truth of the matter is that the Maori took the gold mine during the uprising and I thought you well cared for. I had no idea Miss Winters was such an old b-"

"Battle ax," she supplied. "You really should police your language in front of your ward. Children can

be so impressionable."

She climbed off the rocking horse, the roll of her hips beneath the ill-fitting wool a taunt of its own. She gazed up at him, her lips parted, her eyes darkened in smoky accusation. Would he ever again see them sparkle in merriment? he wondered. The winter months had faded her skin to a delicate peach and

carved faint hollows beneath her cheekbones. What had she endured on the harsh voyage from New Zealand to England?

His heartbeat quickened at her nearness. "Miss Winters said they were bringing you to me. That you jumped off the boat and ran away rather than be delivered into my hands."

"And she accused me of having a vivid imagination! I didn't jump off the boat. When they couldn't find my wealthy guardian, they tossed me overboard like so much shark bait."

His hand shot out to grasp her wrist. "If that miserable wretch Barney ever laid a hand on you, I'll-"

He left the threat unfinished, but the vision of the ruffian's stringy paws against Emily's skin tightened

his grip.

"Surely you jest." Her low laugh hit an off-key note. "Miss Winters would never have allowed it. She wanted me given into the hands of my illustrious guardian, pure and undefiled."

Her words struck Justin like a blow. Reeling from its shock, he stared down at her wrist. The dusky

hairs on the backs of his knuckles stood out in sharp relief against the pale silk of her skin. His hands were strong, graceful, from long hours at the piano, honed and callused by hard physical labor, and like any man's hands, capable of both gentleness and cruelty.

His fingers had stroked her until she cried out for his touch in a voice husky with passion. His hands,

not Barney's, had defiled the child given into his care.

His thumb massaged the circlet of prints he had left in her tender flesh. "Ironic, isn't it? I'd kill any man who had touched you as I have."

She pulled her arm free and paced to the window, turning her back on him. "A pity dueling is out of fashion. You could challenge yourself. Penfeld would make a dapper second."

A ragged sigh escaped him. The flippant Miss Scarborough was beyond his reach. His only hope lay in coaxing out a glimpse of his Emily.

His voice softened. "Why didn't you wait in New Zealand? I was coming back for you."

"Too little, too late, Mr. Connor!" Emily spun around, her ruse of control snapping. Unshed tears

polished her eyes to brilliance. "What did you want me to do? Sit at the hut window until the birds built nests in my hair? No, thank you! I've had my fill of waiting for the likes of you. Seven years of it. Dreaming, hoping, praying. Sitting with my fingers pressed to the window until I thought they'd crack

and fall off from the cold. Even after I'd stopped hoping and started to hate you, I'd wake up crying in

the middle of the night and think I heard your footsteps on the stairs."

Justin started for her. She recoiled violently, stumbling over a miniature railway laid before the window.

Her foot lashed out, sending the caboose slamming into the wall, marring the wallpaper with an ugly red gash. "Did you really think you could erase years of neglect with trains and dolls?"

Her arm raked across the marble-topped chiffonier. Tiny bottles of toilet water tumbled to the carpet, their crystal stoppers rolling away. The sickly sweet fragrance of lavender water stung Justin's eyes.

"Did you hope to buy my forgiveness with baubles? Trinkets?" She hauled open the doors of the lacquered wardrobe, snatched out an armful of dresses, and hurled them toward him. "I fear you've misjudged me, sir. My affections can't be bought for a length of ribbon or a scrap of lace."

Justin stood unmoving beneath her assault, allowing Emily her anger. He owed her that much. She was finally giving vent to the pain she hid so well behind sarcasm and flippancy. She was magnificent in her fury, whirling through the bedroom like a cherubic demon of vengeance.

She wrapped her arms around a magnificent wedding doll complete with tiny trousseau and thrust it into his arms. "Why don't you send all of these charming things over to the seminary? I'm sure Miss Winters will waste no time finding some other poor beggar child to board in my attic."

Her fury spent, she folded her arm over her brow and leaned against the bedpost. Her slender throat convulsed, and it broke Justin's heart to know how hard she was fighting not to cry in front of him.

He set the doll gently on the bed, afraid Emily might crumple if he touched her. "I didn't know, Emily.

I swear to God I didn't know."

She gazed at him over her shoulder, her eyes glistening with tears. "And if you had known? Would you have come?"

He yearned to offer her that pathetic scrap of reassurance. But even now he hadn't the courage to say

the words that would freeze the contempt on her face forever. The words that would brand him as the monster she had believed him to be. She had every reason to hate him. Far more reason than she knew. He couldn't give her the truth. But he couldn't lie to her either.

"I would have made the necessary arrangements."

Her beautiful eyes darkened in bitter triumph. "And you thought me fool enough to wait for you again."

Justin's sense of helplessness nearly choked him. "I would have never left New Zealand if I hadn't had to comb this godforsaken city for David's daughter." He narrowed his eyes as realization dawned. "If I had gone back, you wouldn't have been there, would you? Because you were here, leading me on a merry chase for a child that didn't exist. I'd have gone back to a deserted beach and an empty hut. Was that to be your final revenge, Claire?"

She tossed back her head in proud defiance. "Don't call me that. You haven't the right."

With agonizing clarity Justin realized all of the other things he had no right to do. She was standing near enough for him to touch, but forever out of his reach. A wall of propriety had slid between them, as fragile as glass and as impenetrable as stone. Society had a name for men who seduced their wards.

Their shocked whispers and stares might never touch him, but Emily had already lived half her life

under the burden of their scorn. She deserved far better.

His oath to David bound his heart like chains of iron. He had robbed her of her father and it was his penance and duty to replace him. To atone for his own neglect, he could give her a home, an education,

a place in society. He could even find her a husband who would cherish her as David had. Fate had ensured he could never be that man. She would despise him if she knew the truth about the night that

had left her father's blood on his hands. All his noble intentions paled in comparison to what he could never give her-his love, his body, his children.

A white-hot anger blazed through him. Anger at her cunning, her blatant deceit, and the terrible

unfairness of it all. His desire for her flared as brightly as ever. He wanted this defiant woman no less

than he had wanted the angelic creature who had washed up on his beach garbed in nothing but sand

and moondust.

He caught her arms and drove her back against the bedpost. His fingers pressed into her soft flesh, assuring himself she was real and not an illusion of his maddened desire. Her lips trembled, and he felt

a bitter satisfaction to know she was not as immune to him as she was pretending to be.

He lowered his lips near enough to smell the tantalizing musk of fear and anticipation on her breath.

"Are we even now? Have you punished me enough, Miss Scarborough? Are you satisfied with your revenge? To make me want you? To make me dream of you when you knew that once I discovered I was your guardian, I could never lay a hand on you?" She turned her face away, but he forced it back, capturing her chin between two fingers. "It was a terrible and wicked thing to do. Your father would be ashamed of you."

With those words Justin turned and left her, slamming the door behind him. He sank against the door, knowing his survival depended on pretending those stolen moments of passion and tenderness in New Zealand had never happened. But his bluff had not fooled him. Emily's revenge had just begun, and the punishing flames of hell couldn't lick any higher than his burning need for her.

* * *

Emily drifted in and out of sleep, her jumbled dreams as tortured as her waking thoughts. She threw

back the suffocating weight of the comforter. An icy draft blasted her fevered skin, drying the sweat and rippling goose flesh over her body. Shivering, she burrowed back under the comforter and tried to pinch her down pillow into some semblance of comfort. It was too wet from her tears to be salvageable. She heaved it off the bed and threw herself back, rapping her head sharply against the carved headboard. Groaning, she rolled facefirst into the mattress.

She had taken to her bed after Justin had stormed out, and was contemplating spending the remainder

of her life there.

She had lain unmoving, her sullen face turned to the wall when the maids had come to clear away the toys and sweep up the debris. She ignored the broth they brought, rising only to wiggle out of the binding wool and creep into the nightdress they left draped across the footboard of the bed. For hours people had tiptoed and whispered outside her door as if she were dying, but now, at last, even they had gone away.

She sat up, hugging her knees. One by one the tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks. Loneliness was no stranger to her. She had often tasted its bitter draft huddled in the attic with only Annabel for company. But that was a vague melancholy compared to this shuddering ache. All she wanted was someone to hold her. Annabel's porcelain limbs were a cold comfort at best.

How could she be so miserable in such luxury? Two nights ago, shivering on an icy park bench, she would have swooned to imagine being snuggled between a feather mattress and a fat down comforter. A brass warming pan had been tucked at the foot of the bed to toast her toes. A fire licked at the grate, but its serene glow only emphasized the unfamiliar shadows of the room. The half-tester loomed over her head like a black cloud.

The alien house creaked and sighed a mournful refrain. Emily shivered. This was worse than being alone-a thousand times worse. Justin was in this house somewhere, near enough to hear her cry out

but separated from her by a jagged chasm of broken promises and lies.

Emily wiped her cheek with her ruffled sleeve, becoming slowly aware of a new sound-music seeping through the floorboards. The faint notes swept her heart, bittersweet and hauntingly familiar. They called out to her, compelling her to rise and seek their source.

Her fists knotted in the comforter. How could she face Justin again? Her first glimpse of him beneath the Christmas tree had wreaked havoc on her fragile control.

With his dark hair trimmed against his nape and his face clean-shaven, he had looked ten years younger than she remembered-vulnerable but devastatingly handsome in a crisp suit tailored to the lean planes

of his chest and thighs. He had offered his heart in that lopsided grin, looking as tempting and delectable as a present waiting to be unwrapped. Emily had felt like a dowdy wren in Doreen's borrowed dress and bonnet. Only her humiliated pride had given her the strength to spurn him.

It had been so easy to condemn him, but having him look at her as if he despised her, knowing he loathed what she had done, made her feel truly ashamed for the first time in her life.

The music played on, dancing over her nerves like silken fingers. She threw back the comforter and climbed down from the bed. A pair of velvet slippers warmed on the rug in front of the hearth. She shoved her feet into them, unable to resist a wiggle of her toes in their plush contours.

As she slipped out of her room, the music grew louder, a dark and fantastical lullaby in the sleeping hush of the house.

She crept down the long, curving staircase, realizing halfway down that the drawing room lay directly across the checkered tile of the foyer. Moonlight spilled through the wall of windows, varnishing the

grand piano to an ebony gloss.

Justin's hair flew as he pounded the keys. He had abandoned his waistcoat, and his white shirt was half unbuttoned. The muscles in his shoulders rippled beneath the rich linen. Sweat glistened on the column

of his throat.

Emily sank to a sitting position on the stairs, clasping the wooden balusters in her trembling hands. The melody poured over her in jarring shocks of recognition. It was the symphony he had written for her on the island. Hearing it rendered in these magnificent tones made her realize what pathetic justice her own reedy voice had done it.

Justin played the piano like a master. His hands flew over the keys, making her purr and thunder beneath his skillful touch.

Emily's eyes fluttered shut. Her mouth felt dry, her breathing unsteady. It was as if Justin were ravishing not the piano, but her, taking her against her will with each crash of the chords. As the music climbed to

a crescendo, a broken gasp escaped her. Her eyes flew open.

Justin looked up, and his gaze met hers across the gleaming expanse of tile. His eyes were dark and dangerous. His fingers never missed a stroke.

I've spent the last few nights pouring all of my passions into my music when all I really wanted to do

was pour them into you.

Without warning his words came back to her, rough with promise.

Tearing her gaze away from his, she rose and flew back up the stairs. She slammed her door and locked it, her heart beating frantic wings in her throat. She jumped into the bed, slippers and all, and pulled the comforter over her head. But no matter how hard she pressed her hands to her ears, she still could not stop the music.

Chapter 20

"There's one, sir," Penfeld said, jabbing his finger at the newspaper spread on the dining room table. " 'Personal maid,' " he read over Justin's shoulder, " 'Companion. Expert dresser of hair. Fluent in

French and Italian.' "

Something slammed into the ceiling above them. Tiny specks of plaster floated down to dust Justin's

tea. A muffled oath that was neither French nor Italian burned their ears.

"Do you think we can find a maid fluent in bear wrestling?" Justin muttered.

"You might try the circus," Penfeld suggested.

Justin held the paper in front of his face, trying to ignore the alarmed cries, thumps, and howls coming from the second floor. He winced at the tinkling sound of glass shattering.

Penfeld lifted the teapot to pour him a fresh cup of tea.

"One. Two," Justin counted under his breath.

A door slammed. The valet gazed upward, pouring a stream of amber over the ivory tablecloth.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs accompanied by hysterical sobbing. Click, click, click went the

shoes across the marble tiles of the foyer, then the front door slammed with a bang that echoed like a gunshot through the waiting house.

"Three," Justin dourly pronounced, massaging his aching brow with the palm of his hand.

Warm tea trickled into his lap.

"Oh dear, sir. I'm frightfully sorry." Penfeld snatched up a napkin and mopped his trousers.

The duchess entered the room at full sail, the flounces of her skirt following a good foot behind her.

"That was the third maid in as many days. The girl can't sulk in her bedroom forever. If she refuses

to be dressed, I insist you see to her."

Justin laid down the paper, biting back a groan. Dressing Emily was the last thing his frazzled nerves needed.

His mother droned on. "Your sisters and I have been planning an intimate gathering to introduce your young ward to society, followed by a splendid ball to launch her into the company of the more eligible young men." She sighed happily. "It will be such a joy having a young girl in the house again, won't it, dear?"

"A pure delight," Justin replied grimly.

He rose and slipped from the room before his mother could begin discussing the flower arrangements

for Emily's wedding or sewing the christening gown for her first child.

He smoothed his waistcoat as he climbed the stairs, steeling himself behind his only shield-a cool paternal demeanor. His sharp knock received no answer. He opened the door to find his entire view captured by the charming sight of Emily's ruffled drawers upended in the window.

She was leaning halfway over the sill, shaking her fist. "Don't come back either! It'll take a lot more

than a puny creature like you to shove me into one of those bloody contraptions."

She leaned out farther as a bonneted figure scampered out of earshot. Her pantaloons hugged the sleek curves of her thighs. Justin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before striding across the room and catching her by the waistband. He could just see her tumbling out the window in her white drawers and lacy camisole.

She wiggled in his grasp. "I won't wear it. I won't. You can't make me. And if you try, I'll . . ." She jabbed the air with a sinister-looking hat pin before realizing who had caught her.

He stepped back, dodging her easily. "You'll what? Deflate me?"

She straightened, muttering something about "hot air." A flush dusted her cheekbones. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then folded her hands casually at the juncture of her thighs, finally giving up all attempts at modesty by resting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, already knowing there was. Five feet three inches of problem, exuding

a rumpled femininity that would have given a eunuch pause.

She stabbed an accusing finger at the chair. "That is the problem."

Justin picked up the object she indicated and ran his hands over the rigid whalebone. "What is it? A hat

of some sort?"

Emily realized he was genuinely perplexed. She'd forgotten how long he'd been away from society. His innocence touched her until she remembered that lush native beauties like Rangimarie would never

bother with such contrivances. All he had to do was reach his hands beneath her skirt and-

She jerked it away from him. "It's a torture device designed to fill out the shape of my rump."

Justin muttered something under his breath, then frowned. "That must be what Mother's wearing.

I thought she had a bird cage under her dress."

Emily rested the cumbersome form on her hips and struggled with the tapes. The bustle swayed like a gangly bell. Justin caught her before she crashed into a floor lamp.

"See what I mean?" she pleaded, clutching his arm. 'There's no need for all this fuss. Couldn't I just

wear a skirt like the one I wore in New Zealand?"

As he gazed down into her earnest brown eyes, memories pierced Justin's heart like beams of fragrant sunlight. Emily frolicking through the waves, her wet skirt plastered to her hips; Emily sitting in the sand, her palms pressed to her naked breasts, her hair ruffled by the morning wind and his stolen caresses.

He gently but firmly extracted his arm from her grasp. "We're in London now. Not New Zealand." His reminder was more for himself than for her, but it failed to dull his gnawing hunger.

He escaped her disappointed gaze by moving to the bed. A charming array of clothing had been laid out by the poor departed maid.

He caressed the softness of a silk stocking between thumb and forefinger. "You've been barricaded up here for three days. If I allow you to leave off this bustle thing, will you join us downstairs?"

Emily glared at the heap of feminine garments. "I'll not wear the gloves. They're ridiculous."

He rolled his eyes. "Very well. Forget the gloves." He tossed the stocking over her shoulder and turned away. "I'll be waiting for you."

"Now, that's a switch, isn't it?"

Justin stopped, his broad shoulders rigid. His exhaled breath echoed through the room. He left, pulling the door shut behind him with such pained gentleness that Emily knew he itched to slam it out of its frame.

* * *

Justin waited for Emily at the foot of the stairs. He had never seen so many people trying to look inconspicuous while milling around the foyer. Two maids dusted the tripod base of an occasional table while an underfootman polished the tinkling glass prisms dangling from a fringed lampshade. Their

gazes kept wandering to the top of the stairs, craving a glimpse of the severe little creature who had

dared to slap their master.

The long-case clock chimed the hour. Justin drummed his fingers on the banister. One of the husbands had parked himself on the bench of the cloak stand and was puffing away on a long-stemmed pipe.

Justin wondered if even his sisters could tell them apart. They all had the same tepid brown hair and

wore tweed jackets in lieu of more formal garments that might suggest they were going to leave the

house in search of other pursuits-such as gainful employment. He supposed this one was Herbert, spouse of Millicent. His bushy eyebrows were in desperate need of a combing.

Justin suppressed a sigh as Edith and his mother strolled arm in arm from the drawing room, their heads inclined as if enjoying a profound conversation, something he knew to be impossible. The last thing

Emily needed was an audience. She might take one look at their rabid faces and shy back to her room

like a frightened doe.

His fears melted as an enchanting vision appeared on the landing above, taking his breath away. This

girl bore no resemblance to the stern creature who had marched into the house. Her white dimity frock belled around her ankles, revealing a tantalizing hint of ruffled crinoline and kid slippers. Justin had

chosen the short frock himself to remind him Emily was little more than a child. A blue velvet sash hugged her slender waist and a matching bow tamed her curls. The warmth of a new and unexpected emotion flowed through Justin's veins-pride.

Emily's fingers were poised lightly on the banister. Her lips curved in a smile so sweet it made him feel

he was the only man in the room-or the universe.

Her smile never wavered as she hooked one leg over the banister, giving the entire foyer a healthy peek

at the starched layers of her petticoats. The duchess gasped.

Cries of alarm rang out as she threw both arms in the air and shot down the polished banister like a ruffled cannonball. At the last possible second Justin stepped out of the way.

She crashed in a disgruntled heap, her dress sprawled all the way up to the little pink rosettes on her garters. When both his mother and the footman started forward, Justin waved them back.

Emily glared up at him through the curl flopped over her eyes. "You might have caught me."

He bit the inside of his cheek, afraid to do so much as smile. "You might have descended the staircase

in a more conventional manner."

Groaning, she rubbed her bottom with both hands. Justin swallowed an offer of assistance. It was only too easy to remember the feel of her plush rear cupped in his palms.

"Perhaps you should reconsider that bustle," he said coolly, offering her a hand.

"Perhaps they shouldn't wax the banister quite so often. I thought I was going to sail clear across the Channel to Paris."

He pulled her to her feet. He had forgotten how fragile her small, warm hand felt in his own. He jerked his own hand away as if she had scorched him. "Breakfast is waiting for you in the dining room. Now,

if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to." He gave her a crisp bow and fled toward the study.

His mother's chiding tones rang after him. "I don't know what's gotten into that boy. You'd have thought

I never taught him any manners at all."

Justin was spared Emily's murmured reply by the hastily erected barrier of the study door. He strode through the dusty gloom to the towering secretaire and slammed open one of the doors. The glass panes rattled. Curse the girl! He would be damned if she would blunder into his life and create utter chaos yet again. Eyeing his father's well-aged Scotch with distaste, he pulled out the rum bottle he had stashed behind a leather-bound edition of The Pickwick Papers and uncorked it. Tipping it all the way back,

he took a deep swig.

An image rose unbidden to his mind-Emily sailing off the banister and drifting across the English Channel, her starched petticoats swollen like the skin of a hot-air balloon.

He choked, spewing rum. Tears stung his eyes and seared his nostrils. He sank into a chair and clutched his aching sides as the laughter he'd been holding back rolled out in silent waves.

* * *

Justin spent the morning barricaded in the study, refusing to even look up from the Winthrop Shipping reports until Penfeld interrupted him for tea and sandwiches.

He took a sip of tea, then frowned. A frilly object was curled at the bottom of the cup. He crooked his pinkie and fished it out. Tea dripped from dainty pink rosettes.

"Penfeld," he said, pulling off his spectacles and glowering at the valet from beneath his brows. "May

I ask what this is?"

Penfeld looked up from cutting the sandwiches into flawless squares. A flush blistered his cheeks.

"Good Lord, sir. I believe it's a woman's garter."

"Would you care to explain how it got into my tea?"

"I haven't a clue." Penfeld lifted the lid off the teapot and peeped into it as if afraid an entire trousseau

of women's underwear might leap out at him.

A timid knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Justin barked.

A gardener crept in, holding a rake at arm's length with such trepidation that Justin expected to see a snake twirled around its prongs. It was not a serpent, but a rumpled crinoline that dangled in his face. "Sorry to trouble ye, master, but I found this stuffed into one of the flower pots in the shed. Shall I

burn it?"

Justin's face was grim as he plucked the crinoline off the rake. "No, Will. I'll take care of it."

Breathing a sigh of relief to be rid of the offensive diing, the gardener left. Justin smoothed the rich

linen, over his palms. The pure, sweet fragrance of vanilla wafted to his nostrils.

He shook his head ruefully. "If Emily keeps shedding garments at this alarming rate, she'll be naked by night-fell." Groaning at his own words, he dropped his face into the soft folds of the garment. "Where

is she?" he growled.

* * *

They found Emily wandering the gilt cavern of the ballroom, her hands tucked at the small of her back.

A sparkling wall of French doors fronted the long room. Justin hovered behind the translucent panel of

a lace curtain, his hunger to watch her smothering his flare of guilt for spying on her so blatantly.

"Looks a bit out of pocket, doesn't she?" Penfeld said.

Justin gave a noncommittal grunt. She did look tiny beneath the vaulted ceiling. How did she feel in this strange house, surrounded by strangers? he wondered. He remembered how desolate his own childhood had been. The enormous house had seemed a maze of endless doors, dusty corners, and gloomy attics. Every table and chair had rested on carved talons or claws, and he'd been half afraid to sit for fear they'd lurch into motion and carry him off. His mother and sisters had whispered their own language while his father remained safely cordoned behind the unrelenting oak of his study door. Just as he had done today.

"She might be bored, sir. Perhaps if you spent some time with her . . . ?"

Justin dug his fingers into the curtain, unable to hide his horror at that suggestion. He didn't trust himself enough to eat breakfast with her. How long would it take before he reached over to correct a wayward curl? Smooth a puckered ruffle? Lick the sugary muffin crumbs from her lips?

As they watched, Emily stood on tiptoe to run her curious fingers over the medallioned wall. Without the crinoline her skirt clung to the curve of her hips. He almost grinned to see her bare toes peeping out from beneath it. Gracie would be fortunate not to find one of her slippers floating in the soup tonight.

She cast the double doors at the end of the ballroom a furtive glance. What was she going to do now? Justin wondered. Peel off her dress and frolic like a wanton nymph beneath the gasoliers? His throat tightened.

Emily flung out her arms and spun around. The dimity skirt ballooned around her ankles. She danced in silence, but Justin heard another melody, marked by the stamp of Maori feet, beguiling in its wailing simplicity. He wanted to march in there and take her in his arms. To sweep her around the room until

the swells and hollows of their bodies made music like the bow and strings of a finely tuned violin.

Groaning back his despair, he caught Penfeld by his starched lapels and shoved him against the nearest wall. An Oriental vase rattled in protest. "Take her, Penfeld. Take her out for the afternoon. She's your charge. Amuse her."

"B-b-but, sir," the valet sputtered. "I fear I'm not very amusing. The rest of the staff find me hopelessly dull. However shall I entertain her?"

"How the hell should I know? Take her to the 200. Walk her in the park. Buy her a bloody puppy. Just get her out of my sight." He freed Penfeld and raked his hair into nervous spikes, forgetting it wasn't

long anymore. "Just make sure she wears a cloak. And a hat. And shoes- two of them."

As Justin strode away, still muttering under his breath, Penfeld tugged thoughtfully at his whiskers.

"A puppy. I do say, a splendid suggestion."

Eight hours later Justin was pacing the parlor, trying not to flinch at each incisive tick of the black

marble clock on the mantel. His mother and Edith kept vigil with him, their ringleted heads inclined toward their embroidery. Lily and Millicent had retired at a respectable hour with all the dreary

husbands, even Edith's, in tow.

The long-case clock in the foyer gonged. Once. Twice. Ten times. Justin's oath shattered its echo.

Edith stabbed herself with her needle, but the duchess didn't even flinch.

He paced to the window and braced his weight on the sill with both hands. The night's chill seeped through the frosted panes. Was he going to have to hire a detective to return Emily from a simple shopping expedition? he wondered. He must have been mad to send her out with Penfeld. But these weren't the teeming streets of Auckland. London was Penfeld's orderly domain. Justin fought despair, refusing to give in to his fear that Emily might have taken this opportunity to flee from him yet again.

He should have taken her out himself. Even if it meant being trapped in the confines of a carriage with

her ethereal scent. Even if it meant sitting for hours with her warm thigh pressed to his own. His torment was nothing compared to her safety.

He turned around and leaned against the windowsill. His mother was watching him beneath hooded lids, her eyes sharpened to a lively glint. Justin knew she hadn't always been stupid. Olivia Connor had chosen long ago to veil her intelligence behind insipid vaguery, but at times he still caught a glimpse of the Fleet Street shopgirl who had memorized Debrett's Peerage to land not one of the many impoverished dukes haunting London, but the only peer of the realm with a thriving shipping empire. To hold the affections

of her rigid husband, she had learned to betray everything else she held dear-even her son. Especially her son.

She stabbed the thick linen with the needle. "You care for the girl, don't you?"

"Of course I care for her. She's my ward. Her father was a dear friend."

"Yet you've never laid eyes on her in all these years?"

His gaze was caught by the hypnotic flick of her needle. She sewed the way he played the piano, all

grace and no hesitation. Justin wondered what she would do if he told her he'd laid far more than his

eyes on Emily.

He was spared from answering by the discordant clang of bells. His mother's hands froze in their motion. Edith jerked her head up to meet Justin's puzzled gaze. Hooves clattered on the drive, adding to the ear-shattering cacophony of the bells.

As Justin sprinted through the foyer, Herbert, Harold, and Harvey came flying down the stairs in their long nightgowns and caps. Lily and Millicent trailed behind, their candles casting wavering shadows on

the wallpaper.

Harold rubbed his eyes. "I do say, can't a chap get a decent night's sleep in this mausoleum?"

"What the devil is it?" Herbert bellowed, tripping over Harvey's hem. "Is the house afire?"

They spilled onto the lawn as a closed police wagon rolled to a halt in the drive. Rusty bars blocked the windows. The Winthrop carriage clattered to a halt behind the wagon, the driver hanging his head in sheepish defeat.

Justin stared as a uniformed bobby climbed off the driver's seat, tipped his tall hat in a crisp greeting,

and moved to swing open the barred door at the back of the wagon.

A demure, white-gloved hand emerged. At least Emily had worn her gloves, Justin thought crazily. The bobby took her hand with obvious deference and Emily descended, favoring him with a regal smile.

Justin started for her, determined to wring an explanation from her charming little neck.

Before he could reach her, a snarling, fanged monster exploded from the back of the wagon and lunged straight for his throat.

Chapter 21

Justin backed away from the slavering beast, instinctively drawing it away from Emily. The deafening shrill of his sisters' screams was almost drowned out by its bass-throated rumble. Something had come flying out of the wagon behind the creature. It stumbled along for a few steps before Justin realized it

was Penfeld, and he was attached to the monster by Emily's blue velvet sash. The dog's massive spiked collar might as well have been around the valet's neck. The beast dragged him across the slick lawn, eyeing Justin hungrily. The horses whinnied and tossed their heads in terror.

"What is the meaning of this, Penfeld?" Justin said, his voice soft enough not to spook the animal but lethal enough to be heard by them all.

Penfeld dug his heels into the ground and strained against the dog's squat weight. His whiskers stuck

out in matted tufts. His immaculate jacket was torn and his white shirt smeared with mud.

His brown eyes were entreating. "You told me to buy her a puppy, sir."

Justin eyed the thing. White foam dripped from its bared fangs. "That's not a puppy. It's a bull."

As if offended by his words, the dog lunged again, dragging Penfeld flat. The monster's snapping teeth missed Justin's crotch by half an inch.

"A bulldog to be precise," Emily said, waltzing between Penfeld and the dog. She patted the creature's massive head and scratched behind his ears. "There, now. That's a nice Pudding. Down, boy."

The dog sank to its stocky haunches at her feet, drooling adoringly on her slippers. Justin was surprised

it didn't purr.

"Pudding?" he echoed ominously.

"What did you want me to call him? Fluffy?" Her smile was angelic. Justin's stomach spasmed a warning.

The bobby stepped between them, pulling off his hat. Another policeman lurked in his shadow.

He twirled his bushy mustache. "I'm turribly sorry for the disturbance, sir, but I thought it best if we escorted the young lady home. After we arrested her the first time-"

"The first time?" Justin bit off, glowering at Emily.

"It weren't really her fault, Your Grace. The dog got away from your man and the door to the crystal shop was open." He brightened visibly. "Once she assured the shopkeeper the Duke of Winthrop would pay for all the damages, he turned out to be quite a reasonable chap."

Behind him, one of the husbands moaned. Justin closed his eyes and counted slowly under his breath.

"And the second time, sir . . ."

His eyes flew open.

The other policeman chimed in helpfully. "That would have been the elephant, wouldn't it, Clarence?"

Justin swallowed. "She let an elephant run through the crystal shop?"

"Oh, no, sir," the bobby reassured him. "The elephant ran through the zoo. After she slipped the latch

on its cage."

Justin narrowed his eyes. He would like to see her caged. And chained. Preferably to his bed.

Her smile faded an inkling beneath his glare. "I was simply trying to feed him a peanut. I couldn't reach his trunk."

The second policeman chuckled. "I didn't know those old nannies could move so fast. You should have seen the perambulators flying!"

The bobby rubbed the back of his neck. Justin could have sworn he was blushing. "Of course, the last time we were more concerned with her own health. Hyde Park's a bit cold to be swimming this time of year, especially without-" He stopped dead and looked over his shoulder, aware for the first time of

the women's avid gazes and the heated puffs of fog emerging from the men's lips. He leaned over and whispered something in Justin's ear.

Justin dropped his gaze to Emily as if seeing her for the first time. Her curls glistened with damp. Her dress- the charming girlish confection he had chosen in order to keep himself at bay-clung to her

skin in all the wrong places, the pristine white going almost sheer over the dusky hint of her nipples.

Her lips quirked in an apologetic smile.

He took one step toward her. Then another. Her smile faltered. "What are you going to do?"

He smiled pleasantly. "Murder you."

"Oh dear," Herbert murmured.

Moaning, Lily pressed a scented handkerchief to her lips. The bobbies exchanged a nervous glance, wondering if the rumors they'd heard about the savage young duke were true.

The dog growled. Justin gave it one look and it buried its head beneath its paws, whimpering. Justin stretched out a hand toward Penfeld. "Give me the sash."

"Whatever for, sir?"

"I'm going to strangle her with it."

"Very good, sir. Right away." He began to tug at the knot around the dog's collar.

"Penfeld!" Emily wailed. As she backed away from Justin, her feet slid on the dead grass.

He stalked her, grinning like a vengeful demon. "Why make these poor policemen come all the way

out here for nothing? They can use their wagon to cart me off to jail. Think what a nice, peaceful place prison will be after living with you for a day. I can while away the hours with thieves, ruffians, and other killers."

Her voice trembled. "This isn't very sporting. You can't murder me in front of all these witnesses."

She came up against the trunk of an oak. His fingers closed ever so gently around her throat, his broad thumbs seeking and caressing her throbbing pulse points. "Why not? They can testify before the House

of Lords that I was provoked. They won't hang me. They might even give me a medal of valor."

The pads of his fingertips combed through the delicate fleece at her nape. Her shiver vibrated through his taut body like the stroke of fingers against harp strings. A shiver of what? Justin wondered. Cold? Fear? Reaction to the heat blasting like a furnace from his body? A glint of triumph sharpened in her smoky eyes. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her lips. Taunting him. Tempting him.

Her husky whisper was meant only for his ears. "What do you really want to do, Justin? Kill me … or

kiss me?"

He wanted to kiss her, all right, long and hard and rough. He wanted to mate her mouth with his teeth

and tongue until he'd wiped away her teasing smirk. He wanted to carry her upstairs to his bedroom and lock the door against them all. He wanted to peel off her damp clothes and drown her beneath the unrelenting weight of his body until neither of them could think or walk straight.

Then he'd kill her.

She'd done it again, he realized. With barely a flutter of her silky lashes she'd committed the unpardonable sin of shattering his composure and making him feel alive again. More alive than he'd felt since he buried her father.

His hands dropped from her throat. He unbuttoned his coat and with a sweeping motion laid it over her shoulders.

"I must apologize for the inconvenience, gentlemen," he told the bobbies. "I fear my ward is a bit high-spirited."

"Nothing a good beating wouldn't cure," Harold muttered, still sulky from being rousted from his bed.

His bluster wilted beneath Justin's glacial stare. He slipped behind Edith's skirts.

Justin linked his hands over his waistcoat, every inch the affable lord of the manor. "I'm sure you know how trying children can be."

The bobby ducked his head. "That we do, Your Grace. Got eight of 'em between us, don't we, Ned?"

"Aye, Clarence. And a feisty lot they are."

Justin divided a wad of pound notes between the two men. "Buy yourselves a round of ale when you

get off duty. For your trouble."

As the men climbed onto the wagon, still singing the praises of the generous duke, Justin commanded

his own driver to take the dog to the stables. Penfeld mopped his brow with Emily's sash, thankful to

be relieved of his monstrous burden. Justin refused to look behind him.

"Mother, would you please escort Emily to her room?"

"That won't be necessary." Emily's words rang out in the crisp air.

He pivoted to face her. She hugged his coat closed at her throat like a queen's mantle. She wore her dignity well, but not well enough to disguise the stricken look in her eyes-eyes darkened by his casual betrayal.

"Thank you, but I'm not so young I can't toddle up the stairs unassisted." As she brushed past him, a whiff of vanilla tickled his nostrils.

"If you want to be treated like an adult," he said softly, "you might try behaving like one."

She hesitated, then moved up the shallow stairs into the house, her shoulders set at proud angles.

"Coming, dear?" his mother crooned as the others filed after Emily, the husbands grumbling and the

wives murmuring soothing lullabies.

Justin jammed his hands deep into his pockets. "Later."

Penfeld stood before him, his face folded in miserable lines of defeat. "If you wish to dismiss me, sir,

I understand. I'd appreciate a reference, but if you don't feel I deserve it . . ."

Justin sighed as sudden exhaustion overtook him. He felt as if he'd been master of this house for

centuries instead of months. "Go ring for a bath, Penfeld."

"You wish to bathe at this hour?"

He straightened the valet's crooked tie. "Not for me. For you."

"Aye, sir! As you wish." Penfeld bowed his thanks and went scurrying for the house.

Justin stood alone on the barren stretch of lawn, staring up at Emily's window until the light fluttered and went out, leaving the glazed pane a square of black. He shivered as from somewhere behind the house came the mournful baying of a dog.

* * *

In the next few days Justin was to regret his cool rebuke. With the stubborn conviction of a woman wronged, Emily became exactly what he had requested.

She seldom smiled, and if she did, it was a watery imitation of her infectious grin. Lily used an iron to tame her wayward curls to rigid ringlets. The stench of scorched hair hung in the musty air of the house. Millicent taught her to embroider and Edith to bang out Beethoven's "Minuet in G" on the piano with military precision. She practiced each evening for hours until Justin's head throbbed from gritting his

teeth. Penfeld became her unofficial lady's maid, pressing her childish pinafores to starched perfection. Her crinolines appeared so stiff that Justin found it a marvel she could sit without them flying up over

her face.

When Justin entered a room she'd make some snippet of conversation about the weather or the dinner party his mother was planning at the end of the week. His sisters would chime in about the upcoming New Year's ball and he'd be left gazing at the smooth cap of Emily's head as she bent back to stitching the family crest on his handkerchiefs with slavish devotion.

She was a perfect lady.

Justin hated her.

He couldn't decide who he despised more-this new Emily or himself. Unable to bear this pale shadow

of his vibrant Emily, he shut himself in the study, immersing himself in Winthrop Shipping business with an enthusiasm that made his father seem a rakish wastrel. He glared at reports until his vision blurred. His insomnia returned with savage force, but even pounding the piano until dawn did not ease it. His temper flared without provocation, and the servants scurried to avoid him. They whispered among themselves that it was as if the gruff ghost of Frank Connor had returned to stalk the halls of Grymwilde.

Armed with a tumbler of his father's Scotch, Justin emerged from the study one evening. He veered

away from the smoking room where the men had retired for brandy and cigars. Last night he had

severed himself from their company and reduced poor Harvey to nervous snivels by snapping that he ought to consider seeking a job instead of living off his wife's dowry like a spineless slug.

As he passed the parlor, the siren song of badly struck piano keys and feminine chatter lured him in. He knew his brooding presence made his sisters nervous. Edith and his mother lapsed to whispers. Millicent hummed under her breath while Lily's trembling ringers dropped stitches all over the place. Only Emily seemed undisturbed by his crude intrusion. She continued her graceless thumping on the spinet.

Even Emily's bulldog seemed drained of spirit. He lolled on the rug at Emily's feet, his massive head stretched out on his paws and his spiked collar replaced by a garish pink bow. As Justin sank into the chair beside the piano, the dog rose and slunk out the door.

Justin leaned back in the chair, nursing his Scotch and eyeing Emily through narrowed eyes. She sat in a luminous halo of lamplight, her skirts spread in a perfect bell around the piano bench. Her piquant face glowed with serenity. Justin shifted his weight and rolled the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. He had done in one careless night what Miss Winters had failed to do in seven years-made a lady out of Emily Claire Scarborough. So why did he want to yank her up by her ridiculous ringlets and demand some show of spirit?

Emily could feel Justin's smoldering gaze on her, but she willed her fingers to continue their mechanical pounding, knowing she was slowly driving him insane. The fact that she'd just ripped out his initials and sewn Homer onto all of his handkerchiefs inspired her to continue.

She stole a look at him from beneath the shelter of her lashes. Her heart skipped in her throat. In the

mere space of days he had descended from mildly rakish to barbarous. His jaw was shadowed, his thick hair tousled. His waistcoat was rumpled and his white shirt lay open at the throat. Emily remembered

only too well the feel of him beneath her fingers. With his long legs stretched out before him and his

eyes glittering beneath the ebony silk of his lashes, he didn't look the sort of gentleman to seduce his ward. He looked the sort to ravish her.

Emily experimented by striking an off-key chord. A muscle in his jaw twitched dangerously. She hid her smile behind a frown of concentration. As she finished the minuet, his shoulders slumped and he tossed back the rest of the Scotch in a relieved swig. Shooting him a sly glance, she hooked her fingers and started at the beginning again.

Justin choked. He shot out of the chair, his face darkened with emotion. "For God's sake, woman!

You're not some wind-up monkey beating a drum. Must you play like one? "

Emily froze, her fingers poised over the keys.

His sisters gaped at him in open-mouthed shock. They had seen their brother frustrated, morose,

angry, elated, and white-faced with shame beneath his father's taunts, but they'd never seen him show deliberate cruelty to anyone.

His breath seared the back of her neck as he folded his hands over hers, forcing them out of their rigid stance.

"Loosen your fingers," he commanded. "Stop clawing the keys like a bloody cat. "

He massaged each of her knuckles until her hands went limp in his rough embrace. "There. Can you

feel the difference?"

"Yes," she murmured. "I can feel it."

She could feel other things as well. The press of his muscled thigh against her back. The whisper of his breath against her cheek, its Scotch-warmed fragrance as intoxicating as fresh sin. She gazed down at their linked hands. His knuckles had yet to lose their island tan.

She could also feel his fingers on top of hers, stroking them toward the waiting keys. A shimmering

chord vibrated on the air.

"That's it," he said, his voice softening to husky velvet. "Don't attack the keys. Stroke them. Possess them. Make them your own."

He reversed their positions, slipping his hands beneath hers until they rested lightly in the cup of her palms. Her hands looked pale and delicate against the swarthiness of his own. He began the piece, not merely playing the keys but seducing them with his touch. She could feel the music reverberating through his powerful tendons. She turned her head to watch his face, captivated by the play of emotions over his handsome features.

"Music isn't like sewing, Emily. It's feeling and not skill that separates mastery from mechanics. Listen to this piece. It's deceptively simple. But hear it as Mozart did. See the dancers twirling around the ballroom. See two lovers meet and touch hands."

The final note chimed with the crystalline purity of a bell. Their gazes locked in its echo.

Justin felt his breath quicken. Emily smelled like burnt vanilla and her ringlets made her look like a forlorn cocker spaniel, but all he wanted to do was graze his lips against the creamy flesh of her throat and sink his teeth into the inviting fullness of her lower lip.

She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and guileless. "Like this?"

She slipped her hands beneath his and played the piece with the flawless accuracy of any schoolgirl accustomed to a music teacher rapping her knuckles for each error.

Justin straightened. His voice sounded tight, as if something were caught in his throat. "Yes. That will

do very nicely."

As he spun on his heel and marched out of the room, Olivia Connor buried her face in her embroidery, her plump ringlets dancing with amusement.

* * *

The next day Emily ducked into the kitchen, seeking an escape from Lily. Justin's sister had devised

some gruesome new coiffure for that night's dinner party, and had been trailing her for hours,

brandishing an iron and some alarming tongs that looked better suited for shoeing horses. She doubted

if any of Justin's sisters even knew the kitchen had been moved out of the basement in recent years.

They seemed to be caught in a web of perpetual girlhood. Emily thought Justin ought to boot both

them and their shiftless husbands out of Grymwilde to start homes and families of their own.

The kitchen was in an uproar. Cooks and maids scurried from oven to table, their aprons streaked with flour and their faces flushed from heat and exertion. Damp tendrils of hair escaped their crooked caps. Gracie, the toothless old cook, hovered over an enameled caldron, stirring and muttering under her

breath like one of Macbeth's witches. The salty tang of mussel chowder hung in the air.

As Emily sidled around the coal box, Gracie cocked her bulbous nose and sniffed the air. "Check the buns, Sally. I smell somethin' burnin'."

Emily sighed and blew a singed ringlet out of her eyes.

Gracie's pink gums cracked in a smile. "Never mind, Sal. It's only Miss Emily. And how are ya today,

my dear? Come to pilfer another o' my raisin buns, have ya?"

"Not today, Gracie. I just came in to . . . warm myself."

It was true there was little enough warmth in the drafty old house. The fire in Justin's eyes had been banked to an unnatural coolness that made her shiver.

One of the maids burst into tears over a pan of clotted-cream sauce and Gracie bustled over to comfort her. Emily wandered down the long galley, hoping to alleviate her boredom by peering into this pan or that one. At the sight on one of the tables she let out a cry of dismay.

"Can't cook those till it's time to serve 'em," one of the maids explained, brushing past with a tray of steaming buns. "The duchess likes 'em nice and fresh."

Emily knelt and rested her folded arms on the table, bringing herself eye to eye with a glass tank of live lobsters. Pity touched her at the sight of their shiny claws bound by thick twine. They looked helpless

and trapped.

Just like her. She imagined her own arms hobbled by ruffles, her legs by crinolines.

She cocked her head sideways, studying the lobsters. Did they dream of the sea as she did? Did they

hear its haunting rhythms? Taste its pungent tang?

At least the lobsters did not wake in the night, dreaming of a man garbed not in a crisp waistcoat and trousers, but a pair of faded dungarees. They never ached to remember his dark hair tousled by the wind, his stern features softened by laughter. She reached into the water and stroked a sleek head, surprised by the burn of tears in her eyes.

"There you are, Em!" Lily's shrill tones grated down her spine. "I've found the most enchanting coif in this magazine. Do you think Gracie might give us some egg whites to stiffen your curls?"

Groaning, Emily dropped her head. The lobsters' stalked eyes seemed to glint with sympathy.

* * *

"I won't go. I'm not hungry," Emily repeated, digging her nails into the polished oak of the door frame.

"Of course you'll go," Lily chirped, prying her free and dragging her another ten feet. "Mama wouldn't tolerate your not making an appearance. She's hoping you'll make some friends among girls of your own sort." "Girls with birds' nests on their heads?" "Don't be ridiculous. Your hair looks charming." Emily caught her reflection in a console glass as they passed. Her ringlets had been swept up and stiffened with an alarming mixture of egg white and starch. She ducked under a gasolier, afraid her hair might ignite if touched. She dug her heels into the carpet, but Lily jerked her onward. The frail-looking creature must have inherited her mother's muscle tone if not her fortitude, Emily thought. "Do hurry," she commanded. "Mama will be cranky if we're late."

Emily entered the long dining room in dread. An awkward silence fell over the gathering. She could see only a blur of seated guests, all of them staring fixedly at her head. She jerked her hand out of Lily's, wanting desperately to slither beneath the Brussels carpet.

At the far head of the table sat Justin, riveting in his black tailcoat and silk revers. The startling white of his shirt and bow tie drew out the bronze lingering in his skin. His gaze flicked to her for the briefest moment, and she lowered her eyes, fearful of revealing a hunger that had little to do with the succulent aromas wafting from the serving dishes.

A silvery peal of laughter broke the silence. Emily jerked her head up as a helpless shudder of remembered distaste rippled down her spine.

Seated next to Justin, her icy blond hair the perfect complement to his dark head, was the former toast

of Foxworth Seminary and the bane of Emily's existence- Cecille du Pardieu.

Chapter 22

Emily slunk to her chair beneath the curious stares of Harvey and Herbert. Harold was too busy slurping his chowder to notice her. As she sank down, she stole a look at her old nemesis. Cecille looked as prim and elegant as a Dresden statuette in a froth of silver-gray silk trimmed in tiny blue roses. Her hair was knotted in a stark chignon. Loose tendrils softened the heart-shaped angles of her face.

Emily smoothed the stiff ruffles of her bodice, wondering if anyone would notice if she sawed them off with her knife. Compared to Cecille's polished sophistication, she felt like an overgrown six-year-old.

As Cecille draped her graceful fingers over Justin's arm, Emily's hand tightened around the ivory hilt of her spoon.

A test. She must simply think of this as her trial by fire. She had practically bitten off her tongue in the past week to maintain the image of the perfect young lady. If she survived tonight, Justin would be

forced to see her as a woman, not a child.

"So nice of you to join us, Emily," the duchess brayed. "I should like to introduce you to the Comtesse Guermond and her charming daughter-"

"We've met," Emily mumbled into her chowder.

"I'm sure I don't remember," the countess said. She was a tiny creature swathed in lace who chirped rather than talked.

"Mama," Cecille drawled in the French fashion, "Miss Scarborough is that poor dear creature they were discussing at Baroness Gutwild's last week. The one who spent all of those dreary years working at Foxworth's."

Justin laid down his spoon and pushed back his chowder bowl.

Even Harold stopped slurping as she continued, her blue eyes sparkling with malice. "Quite an

industrious little thing, too. You used to give my boots a good polish, didn't you, darling?"

Emily swallowed, remembering Cecille's shrieks at finding a dead mouse stuffed in the patent leather

toe of her brand new jemimas.

She grinned sweetly. "Every chance I got."

Cecille's eyes narrowed, but she recovered by fixing Justin with an adoring gaze. Emily's stomach churned.

"You must realize, Your Grace, that you are the gossip of every salon in London. It was so benevolent

of you to open your heart and home to an unfortunate orphan in this Christmas season. There's even

talk of organizing a society in your name to help rescue other"-she cast Emily a sly glance-'' urchins."

Justin met Emily's gaze, his eyes somber beneath the muted glow of the gasoliers. "It was the least I

could do."

"Yes, it was," Emily replied, tilting her goblet to her lips. "The very least."

She almost choked as the rich, sweet liquid flowed down her throat. Milk, she realized. Crystalline droplets of wine sparkled on Cecille's pink lips. Emily wiped her upper lip with her napkin, praying she didn't have a foamy mustache to rival Herbert's.

Justin had given her milk just like some babe. She set down the goblet with a deceptively mild thump

and fixed Cecille with her most innocent gaze. "My guardian has been the very soul of benevolence."

She shifted her gaze to Justin. "Haven't you, Daddy?"

Justin's head snapped up. His eyes darkened in warning.

"So what do you all think about those pesky Zulus?" Herbert offered, obviously hoping to steer the conversation in a safer direction.

"Shut up, Herbert," Millicent and Edith snapped in unison.

Emily dipped her spoon in her chowder. Justin's gaze dropped to her lips. "His Grace likes it when

I call him daddy," she announced.

Cecille's smile waned. "Does he now?"

Emily swirled the spoon around her mouth, then slowly slid it out, licking away the stray drops of chowder with feline satisfaction. Herbert gaped, the pesky Zulus forgotten. Justin lifted his goblet and began to drink in long, convulsive swallows.

"Especially after dinner each night." Emily lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. The little countess bobbed forward so far that her lacy fichu sank into her chowder. "That's when he makes me sit on his

lap for my bedtime story."

Justin choked, spewing wine all over Harold. Cecille's elegant mouth dropped open. Edith and Millicent gasped and Herbert went scarlet. As Justin disappeared behind his napkin, Harvey jumped up and began pounding him on the back.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment," Emily murmured. She slipped her knife up her sleeve as she rose, thankful for once for the voluminous ruffles.

When she returned, the second course had been served and they were eating their shrimp in chill silence. The countess's fichu drooped and Harold's silk waistcoat was speckled with wine. Justin watched her

take her seat, his golden eyes glittering with banked fury.

Cecille's laugh sounded more inclined to shatter than tinkle. "I'm not surprised our Emily has ingratiated herself into your affections, Your Grace. She was the darling of every delivery boy and chimney sweep

in our neighborhood. She was always so generous with her . . . person."

Justin slammed down his fork. "I've had enough." His voice was low but laced with warning. "My

ward's past is of no concern to anyone but me. I'll not have her maligned at her own table. Anyone who cares to do so is not welcome in my house."

As Emily met his possessive gaze, a strange warmth spread in the pit of her stomach.

Cecille threw down her napkin. "The other girls were right, Mama. The man is a beast. I won't marry him! I simply won't!"

"That's a relief, since I never bloody asked you," Justin shouted.

Cecille and her mama rose.

"Now, Comtesse," the duchess said hastily, "I really must apologize for the behavior of my son. I'm

sure he meant no-"

Before she could finish, Gracie trotted in from the kitchen, twisting her apron in her hands. Her normally ruddy cheeks had gone as pale as a wraith's. She whispered something to her mistress. The duchess's eyes widened. She cast a furtive glance at the floor. Emily casually tucked her feet up in her chair.

Cecille screamed.

Her shrill howls shook bits of plaster from the ceiling. They all gaped as she leaped onto the brocaded

seat of her chair, then onto the table. As she lifted her skirts and shook them wildly, the cause of her distress became evident. Hanging off the thigh of her pantaloons was a live lobster, his jagged claws entangled in her charming white ruffles.

Emily bit into a succulent shrimp and watched with mild interest as Cecille danced a merry reel among

the rattling plates. The husbands groped beneath her skirts, trying to dislodge the stubborn creature. Lily and Mini-cent jumped into a chair, clutching each other while Edith and the duchess tried to soothe the hysterical countess. A bevy of servants rushed into the dining room, crawling around on hands and

knees to capture the rest of the lobsters skittering around on the Brussels carpet.

It was Justin who finally disentangled the hapless fellow from Cecille's underwear. He tossed the lobster to Gracie, who thrust it into her apron and raced for the kitchen. As the last of the lobsters were rounded up, Cecille collapsed sniveling into her mother's arms.

The countess drew herself up to her full four feet eight inches. Her voice quavered in righteous indignation. "I must say, I've never seen such a scandalous display."

Emily popped another shrimp into her mouth. "I concur heartily. Those little pink bows on Cecille's drawers shocked the bloody hell out of me."

Every eye turned to her. She stopped chewing. Perhaps now would be a good time to retire, she thought. She rose, slipping a bowl of shrimp under her arm, suddenly ravenous.

"Emily." The single word was spoken in a tone of velvet command.

She paused, then kept walking. Only three more steps to the door. She counted them in her head. One. Two.

"Emily Claire Scarborough!" Justin thundered.

The silver rattled. The crystal drops of the chandelier tinkled like tiny bells. No one even dared to

breathe.

Emily pivoted slowly on her heel. "Yes, sir?"

He pointed a finger at her, his face livid. "You little . . ." He looked at Cecille, then back at her. His

hand started to shake. A furious snort escaped him, then another.

Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. They all gaped at him. One by one the maids came peeping around the dining room door frame, their white caps bobbing. Gracie stood aside so they could see what they'd never seen before-the brooding master of Grymwilde Mansion howling with laughter. Justin sank into his chair, clutching his stomach, then rolled from the chair to the floor, still guffawing.

As her only son disappeared beneath the tablecloth, the duchess rose. "Perhaps we should retire to the drawing room for dessert," she announced as if it were the end of any flawless dinner party and the heir to the Winthrop title and fortune wasn't a raving lunatic.

"I've lost my appetite," the countess snapped, dragging Cecille toward the door in the wake of her icy wrath. "Come, darling. We're going home. And we shan't come back until we are offered a formal apology."

The rest of the family filed out, Harold and Herbert grumbling over being deprived of their after-dinner brandy and cigars. The door to the kitchen swung shut. Emily set the bowl on the sideboard and crept toward the end of the table as if approaching a mad boar. Justin was snuffling rather like one.

She stood on tiptoe and peeped over the edge of the table. Justin was doubled up against his chair, shuddering with laughter. He wiped tears from his sparkling eyes and sucked in a wheezing breath.

"Every time I think . . . dancing a jig on the table . . . those ridiculous pantaloons … I just can't . . ." Wheezing for breath, he made pinching motions against her ankles with his long fingers. Emily giggled.

Soon her giggles deepened to chortles. Her knees folded and she dropped to the carpet beside him, hugging her own stomach as the dam of hilarity she'd stemmed all week burst with a vengeance.

Justin pounded his fist against the floor, struggling for control.

Emily gasped for breath. "I haven't seen Cecille move that fast since I waxed the soles of her ballet shoes."

He collapsed against her shoulder. "I shudder to think of it. God, you must have been awful."

"Incorrigible," she admitted modestly.

They relaxed against each other, knowing one would fall without the other. The stilted conversations

and awkward silences of the past week melted in the warmth of their nearness. It seemed only natural that Emily would reach up and brush a strand of hair from his eyes. Only natural that he would capture her hand in his own and caress her palm with his eloquent thumb.

His smile softened. "Whatever am I to do with you?"

Suddenly their faces were very close. Close enough for her to see the spark that lit his eyes. Danger scented the air, as sharp and acrid as the smell of lightning on a summer day.

"Come here, you wicked girl," he whispered. "Sit on my lap and I'll tell you a bedtime story."

Emily moaned softly as he drew her into his lap and touched his mouth to hers. It was like touching

flame to hot wax. Her lips melted beneath his, deepening his tender kiss to the ravenous flick and thrust

of his tongue against her own. A sweet, interminable ache licked through her. She tangled her hands in

the hair at his nape, marveling at the silky fineness of the new growth against his starched collar. The heady scent of his bay rum intoxicated her. She wiggled against him in an artless attempt to press herself closer, to somehow absorb all his textures and scents, both new and remembered.

Justin groaned. "You're going to be the death of me, woman," he muttered against her lips. Then his tongue filled her mouth again, plunging deep in a blatant act of possession.

Justin wasn't sure how she managed it, but Emily was just as enticing in her silly garments as she had been naked on a moonlit beach. Each scrap of lace, pearl button, and hook and eyelet was a provocative challenge to his desire. She was dressed like a ruffled cake and he wanted nothing more than to lick off

all her icing. Her untamed response to his touch shattered his inhibitions. He rained a delicate shower of kisses down her throat.

Not even the starched layers of her petticoats were enough to shield Emily from the rigid evidence of Justin's desire. He nudged against her, his hard, hungry heat making her shudder.

With a hoarse oath Justin reached beneath her skirt and shoved aside the crinolines until only the sheer cotton of her pantaloons and the crisp linen of his trousers separated them. She gasped against his lips as he moved against her, coaxing, enticing, until she could feel every inch of him pressed to the damp valley between her legs. A helpless whimper, half fear, half need, caught in her throat.

"Sweet Christ, this is madness!" he exploded, dumping her out of his lap.

He rose and strode to the sideboard, raking a hand through his hair. As he sloshed wine into a glass,

filling it to the rim, Emily could see his hand was shaking violently.

She climbed to her feet, smoothing her skirts with her own trembling hands. "Why?" she said softly. "Why must it be madness?"

He cocked the glass up and drained it. "Aside from the fact that we were writhing around on the dining room floor with a kitchen of gossiping servants only a careless moan away?"

She nodded, refusing to make this easy for him. "Aside from that."

Justin slammed down the glass. He knew it wasn't enough to put physical distance between them. She could bridge that with just one yearning look. He had to put emotional distance between them as well.

He had to build walls so high she could never tear them down. Even if they imprisoned his heart forever.

"You're too young for me," he said.

Emily flinched at Justin's emotionless tone. "What of Cecille? Is she too young for you as well? Isn't she just the sort of wife your mother would choose for you?"

He swung around to face her. "Cecille is neither my ward nor my responsibility. You are. If I had an ounce of brains, I'd have declared for her tonight."

She tapped her pursed lips thoughtfully. "Now, would that make her my auntie or my stepmother?"

He caught her shoulders in a frantic grip, pulling her hard against him. "This isn't a game. Do you think this is why David entrusted you to my care? So I could compromise you like some aging lech without a thought for your reputation or future? Is that what your father would have wanted?"

She met his gaze squarely. "My father is dead. You should know that better than anyone."

His hands went limp. He laughed shakily. "Yes, I should, shouldn't I?"

"Justin!" she called after him, frightened by the glimpse of hopeless despair she'd seen in his eyes.

He walked out on her, his gait oddly uneven, like that of a wounded man. Emily sank down among the ruins of the dinner party and buried her head in her arms.

* * *

Emily Claire Scarborough was a very bad girl. She had heard it whispered for years, and in some small corner of her heart she had come to believe it. So when Justin again shut himself away from her behind

a wall of cool reserve, she set out to do the one thing she did best. Misbehave.

She swaggered around in an old pair of Justin's trousers and a discarded jacket from one of Edith's

riding habits, her curls an uncombed tangle.

But Justin's calm was imperturbable. When she began to sprinkle her speech with careless profanities,

he blithely retaliated by hiring a tutor, an art teacher, and a dancing master, all of whom resigned in hysterics within the week. When she shortened the legs of all of his trousers, he summoned a tailor and ordered new ones. When she stuffed the chimney in the study with her discarded petticoats, layering the room in coal dust and soot, he moved his work to the library until the room could be aired.

To both servants and family Justin was no longer caustic, but only distant. Music stopped flowing through the darkened rooms at night. The grand piano in the drawing room gathered a thin layer of dust. The servants attributed his brief burst of good cheer and subsequent mood change to a brain fever he had suffered during his exotic travels. No one knew what to attribute Miss Emily's behavior to, although Jimmie the stablemaster, a devout Roman Catholic, was the first to whisper of demon possession. He swore he had glanced up at her lighted window at night and seen objects flying about, spurred on by curses so uproarious, they made even his worldly ears burn.

The formal apology the duchess sent Cecille and her mama after the disastrous dinner party bought their stilted forgiveness but not their silence. Gossip spread through London that the Duke of Winthrop had a madwoman on his hands, a wild creature he'd do well to shuffle off to Bedlam before she harmed someone. People scrambled for invitations to the ball the duchess was throwing to introduce Emily to society, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the duke's eccentric ward.

It was a bitterly cold January morning when the door of the study burst open and Emily marched in on him and Penfeld, trailed by a shouting contingent of servants.

Justin barely glanced up from his ledger. "Good morning, Emily." His deep voice carried over the cacophony.

"Good morning, sir," she replied evenly.

Penfeld busied himself with straightening a perfectly aligned stack of papers. Emily stood stiffly, danger smoldering in her dark eyes as her domestic captors mobbed the desk.

"Sir, I must insist on a moment of your time-"

"-cannot be tolerated, Your Grace, not for another day-"

"Ye must take action, my lord, afor she burns the 'ouse down 'round our bloomin' heads!"

Justin lifted a hand in a plea for silence. "One at a time, please."

It was Gracie who stepped forward. The other servants subsided to murmurs in deference to her age

and years of loyal service to the Connors. "I'm not one to be stickin' me nose into family affairs, Yer Grace. I know the child has a good heart an' all, but . . ."

"Get on with it, Gracie. I'm listening."

The cook honked into her apron. "I left the pie on the windowsill only for a minute, sir, and now we've no rhubarb for lunch a'tall."

A horse-faced maid poked her long nose over Gracie's shoulder. "There won't be no need for the rhubarb, sir, for 'twas the curate who was to partake of it and the girl sent him packin' by tellin' him he could take his prayer book and put it-"

At a titter from one of the younger groomsmen, she cupped her hands around Justin's ear and whispered something that made his eyes widen with interest.

"Mmm. I didn't know that was possible."

Emily rolled her eyes and tapped her toe in obvious boredom.

The valet shared by Harold, Herbert, and Harvey shoved past her. "That's nothing, Your Grace, look what she did to the hat my master bought for the ball next week."

He thrust the top hat into Justin's hand. An odd squeaking and mewling rose from its silk confines.

When Justin lifted his head, he was smiling. "She had a litter of kittens in it?"

The valet sputtered. "Of course she didn't have a litter of kittens. She hid it in the stable, where the

mama cat would be sure to find it. Why, Master Harold will be livid!"

Justin's smile spread. "Master Harold, you say?" He handed the hat back. "Return it to the stable for

now. Perhaps when Master Harold finds a suitable position, he can buy a new one. As for now, you're

all dismissed."

"But, sir-"

"Your Grace, there's no time. With the ball next Friday!"

"My lord-"

"Good day," Justin said with utter finality.

Emily stood in sullen silence as her disappointed accusers filed out. Penfeld slipped out behind them, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

The door whispered shut, leaving them alone. Justin drew off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair,

and surveyed his young charge from boots to crown. If she was trying to look boyish, she had failed dismally. The trousers only emphasized her slender waist and hugged the ample curve of her rump. Edith's jacket had not been tailored for a bosom as generous as Emily's. Unhindered by corset or chemise, her breasts strained against the worn fabric.

Only a hint of color in her cheeks betrayed her response to his casual perusal. Her spine was stiff with that terrible pride that made her seem so fragile yet so unreach-able.

He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and blew a stray curl out of her eyes. "Damnable liars, every one

of them."

"You didn't swear at the curate?"

"Hell, no."

His lips twitched. "You didn't eat the entire rhubarb pie?"

"Of course not. I gave it to Pudding. Bulldogs Love rhubarb."

"And you didn't allow the stable cat to birth in Harold's new hat?"

"Cats are notoriously stubborn. They birth where they please."

Sighing, he slipped on his spectacles and went back to scrawling in the ledger. "Very well. You may go."

Emily slammed her palms on the desk. "Aren't you even going to punish me?"

"Punish you?" He nibbled on the end of his pen. "If it pleases you, you may take supper in your room."

She spoke through gritted teeth. "I take all my meals in my room."

"Then you may take supper in the dining room." He flipped a page of the ledger.

"Damn you," she whispered, her voice husky with thwarted emotion. He didn't even look up.

She spun around and marched for the door.

"Emily?"

She turned, her hand on the doorknob.

The pen kept up its even scratch. "Nothing you do, no matter how horrendous, is going to change the way I feel about you." His hand stilled. He slanted her a look over the rim of his spectacles. "Nor the

fact that I am not free to act on those feelings."

Emily threw open the door, horrified by the betraying sting in her eyes. She closed the door and slumped against it, pressing them shut against the burning pressure. When she opened them, a black mountain blocked her vision.

She blinked the tears away and found herself face-to-face with Penfeld's starched lapels. "Penfeld?

What the devil-"

She was totally unprepared when the valet fastened his meaty fingers around her earlobe in a pinch that would have made Doreen Dobbins swoon with envy. Emily's mouth fell open, more from shock than pain.

Penfeld thrust his face into Emily's. "March, little missy," he hissed, "or I'll give you something to cry about."

"How dare you-!"

Emily's cry of protest was cut off by a vicious yank that almost dragged her off her feet. Needles of pain shot through her skull. Wherever Penfeld was going, he was obviously intent on taking her ear with him, whether it was attached or not. Emily's feet slid on the polished wood floor, but he never faltered. A grinning footman swept open the door to the foyer.

A mobcapped head appeared around the corner, then another. Doors flew open. Grubby faces popped

up in the windows. The servants gaped as their master's mild-mannered valet dragged a howling Emily across the foyer and up the stairs.

When Justin emerged from the study to investigate the distant smattering of applause, he found nothing but a bevy of servants industriously polishing the gleaming banister.

Chapter 23

Penfeld gave her a less than genteel shove into her bedroom. Emily groped for her ear, surprised to find

it still in place, then stood with fists clenched.

The valet planted his bulk between the bed and the door. "I had seven younger brothers, all bigger and meaner than you, dear. Think about it."

Emily did. Penfeld's hands hung like creased hams from his immaculate sleeves. She sank down on the edge of the bed and gave him a sullen glare.

Returning a sweet smile, he locked the door and slipped the key into the pocket of his waistcoat.

She rubbed her throbbing ear. "What are you going to do? Beat me?"

"It would be a bit overdue, don't you think? Someone should have cared enough to yank your ear and blister your little bum a long time ago. But no one did, did they?"

It wasn't the shocking language, but the complete absence of pity in his tone that made it so compelling. He scraped over the chair from the hearth, turned it backward, and straddled it.

"Why, Penfeld, I hardly know you," Emily breathed in amazement.

"No, you don't," he said briskly. "And I think it high time to remedy that. I was born on Tenant Street, the second oldest of fifteen, three of whom died at birth. My father was a tanner, my mother a drunk. I was commonly known by the undignified sobriquet of Penny. My older sister died of typhoid at the age of fifteen. Before her corpse could cool, I snatched her job at a Bond Street haberdashery, where I met my first master."

Emily nodded, cautious but empathetic. Ambition. Level-headed thinking. A yearning for independence. These were all traits she respected.

"I discovered that by serving as a valet, a 'gentleman's gentleman' so to speak, I could partake of the

finer and more civilized aspects of life and earn wages for doing so."

"Don't you ever tire of being on the outside? Don't you ever want to be that gentleman?"

"A gentleman has many responsibilities. I have only one. Ensuring the happiness of my master."

She traced the gold leaf pattern on the rug with the toe of her boot. "I see. Is that why you dragged me

up here? Because I am interfering with that task?"

"Precisely."

Emily swallowed, bracing herself to hear she was unwanted yet again. Somehow the words would hurt more coming from the gentle valet. Penfeld had never so much as rebuked her. "What would you have me do? Shall I disappear from his life again? For good this time?"

"Would that make him happy?"

She searched his earnest face. "I honestly don't know."

Penfeld folded his arms on the back of the chair. "Why don't we give him exactly what he's asked for? First, you must stop this infernal misbehaving."

"I already tried acting like a lady. It made us both miserable."

A triumphant smile wreathed the valet's round face. "Ah, but that's because my master doesn't need a lady. My master needs a woman."

* * *

Justin had gone stone deaf. He masked it behind a polite smile as he wound his way through the guests

in the ballroom. He felt them touch his sleeve, saw them smile in greeting, but only gibberish spilled from their lips. The music of the orchestra seated on the low dais skittered off his ears like rain off oilcloth. Bows sawed madly away at violin strings. Fingers plucked the gleaming strands of the harp. Yet Justin could hear nothing but the terrible silence in his head. Not only had he lost the ability to write music; he had lost the ability to hear it. He wondered how Beethoven in his deafness had kept from going mad.

"Your Grace?" From the footman's patient tone Justin knew he had repeated the words more than once. "Would you care for some champagne?"

"Thank you, Sims." His own voice sounded muffled, as if it came from beneath a roaring sea.

He took a fluted glass from the tray and brought it to his lips. The tart bubbles tickled his nostrils.

He had thought this ball an ill-conceived idea from the start, but his mother had pouted until he relented. At any moment he expected Emily to swing past on one of the chandeliers or ride Pudding through the glass doors. She had been sulking in her room all week, doubtlessly planning some horrific revenge for

his dispassionate treatment of her. What better place to execute it than at the ball given in her honor? Someone bumped him in passing and he jumped, sloshing champagne on his white-gloved hand. He swore softly, cursing his raw nerves.

He drained the glass. If she only knew the terrible cost of his apathy.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a looking glass hung between two columns. He could almost see his father's whiskers superimposed over his unsmiling face. Unable to bear the oppressive silence of his head, he had actually gone to the Winthrop Shipping offices yesterday and spent hours in a dusty alcove, poring over meaningless figures.

Amid a flurry of greetings at the door he saw Cecille du Pardieu and her mama enter, arms linked as if fearful some wayward crustacean might come dashing out at them. Apparently, both their fear and their wounded feelings had been bested by curiosity and a deeper fear of missing the social event of the holiday season. The room swirled around Justin, awash in a tapestry of gaiety and celebration. He heard nothing but the muffled thump of his own faltering heart.

He had set off in search of more champagne when a slight figure slipped through the glass doors into the ballroom. There was no fanfare, no sudden stillness or rustle of movement to herald her arrival, but Justin's heart dulled to a whisper and Mendelssohn's On Wings of Song began to beat wildly in his brain.

Emily.

Emily gentled, but not tamed, her milky skin aglow, her dark eyes vibrant with laughter and curiosity. A dress of cream silk trimmed in roses hugged her slender figure. Flounces of lace draped a modest bustle, flowing down to a short train adorned with three simple bows. A circlet of silk roses crowned her hair. Her curls haloed her face as they had on the island, no longer stiff and singed, but soft and loose and perfect for a man to bury his hands in.

Justin drifted toward her like a traveler who has spotted a breath of spring on a frozen tundra.

"More champagne, sir?"

Justin recoiled from the tray thrust in front of him. "Christ, Sims, must you bellow in that manner?"

Curious stares assailed them, and Justin realized he had shouted at the hapless man. Before he could apologize, he became aware of other sounds-the nervous rattle of the footman's tray, the shrill notes

of Cecille's voice, Harold's inane bray of laughter. The women seemed to be clumping around in their dainty slippers like dancing bears. He would almost swear he could hear the tinkle of a hairpin sliding from a dancer's neat chignon and striking the floor.

Justin gripped the footman's sleeve. "Did you hear that?"

"Of course, sir. As you say, sir." Sims gently disengaged himself and fled for the kitchen, obviously fearing his master was in the grip of some new and dreadful brain fever.

Justin's gaze flew to the doors. His mother had taken her place at Emily's side. His eyes moved to the

line of gilt chairs against the wall where Emily sat, folding her gloved hands demurely in her lap. As an unmarried woman she would be expected to remain at her chaperone's side until she was asked to

dance and to be returned there after each twirl about the floor.

As others in the room became aware of their presence, the murmurs and whispers swelled, making Justin's ears tingle with their newly found acuity. A couple danced past him.

"She must be the one, darling," the man said. "Look at the way the duchess is fussing over her."

"Not quite the drooling madwoman the countess described, is she?"

His reply was lost in the maddening rustle of his wife's taffeta petticoats. Justin started forward, determined to reach Emily this time. Just as he did, a bewhiskered young man swept her away, and he was left staring stupidly at her empty chair.

His mother tapped her feet to the music; her fat ringlets bobbed. "Hello, darling. Enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely," he lied.

He slipped behind Emily's chair and leaned against the wall, determined to be there when she returned. His gaze wasn't the only one locked on her. Heads craned as she spun around the room in an enchanting swirl of cream and rose. Justin's breath quickened. He wanted to dance with her as he had in New Zealand. He wanted to splay his hand over the delicate expanse of her ribs, and damn the consequences. As he watched her, his heart lurched into reckless song. His fingers drummed on the back of the chair, itching for a smooth scrap of paper on which to record his melody.

At last the interminable tune was done and Emily and her escort made their way back toward the chair. Justin picked a minuscule speck of lint off his sleeve and stepped forward. Penfeld chose that moment

to lean over and offer his mother an hors d'oeuvre from a silver tray. Before Justin could maneuver around them, Emily was gone again, whisked off by another young swain. He swore under his breath.

The orchestra launched into a waltz by Brahms that captured perfectly the floating sway of Emily's skirt.

His mother popped a little sausage into her mouth. "Hungry, dear?"

Emily's smooth cheek dimpled as she smiled up at her partner. Justin's nails dug into the back of the chair. "Ravenous."

Penfeld beamed at the dance floor. "They make a charming couple, don't they?"

Justin grunted, refusing to commit himself. The man's golden hair shimmered as he inclined his head to Emily.

"Young Peter just graduated from Oxford," the duchess said. "He's level-headed, bright, and very interested in his father's mining business. A simply marvelous prospect."

"A prospect for what?" Justin snapped. If the levelheaded Peter didn't keep his gloved hands still on Emily's back, he was going to be a marvelous prospect for getting his head dunked in the punch bowl.

His mother only made a mysterious noise.

Justin leaned over her shoulder, craning his neck as another couple blocked his view. "That fuzz on his chin makes him look a little like an overgrown rat, don't you think?" He smugly stroked his own jaw, where a day's growth was already pricking the skin.

She tittered. "Don't be so harsh on the boy. Has it been so long that you've forgotten your first whiskers?"

Justin's hand froze in its motion, then fell limp at his side. He resisted the urge to check the looking glass, afraid he might discover his hair had gone snow white.

This time he didn't wait for the last note of the waltz to sound. As soon as Penfeld started to shift his bulk, he flung himself over the valet's legs and plunged through the crowd.

He took Emily's arm firmly and forced himself to make a genteel bow. "Would you be kind enough to grant me the pleasure of your company for a dance?"

She opened the card affixed to her wrist by a golden thread and studied it. A charming line of concentration furrowed her brow. "I'm afraid not. My dance card is full." She patted his sleeve.

"Perhaps another time."

Stung by her careless rejection, Justin's grip on her arm tightened, but before he could protest, a familiar voice chimed between them. "Why, good evening, Your Grace. Charming ball, is it not?" Cecille du Pardieu bobbed him a schoolroom curtsy that made him feel at least eighty. "Come along, Emily dear. There's a young gentleman who's simply dying to meet you."

He had to admire Cecille's opportunism. Emily was the obvious belle of the ball, and claiming her now could only enhance Cecille's own reputation. Hooking her arm in Emily's, she dragged her away, chattering as if they had always been the best of friends. They disappeared in a crowd of laughing,

jostling young people.

He dragged his creaking bones back to Emily's chair and sank into it. When Sims, standing back at a discreet distance, offered him another glass of champagne, Justin took the entire tray and balanced it

on his knees, leaving the perspiring footman empty-handed.

"Dry, sweeting?" his mother chirped.

"Parched," he replied. As he tossed back a glass, his hungry gaze combed the crowd for a hint of

chestnut curls garlanded with roses.

* * *

Justin rolled the fluted stem of the champagne glass between his fingers. The ballroom was nearly as empty as the tray sitting at his feet. His head gave a warning throb.

It was well after midnight. A crowd had gathered at the door where the duchess and Millicent were bidding farewell to the last of their guests. He ought to be with them. But doubting his ability to stand, much less converse socially, he remained sprawled in his chair.

He didn't relish the prospect of climbing the winding stairs to his big, lonely bed. Penfeld sat beside him, humming tunelessly under his breath. Justin was surprised the valet hadn't fainted dead away from mortification. He had long ago clawed away the tie Penfeld had knotted with such painstaking care, and draped it around his collar.

He narrowed his eyes as Emily untangled herself from the last knot of her admirers and started across

the ballroom, her kid slippers whispering on the polished tile. Her silk roses might have wilted a bit under the strain, but she still looked as fresh as a spring rain in the desert.

She approached, smothering a yawn into her glove.

"Tired?" Justin gave his knee a pat of invitation and quirked a devilish eyebrow.

Her cheek dimpled in reproach. She brushed past him, leaned over, and kissed Penfeld's cheek.

"G'night, Penny."

"Penny?" he muttered. She was already turning away. "What about me?"

She stopped, the curve of her bare shoulders alabaster in the fading light. Justin crossed his arms over

his chest and stared straight ahead, regretting the childish challenge the instant it left his lips.

Emily turned in a swirl of silk. The scent of rosewater and vanilla jolted his senses. She bent to give his cheek a peck, but before he even realized he was going to do it, Justin turned his head, grazing her mouth with his own. The contact was brief, warm, and sweet. He knew it wasn't fair, but he was unable to deny himself a fleeting taste of her lips.

"Come, my dear." The duchess appeared at Emily's elbow. "Won't you escort an old lady to her room?"

As his mother drew her away, Emily looked over her shoulder at him. He leaned the back of his head against the wall, oddly sobered by the rebuke in her eyes.

* * *

The clock on the landing below chimed twice. Emily turned over in her bed as the hollow bongs rolled through the house. Why should sleep elude her now? The night had been a smashing success. She

ought to be savoring her triumph, dreaming of the hectic days to come as she accepted the invitations Penfeld had assured her would come pouring in tomorrow.

Instead, she lay staring wide-eyed into the shadows, unable to erase from her mind her last glimpse of Justin as he sat alone in the dimming gaslights, surrounded by a sea of limp confetti.

His own behavior at the ball had caused quite a stir. He had appeared the height of rakish splendor with his tie unknotted and his long legs sprawled before him in disreputable indolence. Whispers about his roguish past had flown through the staid crowd on wings of fascination. Oddly enough, while such innuendo would have been the ruin of a woman, it only enhanced his reputation and made him all the more desirable to the eligible girls and their mamas. Emily wondered what they would think if they could have seen him sweating in the fields like a common farmer or reading the Bible to a tribe of rapt natives.

His rakish pose did not fool her. She had seen the hollowness in his eyes as he watched her go. She touched her lower lip, remembering the jarring brush of his lips against her own.

She rolled over. Champagne glasses had littered the floor around Justin's chair. Had Penfeld remained to help him to bed? What if he stumbled over something in the dark and fell? Lord knew, there was plenty to stumble over in this cluttered museum. Her father had once lost a friend who, after imbibing too much gin, took a tumble down the stairs and cracked his head. Emily sat straight up, beset by a vivid image of Justin's body sprawled on the first-floor landing, his white shirt stained with blood.

She climbed out of bed and drew a robe of woolly cashmere over her nightdress. As the toys and fairy-tale books had disappeared from her room, other things had appeared-an olivewood stationery case lined in velvet, a delicate box of rose-leaf face powder, a handsome leather diary inscribed with her initials. Gifts not for a child, but for a woman, all placed by magical, unseen hands.

Leaving Pudding drowsing in front of the fire, she padded down the stairs. Silence enveloped her in its dark cloak, making her realize how badly she missed Justin's music.

She pushed open the door to the ballroom. A pale splinter of a moon shone through the oriel windows, bathing the long, empty room in a silver wash. She felt foolish. Of course, Penfeld would have rescued his master by now. She shivered as the chill of the marble tile crept into her bare feet.

She was turning to go when a voice came out of the shadows, as husky and intimate as a touch.

"You still owe me a dance, Emily Scarborough."

Chapter 24

Justin stepped away from the dais into a shallow arc of moonlight. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his head inclined at a sheepish angle.

Emily's breath tightened in her throat. She smoothed back her curls and hugged the robe tighter around her. "How can we dance? There isn't any music."

His eyes searched the reaches of the vaulted ceiling. "Don't you hear it?" He lowered his gaze to her

face. "The angels sing every time you walk into a room."

She laughed nervously. "It's more likely a chorus of demons."

Justin's laugh never came. He walked toward her, his steps measured, his eyes glowing with an odd light. Emily resisted the urge to fly back up the stairs to the safe cocoon of her bed.

He stopped in front of her and bowed with no trace of a drunken falter. "May I have this dance, Miss Scarborough?"

He opened his arms to her, and just as she had in New Zealand, Emily stepped into them, powerless to

do otherwise. Justin held her with perfect propriety, sweeping her around the floor in eerie silence. Emily didn't dare look at his face, so she looked at his chest instead, painfully aware of the shift of his powerful muscles, his flawless rhythm, the off-key cadence of his breathing.

Each faint brush of their bodies in the darkness made her feel as if she were suspended over a dangerous chasm, too high to drop without shattering. The peaks of her breasts ached against the soft cotton of her nightdress.

His breath touched her ear, warm and tart with the scent of champagne. "Can you hear it now?" he whispered. "The thundering chords? The sigh of the harp? The moan of the oboe?"

"All I can hear are drums."

"Drums?"

"My heart."

Laughing softly, he gave her a gentle squeeze. His steps slowed, and he released her reluctantly, as if hearing the music come to an end. Emily could still hear its bittersweet echo lingering on the air.

She took a step away from him. "I'd best go. I wanted to make sure you were all right, but I should be getting back upstairs now. It's late."

"Too late." She might have imagined his whispered words. As she turned to go, he called her name.

She stopped. Their eyes met across the polished expanse of moonlight and marble.

"You were magnificent tonight. I wish David could have seen you. You made me"-he balled his hands and shoved them back in his pockets-"proud."

Swallowing around the knot in her throat, Emily fled the ballroom, leaving Justin as she had found him. Alone.

* * *

When Emily slipped into her chair at breakfast the next morning, Justin greeted her with a polite nod.

He and Harold were engaged in a heated debate pitting the efficiency of clipper ships against steamers. She stole a look at him over het milk glass. His black coat was impeccable, his gray tie knotted in sleek folds. He bore no resemblance to the rumpled roue who had swept her around a deserted ballroom.

She glanced up at the gasolier, but heard no choir of angels announcing her entrance. This Justin did not look the sort of man inclined to such romantic folly. Although he bore no visible scars from last night's debauchery, she wondered if he had been too drunk to even remember their stolen interlude.

A serving maid leaned over his shoulder with a silver platter. "Kippers, Your Grace?"

Emily might have imagined the faint paling around his mouth as he replied, "No, thank you, Libby."

He stared as his mother took the fork the maid offered and heaped kippers on her own plate, filling the dining room with the pungent aroma of herring. Justin pushed away his plate and Emily thrust a hot

scone into her mouth to hide her smile.

"Will you be going out today, Emily?"

His question caught her off guard, and she swallowed quickly, licking away the stray crumbs. "Lily and

I might go shopping this afternoon." She held her breath, waiting for him to forbid her her freedom as

he had done on the island.

He pulled his napkin out of his lap and dabbed his lips. "You may take the brougham if you like. I'll tell the coachman to make it ready. If you wish to purchase anything, charge it to my name."

"Why, thank you . . . sir."

At her added note of respect he cast her an unreadable glance that might have been displeasure.

"Will you be going to the office today, dear?" the duchess inquired, her booming voice an octave lower than usual.

Justin flinched and touched his fingertips to his temple. "I might. There is a surfeit of accounting to be done."

She bit into a kipper with unmistakable relish. "Don't we have men hired for that?"

He shot her a dark glance. "Of course we do. But even the best of men require supervision."

As Harold launched into a soliloquy pronouncing steam engines instruments of the devil and predicting

a return to sailing ships by all right-thinking men, Emily murmured her excuses and slipped out.

When she returned to her room at midmorning, the fairies had visited again. A plum-colored cloak of luxuriant wool was fanned across her bed. Among its folds lay a mother-of-pearl calling-card case polished to a lustrous gleam. She touched her fingertips to the cool inlay, remembering Justin's words.

You made me proud.

She had made people many things since her father's death-ashamed, infuriated, embarrassed, frustrated, murderous-but she couldn't remember making anyone proud. She rubbed the prickly softness of the cloak against her cheek, knowing she could not have imagined the hint of bay rum that clung to it.

* * *

"What's she doing now, Penfeld?" Justin whispered.

Penfeld lowered his newspaper a fraction of an inch and peered over the top. "Ribbons, sir. She's

finished with the brooches and gone on to the ribbons."

Justin stole a glance around the edge of his own paper, squinting against the glare of the setting sun striking the frosted shop window. Emily stood at the counter inside, studying a display of ribbons proffered by a fawning shopgirl. She tapped her lips in indecision, then plucked up a burgundy ribbon

and held it against her dimpled cheek for Lily to admire. The gesture was so girlish and free of care that

it made his heart catch. He watched mesmerized as the velvet length trailed her skin. His fingers itched

to follow its path.

Without warning Emily dropped the ribbon and glanced at the window. Justin jerked up the paper, burying his nose in it.

Penfeld stamped his feet on the pavement and adjusted the collar of his greatcoat. "My toes are going numb again."

"Wiggle them," Justin snapped, daring another peep around the paper.

The clatter of a passing omnibus drowned out the warning tinkle of the shop bells. Emily and Lily were headed out the door, their arms loaded with packages. Justin grabbed Penfeld and hurled him around

the corner into the waiting carriage.

He slammed his walking stick into the roof of the carriage and yelled, "Follow that brougham!"

"Aye, sir." At the driver's urging the horses clip-clopped into motion and Justin settled back in the plush seat.

Penfeld hunkered down into the lap blankets until all but the reddened bulb of his nose disappeared.

"I'd be the last to suggest a flaw in your character, Your Grace," he said, his voice muffled, "but don't you think you're being a bit overzealous?"

Justin slid open the window and craned his neck for a glimpse of Emily's plum-hooded head in the graceful brougham in front of them. "Nonsense, Penfeld. You know Emily has a penchant for getting

into mischief. London is full of dangerous sorts who might take advantage of that. I simply want to

ensure her safety."

Penfeld suspected his master's motives had more to do with Emily's transformation than London's dangers. Now that his little caterpillar had sprouted wings, he didn't want to risk her flying away.

"But we've been following her all day, and she has been the very model of propriety."

"That doesn't alter my responsibility to her. It's no more than any other guardian would do."

The valet rolled his eyes and muttered, "In a pig's eye."

Justin drew back his head. "Pardon me?"

Penfeld cleared his throat. "Impeccable, sir. I said your devotion to your ward was impeccable."

"Hmm." Justin leaned back in the seat, smirking. "I thought that was what you said."

* * *

Emily poked her head out the brougham window for the sheet pleasure of watching Justin's handsome, dark head disappear again. She threw herself back in the seat, biting her lip to keep from laughing. With

a frame as rugged and masculine as Justin's, he was hardly unobtrusive lurking behind lampposts and skulking outside ladies' dress shops. Why, she could hear the chattering of Penfeld's teeth through the window of the last haberdashery!

Lily shot her a curious look. "Why are you looking so pleased with yourself? Have you tacked a note saying 'Pinch me' to my bustle?"

"Would I do such a thing?" She leaned forward and whispered, "Actually I stuffed a dead hedgehog in your muff."

Lily jerked off her ermine muff and shook it in horror.

"For heaven's sake, I was only joking!" Emily assured her.

She hung out the window again, checking the progress of Justin's carriage. A hansom cab had come between them, and the coachman was frantically searching for a way past. She could well imagine the shouted instructions he was receiving from his master.

Lily squealed, startling her into bumping her head. "Good Lord, what was that for? Did you see a mouse?"

"No. I saw a house."

Emily blinked. Lily was even more unintelligible than her mother at times.

Lily caught the collar of her cloak and dragged her to the opposite window. "Look!" She clapped her hands over Emily's eyes. "No, wait. Don't look. Someone might see you. All right, you may look now."

All Emily saw was a rather ordinary-looking gray town house, fronted by a wrought-iron fence and a neatly trimmed lawn.

Lily lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. "Mrs. Rose lives there with all of her little blooms."

"Mrs. Rose," Emily echoed softly, pushing back her hood.

She stared up at a lighted window on the second floor, thinking of Tansy. A sharp pang of nostalgia touched her. She wondered if her friend was still warmed by her fancy gentlemen with their gentle

hands and generous purses?

Lily threw herself back in the seat, sighing in content. "Harvey will have a Hereford if he knows we took this route." She giggled slyly. "Sometimes I wish he'd take this way himself. I try to lie very still and endure his attentions as Mama taught me, but I shouldn't mind so much if he snuck off to fertilize someone else's bloom. '

Lily began to sing under her breath, some ditty about the bees buzzing around Mrs. Rose's garden.

Emily sank back, fingering the soft wool of her cloak. She was hard pressed to imagine lying still

beneath the tender stroke of Justin's hands. The image brought warmth stinging to her cheeks.

How familiar was Justin with this street? Had his carriage ever been parked outside the pretty gray town house with the curtained windows? She frowned. If he was so determined to follow her, why shouldn't she lead him on a merry chase?

The carriage slowed at the corner. Emily reached for the door handle.

Lily recognized the sparkle of mischief in her eyes only too well. Her gloved hand closed over Emily's. "Oh, no, you don't. What are you up to? Going to jab the horses with a hairpin and send me careening into the Thames?"

"This joke isn't on you. I promise." She pried away Lily's clinging fingers. "Have the driver circle the block a few times, then pick me up in the park."

Ignoring Lily's protests, she opened the door a crack and eased out of the carriage. The driver clucked

the horses into motion, unaware that he had lost a passenger.

As the brougham rolled away, Lily hung out the window and hissed, "Take care, silly. The moon is already out. It'll be full dark soon."

Emily strolled across the road to the park, swinging her embroidered purse as if she hadn't a care in the world. From behind her she heard a frantic cry of "Whoa!" a horse's whinny, and the clatter of someone spilling out of a carriage in great haste. Pretending to brush a stray hair from her shoulder, she looked back just as Justin ducked behind the mottled trunk of a sycamore.

Pulling her hood up over her hair, she darted into a thicket of trees. The air was much colder here. A lacy web of branches blocked out all but the most tenacious rays of light. She followed a cobbled path around a frozen pond and past a terra-cotta cupid. Icicles dangled from his pouting lips. Dusk was falling fast.

She swung around a fragrant spruce, fully intending to circle back to the brougham by another path and leave Justin combing the park for her. The deepening shadows rendered the tangled shrubs a maze. She took one path, then another, only to find herself at the fountain again. Cupid smirked at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Hugging herself against the chill, she chose the only path she had not taken. It was much narrower than the others. Dead weeds sprouted through the cracked cobblestones. She was beginning to wish she were sitting in the parlor at Grymwilde, sipping hot spiced cider and listening to Edith drone on about a new embroidery pattern.

The bushes rustled behind her. Emily hesitated, regretting her folly. A woman walking unchaperoned in

a park was fair game for any scoundrel. A shiver crept down her spine. She swung around to face the looming shadows.

For a long moment there was only silence, then came the reassuring click of a walking stick against the cobblestones. She pressed a fist to her thundering heart in relief. Perhaps Justin had decided to play the game along with her.

She started to sing softly in Maori, a child's tune Dani had taught her, hoping to entice him to show himself.

A match flared in the darkness, followed by the unmistakable sizzle of flame against paper and the stringent tang of smoke. Emily's voice trailed to silence. She'd seen Justin partake of a pipe on occasion after dinner, but she'd never known him to smoke a cigarette.

She took two steps backward. "Justin?" she whispered to the encroaching twilight.

The shadows held their silence. Emily spun around to flee and crashed into something so warm and solid it could only be a man's chest. Her purse fell to the ground, spilling out her card case and an ivory array of calling cards.

The man knelt to retrieve them.

She gave his shiny top hat an aggravated thump. "You scared me half to death! Didn't you hear me

calling you? I almost . . ."

Her voice faded as he lifted his head. The rising moon shone through the trees, and she found herself gazing into the molten brown eyes of a man more beautiful than Satan himself.

Chapter 23

The moon caressed a face of pure masculine beauty. Not a single whisker marred the purity of its

narrow planes. Except for Justin, he was the first clean-shaven man Emily had seen in London. An

ivory cigarette holder hung from his lips. His dark eyes seemed not opaque, but translucent, lit from within by a diabolical fire.

With a flick of his elegant fingers he held up one of her calling cards. "Miss Scarborough, I presume?"

She could not help staring at his hand. His nails were trimmed to precise points, their beds as pink and smooth as a baby's. He cleared his throat and Emily realized she was behaving like a churl.

"Why, thank you. I'll just take that." She reached for the card, but he slipped it into his breast pocket

with the deftness of a magician.

"Allow me." He handed her the purse and straightened, looming over her in the growing darkness. An opera cloak rippled in ebony folds from his narrow shoulders.

"Have you come calling today, Miss Scarborough?" His voice held the faintest trace of a continental accent.

"Not quite. I'm afraid I'm lost," she said lamely.

He tapped the ash from his long, slender cigarette. "A condition my soul is quite familiar with."

The dark humor in his voice was irresistible. Emily laughed, then wished she hadn't.

He flicked the cigarette from the holder. The polished heel of his boot ground it to pulp. "Will you allow me to escort you to a safer haven?"

He smiled, his canine teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Whoever filed his nails ought to take a crack at

his teeth, Emily thought uncharitably. She hesitated, feeling a bit like Red Riding Hood being invited to picnic with the wolf.

He read her mind with eerie accuracy. "I fear you're safe with me. I've already gobbled up three lost young ladies this evening. I'm quite sated at the moment."

She flushed. Mayfair was a genteel neighborhood. He was probably some nice gent, whose wife didn't allow him to smoke in the house, eager to get home to his cozy fire and three chubby babes.

Feeling sheepish, she tucked her hand in the curve of his arm. "I'd be honored."

The new moon shone through the naked branches, casting a silver latticework across their path.

"I couldn't help but hear your charming little song," he said. "Was it Swahili?"

"No. Maori."

"Ah, the Maori. Natives of"-he hesitated as if searching his brain-"New Guinea?"

"New Zealand."

"My goodness, you are lost, aren't you? Did your boat capsize?"

Emily thought of the tangled chain of events that had returned her to London. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

They emerged from the trees onto the gaslit street to find the brougham silhouetted against the darkening sky. An unbidden sigh of relief escaped Emily. In this light the whiteness of the stranger's shirtfront was dazzling. She was tempted to shield her eyes from its brilliance.

She bobbed an awkward curtsy. "I can find my way from here."

His response was interrupted by Lily, who came running up, her bustle listing to starboard. "There you are! My head is positively spinning from circling this block. Harvey is going to slay me for coming home after dark. If he forbids me the opera next week, I'll die a thousand gruesome deaths. Oh."

Her rebuke died as she realized they had an audience. Her hazel eyes widened to mesmerized splendor

as she gazed up at the stranger's compelling face.

He inclined his head and brought Lily's gloved fingers to his lips. "Good evening, madam."

He turned to Emily. "Perhaps another time, Miss Scarborough." He lifted her hand to his lips, but instead of kissing her fingers, he brought his moist lips to bear against the naked flesh of her inner wrist. Emily would have sworn his teeth grazed her skin.

"Thank you for your kindness," she said, withdrawing her hand.

"My pleasure, cara mia."

He tipped his hat to them both, revealing a sleek, dark cap of hair, then strode off into the night, his

opera cloak swirling around his ankles.

"Oh, my." Lily rubbed the tips of her fingers absently against her lips. "Wasn't he the most gorgeous creature you've ever seen? Like some sort of archangel."

"Look again, dear. Your angel has fallen from grace."

Lily's mouth fell open as they watched him saunter across the street and up the stairs to Mrs. Rose's establishment. The stained-glass door swung open. A burst of music and laughter tarnished the winter stillness. Then he was gone, so quickly they might have imagined him.

"Can you believe his boldness?" Lily said. "Most of the gentlemen have the decency to use the back entrance from the alley. He just strolls up to the front door as if he owns the place. Who does he think

he is?"

"I wish I knew," Emily murmured.

He had not offered his name. She remembered her calling card disappearing into his breast pocket. He knew who she was, though. A faint shudder rippled down her spine.

Lily patted her shoulder. "You poor dear. You must be chilled to the marrow."

"I dare say she is."

The voice came out of the shadows behind them, as cool and lethal as pistol fire. Emily started as if

she'd been shot. Justin stalked out of the trees like a hungry wolf who has spotted a helpless fawn.

His tie was no longer knotted. His greatcoat was littered with twigs and smudged with dirt. His hair was wild, as if it had wrestled with more than one tree and lost. But even a fresh limp did not mar the murderous grace of his intent.

"Good evening . . . sir," she said weakly.

"A little late for a stroll in the park, isn't it, dear?" he bit off.

Lily wisely drifted toward the brougham.

Emily stared straight ahead. "I find the air invigorating this time of night."

His eyes narrowed to amber slits. "So do all sorts of dangerous characters."

Emily found it laughable that only minutes before she had found a suave stranger so menacing. No man was more dangerous to her than this one. She lived daily with the mortal risk of falling to her knees at

his feet and begging him to love her.

He circled her, then stopped so close behind her that she could feel the angry heat emanating from his lean form. His lips touched her ear, bringing the tiny hairs along her lobe to tingling life. "How would

you like to be robbed or murdered … or raped?"

"Are those my only choices?" His sigh scorched the back of her neck. She turned to face him. "Why

were you following me anyway? Don't you trust me?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't following you. I just happened to be passing by."

At that moment his carriage rumbled around the corner at a full gallop with Penfeld hanging out the window, waving his handkerchief. "Thank the Lord, sir!" he cried as the carriage clattered to a halt.

"You found her. If anything had happened to her, I would have blamed myself. . . ."

He trailed off beneath Justin's glower, realizing that Emily was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"You might be a bit more inconspicuous if the Winthrop crest weren't emblazoned on your carriage

door," she said, brushing a stray twig from the shoulder of Justin's greatcoat. "I'd suggest you pay

Bentley Chalmers whatever it takes to keep him in your employ. The two of you make rotten detectives."

With those words she marched away, disappearing into the brougham with a twitch of her sassy little bustle.

Justin muttered, "I'd like to put my foot-"

The coachman twisted on his bench, craning his neck.

Shaking his head in disgust, Justin threw himself into the carriage. As they drove into the night, the dark figure at the window of the house across the street lifted his glass in a mocking toast.

* * *

Emily's behavior in the next week was beyond reproach. Each expedition she made was chaperoned by the duchess or one of Justin's sisters. When her newfound popularity showed no sign of abating, even Cecille and her diminutive mama deigned to woo her affections. Justin heard not even a whisper of impropriety as she became the toast of London. He heard other things, though. How she had leaped out of a moving carriage to rescue a terrified puppy darting among the congested traffic of the Strand. How she had tossed the silk purse containing her entire allowance to a shivering beggar child on the street.

How she had shamed Cecille and her fast set out of going to Bedlam to poke fun at the lunatics.

Justin could find no fault with her. To complain would have been the worst sort of hypocrisy. She was the kind of daughter every father dreamed of having. But Justin wasn't a father. And he suspected the ways he dreamed of having her were not only immoral, but possibly illegal.

The whirl of activity left little time for him. At each soiree and ball her dance card was filled minutes

after arriving. At each luncheon and card party the seat next to hers was taken by some fawning young toff who hung on her every word as if it might be her last. Justin was relegated to the position of

watchful uncle even though he knew none of the eager young men were the threat to her virtue that

he was.

He tripped down the stairs late one afternoon, struggling to knot his tie for the opera that evening.

Penfeld had a way of disappearing whenever Emily was preparing for a night out, leaving Justin to struggle with the damnable scrap of silk alone.

Two strange young men were hovering in the foyer.

"Excuse me," he said, brushing past them.

"Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" The one with the flaming red hair trotted after him. Justin took the freckled hand he offered and he pumped eagerly. "Claiborne, sir. Richard Claiborne. My

friends call me Dick."

Justin looked him up and down from his yellow boots to his checkered jacket. "I dare say they do."

The other man rushed forward, clutching a stovepipe hat. His slicked-back hair reeked of bear's grease. "Henry Simpkins, Your Grace. At your humble service."

"Yes, well, that's very nice," Justin said vaguely. His tie curled like a serpent around his Adam's apple.

He tugged at it and started to walk away. "If the two of you are seeking employment, I suggest you

make an appointment with my offices."

Dick Claiborne flushed to the roots of his hair. "I wish to speak to you about a very private matter."

"Bite your tongue, Dick. That's not fair. I was here first!" Henry cried.

Claiborne whirled around and stabbed Henry's chest with his forefinger. "Sod off, Henry. I saw

her first."

A horrified suspicion grew in Justin's mind. Leaving the irate young gentlemen nose to nose, he lifted a lace curtain and peered out the window. Two more carriages had drawn up to block the drive. One of their occupants was hanging out his window, shouting insults at the man emerging from the other carriage. As Justin watched, the young swell thrust up his shirt-sleeves and launched himself past a stoic footman into the window of his taunter's brougham. The brougham rocked wildly. The driver grabbed the lamp

to keep his seat.

Justin groaned to find his mansion under siege. The snarls from behind him were becoming more rabid. He marched back to Simpkins and Claiborne, dragged them apart by their collars, and shook them like limp puppies.

"Cease this nonsense," he snapped. "I'll tolerate blood on my grass, but I won't tolerate it on my marble tiles."

He shoved them toward the door without loosening his grip.

Claiborne dragged his heels. "But, sir, I'd make a very good husband. Truly I would!"

"Thank you, Dick, but you're not my sort. Simpkins is looking for a mate. Perhaps the two of you can come to an arrangement."

He thrust them out the door. As they went tumbling down the shallow steps, a dead silence fell over the waiting carriages.

Justin waved cheerfully. "Do call again. I'd love to tell you more about my years with the cannibals. Charming tribe, the Maori. They've been known to pluck out the eyes of any man who offends them

and eat them whole."

Dusting off his hands, he marched back into the house. The frantic jingle of harnesses and bridles was followed by the gratifying clatter of galloping hooves. Justin leaned his back against the door, blowing

out a slow breath.

"A pity we're not living in the days when maidens were locked in stone towers."

Justin slowly lifted his eyes to find Emily sitting like an elf on the balcony above, her stockinged legs dangling through the balusters. It was obvious she had witnessed the entire spectacle.

His gaze traced the curve of her thighs as they straddled the thick post. A hoarse note touched his voice. "It wouldn't do me any good. I'd still have a key."

At that moment Lily and Millicent entered from the parlor, chattering about their opera dresses. When Justin looked up again, the balcony was empty.

* * *

For those seeking the drama of the bards, the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane was the favored choice, but those craving the loftier charms of opera flocked to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. The theater

had been a glowing jewel in the crown of London since the first majestic strains of Handel's Rinaldo had graced its stage over a century before. As a small boy clinging to his father's trouser leg, Justin had believed its elegance a taste of heaven itself, and the busty diva one of God's own angels.

A touch of the old magic brushed him as he ushered Lily and Millicent into the Winthrop box. They settled into the red plush seats behind him as the orchestra began to tune their instruments. Penfeld hovered in the narrow aisle beside them, holding Justin's perfectly draped opera cloak over his arm. Knowing how the valet loved fine music, Justin had invited him as a guest, but he was obviously more comfortable in his role as human cloak stand.

An expectant murmur raced through the audience, accompanied by the rustle of satin and broadcloth.

The private boxes and seats below started to fill. Justin's own awe was dampened by apprehension. Naturally, Emily had been too busy to attend with the family. Against his better judgment he had

allowed her to accompany Cecille, leaving only the delicate countess to chaperone them.

He leaned forward and scanned the rows of boxes with his opera glasses. The gaslight from the crystal chandeliers shimmered off diamond chokers and gold Albert watch chains. The women clustered like multicolored blooms planted in window boxes next to their black-garbed escorts. Their fans fluttered

like delicate petals in the wind.

Justin finally spotted Emily in a box on the tier below. She was on the same side as they were, but much farther from the stage. His worst fears were founded. The box was packed to overflowing with rowdy young swells and milling girls. He glimpsed the countess dozing in her ruffles in the back of the box.

"Sir," Penfeld said, tugging on his coat. "The performance is beginning."

Justin lowered the opera glasses and settled irritably back in his seat. There were two empty seats beside him, since his mother and Edith had begged off with throbbing megrims, refusing to admit they both detested the opera.

"Why don't you sit down, man?" he asked Penfeld, indicating the vacant chairs.

"Oh, no, sir." The valet stared stoically ahead as if even glancing at the stage might be considered a breach of duty. "It wouldn't be proper."

The first notes of the overture began, and the massive curtain rose. Lily tapped his shoulder. "May I borrow your opera glasses?"

"No," he snapped.

She leaned back in her seat with a wounded sniff.

The chandeliers dimmed and stage arcs flooded the brilliant backdrop with light. Justin was deaf to the musical charms of Bizet's La Jolie Fille de Perth. He was too obsessed by another jolie fille.

Using the opera glasses, he turned his gaze away from the stage and back to Emily. She was wearing

the soft shade of rose so complimentary to her coloring; her curls had been caught up in a loose topknot.

Justin adjusted the glasses. A furious breath escaped him as a blazing shock of red hair came into focus. Who else could that be but Richard "Dick" Claiborne slobbering all over her bared shoulder? Someone passed in front of them. He leaned over the balcony, craning his neck. A fat eyeball filled his vision.

He slowly lowered the glasses. The gentleman in the next box was glaring at him. "The stage is that

way," he said gruffly, pointing.

Nodding a curt apology, Justin ducked back into his seat. The door to the box opened, sweeping in the unmistakable scent of lavender.

Suzanne's husky whisper raked over him. "Do you mind if my husband and I share your box? It seems ours has been seized by my visiting cousin and his family."

Without waiting for an invitation, his ex-fiancée claimed the seat next to his while her husband settled in the back of the box. "Deplorable stuff, opera," he grumbled. "Don't know what the women see in it."

Justin grunted an agreement, too distracted to defend his fondest passion. Within minutes the dapper

little man was snoring. Justin cast Suzanne a wry glance, wondering if she was remembering their last disastrous night at the opera when she'd called him a foolish bastard for turning his back on his inheritance.

He shifted in his seat. Studied his program. Drummed his fingernails against the balcony railing. When

he could no longer resist, he jerked up the opera glasses and trained them on Emily's box. Suzanne

leaned curiously over his shoulder, enveloping him in her perfume. Justin found himself staring down

the twin barrels of another pair of opera glasses.

He started. Emily was watching him. As she realized she'd been caught, she dropped the glasses in her

lap and stared fixedly at the stage as if entranced by the trilling vibrato of the plump prima donna. Justin lowered his own glasses, feeling a slow smile spread across his face. He leaned back and dropped a

casual arm over the back of Suzanne's chair.

"I can't see," Millicent whined.

"It's opera, Millie," he said. "You don't have to see. Just listen."

He dared a glance from the corner of his eye. Emily was watching them again. He tilted his head toward Suzanne as if sharing the most intimate of confidences.

As act one approached its majestic climax, there was a stir in Emily's box. Justin snatched up the glasses. Several of the young people were sneaking past the drowsing countess, probably off to seek the more invigorating and forbidden entertainment of the music halls. Emily and Claiborne were left quite alone

in the front row.

Justin stood, ignoring his sisters' protests. The soprano's aria soared, rattling the crystal drops of the chandeliers. Justin's fingers bit into the pearl casing of the glasses as he watched Claiborne loom over Emily. She whacked him with her fan. Undaunted, he grabbed her around her slender waist and planted

a sloppy kiss on her neck.

The soprano drew in a breath, and in that perfect lull of silence between one note and the next, Justin slammed down the opera glasses and shouted, "Dammit to bloody hell! I've had enough!"

Chapter 26

Every eye in the opera house turned to Justin, even the shocked prima donna's. Her plump chin

quivered. The tenor quickly cut in, his magnificent voice wavering as he sped through the music to

bring the rattled company to the haven of intermission. The audience was more fascinated by the scandalous performance of the Duke of Winthrop.

The curtain began to unfurl. Penfeld lunged for the tails of his master's coat too late as Justin vaulted

over the rail and swung into the box below. The audience gasped, then began to pour out of their own seats, not wanting to miss a moment of the delightful spectacle.

Justin sped down the wide marble steps that led to the lobby, ignoring the crowds streaming around him. Towering columns limited his vision, but his gaze found Emily as unerringly as if she'd been the only woman in the room.

His voice rang out, echoing back from the vaulted ceiling. "Emily!"

The excited chatter faded to a breathless murmur.

Emily kept walking, her delicate slippers and narrow train forcing her into tiny, mincing steps. The

crowd cleared a wide .wath between them, recoiling from Justin's long, dangerous strides. He caught

up with her easily.

He fell into step behind her. "Get your cape. We're going home."

"You're insane. I'm not going anywhere with you."

"I said, get your cape," he thundered.

The crowd fell into dead silence.

Emily whirled around, her dark eyes flashing. "And what if I don't?" Her tongue darted out to moisten

her parted lips. "What are you going to do? Spank me?"

Swishing her skirt defiantly, she turned and marched away. Justin stood unmoving for a moment, then closed the distance between them in two furious strides. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around, jerking her against him.

A shadow of his New Zealand accent touched his speech, his low, flat words meant only for her.

"We're going home. Now, you can walk or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you. It makes

no difference to me."

Emily went dead white except for the furious splotches of color in her cheeks. Her bosom heaved with impotent rage, but something in his eyes must have warned her he wasn't bluffing. She lowered her gaze to his buttons, her lips tightened in mutinous rebellion.

"Sir, your cloak!" Penfeld tossed the garment.

Justin caught it in one hand and threw it over Emily's shoulders. Two footmen swept open the double

gilt doors, letting in a blast of bitter cold. As the duke ushered his young charge into the night, the lobby

of the opera house erupted in a scandalized roar.

* * *

A light snow had begun to fall. It dusted Justin's hair as he handed Emily into the waiting carriage. She threw herself into the broad seat opposite him and slumped into a sullen knot. She shoved his opera

cloak from her shoulders, finding its rugged warmth offensive. It smelled warm and spicy, like Justin's bay rum. Like his bare skin heated by an island sun. A stray tendril of hair flopped out of her topknot;

she irritably raked it away.

The carriage lurched into motion. They rode in dead silence. Emily stared at the curtained window.

Justin stared at her. She could feel the condemning heat of his gaze.

The confines of the carriage seemed to grow smaller with each turn of the wheels. They were cordoned off from the winter night by the cozy glow of the lantern and the warmth wafting from the coal footstove. Justin seemed bigger somehow, more overwhelming. His arms were crossed over his chest, his long legs relaxed in an arrogant sprawl. Her senses were enveloped by the sound of his breathing, his heat, his masculine scent. An arc of tension sizzled between them.

When she could no longer bear the silence, she said, "Doesn't it concern you that half of London thinks you a madman?"

His eyes flicked over her like tawny flames. "Better than having them think you a shameless trollop."

She gasped, stinging from the unfair cut. "What's wrong, Justin? Does it gall you because a man found

me attractive? Because he dared to treat me as a woman, not a child?"

He snorted. "I'd hardly call that freckled toad a man."

"As avidly as you were watching us, you probably counted every one of those freckles. Wasn't your

own trollop holding your interest, or are you one of those debauched men who gets his thrills by spying on others?"

His eyes darkened. "What are they teaching at Foxworth's these days-de Sade? Your education has been quite extensive, my dear."

"Not as extensive as yours, I'm sure."

He spoke through gritted teeth. "When we get to the house, you will go directly to your room. I will no longer tolerate your insolence."

Her voice rose to a shout. "You can't tell me what to do. You're nor my father!"

Her words hung in the air. Justin went utterly still. A thoughtful glint appeared in his eyes. Then a smile

of profound wonder slanted his lips. "Why, I'll be damned. I'm not, am I?"

Then he was on her. He came across the carriage with the grace of a lunging tiger, bearing her back into the plush cushion. His mouth came down on hers in an unholy surrender to a dark and sweet temptation. His tongue savaged her mouth even as his hand reached up with cool calculation to extinguish the lamp, leaving Emily to drown in his taste, his fragrance, the feel of his hands hot and rough against the bare

skin of her shoulders. The darkness rendered him a dangerous stranger. His touch consumed her in

flame. She couldn't fight him. She could only cling to him, bunching the fine broadcloth of his coat in

her helpless fists.

Not only did she no longer know him. She no longer knew herself. Who was this wanton who moaned and tugged at the dusky silk of his hair, drawing him deeper into her kiss? Their bodies slid against the lush velvet, gliding downward, ever downward, into forbidden delight.

He muttered soft, rough words against her lips. His hands reached for her skirt, too fervent in their need to be anything but clumsy. She lifted her hips to help him until she lay beneath him, her dress bunched around her waist, thighs parted, garters and stockings sprawled in wanton abandon. A word that might have been either prayer or oath escaped him as he molded the damp cambric of her drawers to the silky mound beneath.

When his beautiful, strong fingers slipped beneath the fabric to touch her, Emily, who had so long prided herself on her fierce independence, hid her face in his shirt, unable to face the terrifying knowledge that there was nothing she wouldn't let this man do to her. Nothing.

Pleasure ribboned through her in dark cascades as he gently fingered her throbbing flesh, all of his haste and clumsiness vanquished by wonder and grace. Too soon she felt the first shiver of ecstasy approaching through the darkness. A soft cry escaped her as he brought her to a sweet, fierce climax that shattered them both.

For an eternity there was no sound within the carriage but the hoarse rasp of their breathing in the darkness. Slowly, other sensations came into play: the rocking motion of the carriage, the clatter of the wheels against cobblestones, the jingle of the harness ringing like a bell in the crisp winter air.

The bitter wine of guilt poured through Justin. Emily nestled into his chest like some small, fragile creature, kneading his waistcoat between her fingers. He had never meant to humble her, but to exalt her with his touch. A latent tremor rocked her, and he cupped his arm around her, beset by a fierce desire to protect what was his.

Take care of my little angel, Justin. Swear you will.

Even the memory of David's charge wasn't enough to stanch the fire flaming in his belly. She was as trusting as a kitten in his arms. How easy it would be to slide her drawers down over her knees. To part her gartered thighs and undo the buttons of his trousers, freeing that part of him that ached to take her

like the most common of whores on the seat of his carriage. He sensed that she wouldn't stop him until he'd plunged them both into the abyss of their own erotic destruction.

Emily's eyes fluttered open. Even in the darkness they had a luminous shine. "Was that in lieu of a spanking, or are you going to spank me later?"

A choked laugh escaped him. He raked a desperate hand through his hair. "Was I so harsh on you?"

"Monstrous," she whispered. "I shall take care to misbehave with far greater regularity."

"I don't believe my poor heart could stand it."

It wasn't his heart stiffening in protest as he reached down with shaking hands and drew his cloak over her. He didn't trust himself to smooth her stockings, tighten her lacy garters, or draw her skirt down to cover the pliant sprawl of her thighs. He didn't even trust himself to look at her.

He sank back into his seat and whipped back the window curtain to stare into the wintry night. A row

of elegant shops glided past. A frail finger of moonlight pierced the snow clouds.

Emily sat up, hugging his cloak around her. Her topknot of curls drooped over her brow. She blew them out of her eyes. "Perhaps Tansy was remiss in the more sordid aspects of my education, but I was under the impression that there was more." Her shy gaze flicked to his lap, then back to his face. "Much more."

Justin realized then that the walls he might build between them with propriety or excuses were flimsy structures, easily torn by his selfish passions. If he stayed, he would be forced to erect the one barrier he could never scale-Emily's hatred. And he would rather never see her again than to see her look at him with loathing for the terrible act he had once committed in a moment of desperation.

He knew of no other way to say the words than harshly and cleanly. "It was a mistake to stay here. I should have returned to New Zealand as soon as I found you."

A tremulous cry of joy broke from her lips. "We were very happy there, weren't we? I know we can be happy again. I can't wait to see Trini's face when he sees we've come back together. And Dani-"

"I'm going back alone."

The carriage slowed as they reached the congested traffic of Oxford Street. Justin heard the driver spit

out a foul oath as he vied with a crowded omnibus for a space in the narrow lanes.

"Why?" she whispered.

"The natives need me." The words sounded hollow, even to him.

She knelt on the floor between his legs. The cloak slid from her shoulders, baring their alabaster smoothness. Her imploring gaze searched his face. "But what do you need, Justin?"

Driven to desperation by her nearness, he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her up against

him, molding her ruthlessly to his arousal. "This," he said hoarsely. "This is what I need."

She refused to be daunted by his crudity. A sad, sweet smile touched her lips. "For a handful of coins

you can find that in the arms of any stranger." She gently drew her fingers along his cheek. "What of tenderness, Justin? What of love?"

A groan caught in his throat. Her passion and courage stunned him. As badly as he wanted her, he couldn't allow her to give him what he would never be worthy of.

He gently fastened the cloak beneath her trembling chin. "You once said it better than I ever could.

I have no right."

"No right to what, Justin? No right to happiness?"

He turned back to the window, despising the cold man he saw reflected in the thick glass.

Emily sat back in her seat, her eyes sparkling dangerously. "So you're going back to New Zealand. And I'm to stay at Grymwilde and live off your charity."

"It's not charity. I owe you."

"For what? For killing my father?"

His gut spasmed as if she'd plunged a red-hot knife into it. He stared at her.

"I know you blame yourself," she said. "It was you and your smooth friend Nicky who talked him into investing my mother's inheritance in your little venture. But Daddy was always a bit of a dreamer. He

was convinced his rainbow was right around the next corner. If it hadn't been gold, it would have been African diamonds or Indian rubber seeds. It's not your fault he went and got his fool self killed."

Justin closed his eyes, regretting that she could never give him the one thing he truly needed-absolution.

Sarcasm ripened in her voice. "I have a bright future ahead of me, don't I? Moldering in that house with Lily, Millie, and Edith. Marrying some insipid boob named Horatio or Humphrey who wears a tasseled nightcap to bed."

He forced his voice into a low and passionless tone. "Shall I paint another portrait of your future for you? Shall I take you home right now and bed you? Of course, you'd have to be up by dawn to pack your things because it wouldn't do to have my mistress lodged in the same house with reputable women like my mother and sisters." He steeled himself as she blanched. "Is that what you want? To live as I have? As an outcast? Shall I ruin you tonight for any other man?"

"You already have," she cried. She bowed her head, struggling for composure. Tears trembled on her silky lashes, betraying the terrible cost of her whispered words. "You don't have to make me your mistress. You could make me your wife."

Justin knew she would choke on that tender plea if she knew the truth. His silence damned them both. Watching the darkness cloud her eyes was like watching his own dreams wither in a poisonous blast of gunpowder.

"Damn your charity to hell, Justin Connor. I won't be left behind again. If anyone leaves this time, it'll

be me."

Before he realized what she was going to do, she threw his cloak in his face and lunged for the door handle. He shoved away the enveloping folds, but it was too late. A blast of icy air struck his face. Emily spilled from the moving carriage in a pool of rose, then took off, running, darting between the hansom cabs and carriages with the feline grace of a street urchin.

Justin jumped from the carriage after her, hearing behind him a startled "Whoa!" from his driver. He lunged in front of a public coach, fighting to keep Emily in his sight among the churning chaos. The theaters and opera houses were just letting out, and lacquered carriages were pouring onto the thoroughfare in a steady stream.

"Watch yer step, guv'nor! Comin' through!" boomed a hearty voice. Warning given, the burly omnibus driver raised his whip and gave his straining team a brutal lick.

The horses lurched forward. The iron-shod hooves bore down on Justin. He leaped backward to avoid being crushed. As the vehicle thundered past, the conductor mockingly tipped his hat to the cursing drivers of a hansom cab and brougham struggling to calm their fren2ied horses.

Justin's gaze frantically searched the fray. Emily was nowhere to be seen. He swore. Emily was a

bigger fool than he if she thought he was going to let her disappear from his life again. Icy flecks of

snow cut his cheeks. Dodging hacks and carriages, he loped to the end of the street. Drawn by a

smudge of pink against the cobblestones, he slowed and bent to examine it.

It was a single rose-colored slipper, crushed flat by the massive wheels of the omnibus.

* * *

Mrs. Rose's parlor on a snowy winter night was a warm and congenial place to be. The satisfying of

men was both her livelihood and her pleasure. Her parlor resembled less a bordello than a cheery home, for the crafty madam wisely realized the gentlemen who frequented her establishment came for both much more and much less than the easing of their physical needs.

They came to loosen their ties, pull off their heavy coats, and recline in overstuffed chairs. They came

to prop their stockinged feet on ottomans and smoke the pipes and cigars their wives would allow them only in the most obscure corners of their own homes. Most of all, they came to hear the pretty girls

laugh at their jokes and make them feel young and handsome again.

The peaceful lull that had descended over the parlor this Friday night didn't concern Mrs. Rose or any

of her girls. They knew both the parlor and the bedrooms upstairs would fill to overflowing after the gentlemen of the theater crowd escorted their wives home for the night.

A haze of smoke hung over the room. A portly gentleman rested before the fire, reading the Times

while Mrs. Rose massaged his toes. A swarthy man reclined on the settee, nursing a cognac and

absently fondling the woman on his lap. A girl in a diaphanous robe sat alone at the piano, lazily picking out the notes of Beautiful Dreamer.

The front door flew open. A blast of icy wind and swirling snow rushed into the parlor.

"Shut the bloomin' door. It's bloody freezin' out there," yelled the girl at the piano.

When the door didn't close, they all looked up to find a bedraggled creature standing on the stoop, barefoot and shivering in a thin silk evening gown. She wore no cloak or cape. Snow frosted her

tangled hair.

"Good Lord, what happened to the poor child?" shouted the portly gentleman.

"Has she been attacked?" cried out the girl on the piano bench. To Mrs. Rose's girls, no crime was

more heinous than that of rape. Why would any man take from the unwilling what they so willingly provided?

"Somebody fetch a blanket," Mrs. Rose commanded.

The dark-eyed man on the settee extracted his elegant fingers from beneath his companion's skirt and pushed her off his lap. "Why, look what the cat dragged in!"

"What, darling?"

"Never mind. You just run along." He softened his command by giving the whore's rump a fond pinch.

He rose and started forward, pulling off his immaculate jacket, but before he could reach the trembling girl, another woman came down the stairs, twined around a skinny stripling whose face was flushed

with a sated glow.

As she unpeeled herself from her most recent customer, her round blue eyes widened. "Holy Christ, Em?" she breathed. "Is that you?"

"Oh, Tansy," came the answering wail as the pathetic creature flung herself across the room into the whore's arms.

The man melted back into the shadows. A sneer touched his lips as he watched the tender reunion. He shook a cigarette out of his gold case and lit it. He inhaled deeply, savoring the lazy furl of the smoke through his lungs. There was no need for careless haste to spoil his plans, he reminded himself. Dead

men had all the time they needed.

Chapter 27

Justin stood on the deserted street, staring up at the stone edifice of the school. Why did his weary

steps always lead him here? In the gray light of dawn the old building looked sad, its polished edges

dulled by bleak neglect. Some things remained the same since his last visit-the paint peeling from the shutters, the rust caking the wrought-iron balusters. But other things had changed. The downstairs windows had been boarded shut, giving the house an abandoned air. The darkened squares of the

upstairs windows surveyed him with drowsy indifference. Against his will his gaze flicked upward to the attic windows. They were all broken now, and as he watched, a pigeon hopped out and winged its way into the morning sky.

Justin climbed the stairs to the front door, his boots breaking the thin crust of snow. The snow had stopped near midnight, leaving London frosted in a brittle cloak swirled by icy gusts. Justin had long

ago gone too numb to feel its bite.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and pounded on the door. The sound reverberated with a hollow ring that only fueled his despair. Still, he didn't stop.

"Jesus bloody Christ!" came the bellow from the connecting house. "Quit your banging, ya fool. Can't

a God-fearin' man get a decent night's rest?"

Justin ignored it. He pounded until his raw knuckles began to bleed. His arms fell limp at his sides. He turned his collar up and started to turn away.

The door slowly creaked open. A gaunt face appeared in the darkened crack. A chill shot down Justin's spine. At first he thought it was Miss Winters beneath the dingy ruffles of the mobcap, but then he realized it was her young teacher, Doreen. The girl had aged twenty years since he had seen her last.

"Where is your mistress?" he asked hoarsely. "I must speak with her."

"She's gone. Gone like all the rest." Doreen's voice was as flat as a wraith's. She tried to close the door, but Justin jammed his foot in it. She stared up at his face, then her eyes came to life in a blaze of spirit. "Ye're the one, ain't ya? Ye're the golden-eyed devil wot drove 'em all away!"

Ignoring the protesting rasp of his throat, Justin deepened his voice, hoping he might break her with the sheer force of his will. "I must see your mistress. It's imperative. Where might I find her?"

"She's gone to an 'ome fer other broken-down old women. She didn't even fight 'em when they come to take 'er away. Ya took all the fight out of 'er with yer bloody rumors and insinuations. Ain't a decent family in London would 'ave trusted their brat to 'er care after ya poisoned their minds against 'er." Her pinched nose reddened. "Miss Amelia always took care 'o me, even to the end. Left me this fine 'ouse, she did."

Justin knew the house had seen the end of its finer days. It would be nothing but a crumbling albatross around its owner's neck. He raked a hand through his hair, torn between pity and frustration. "Perhaps you can help me. Have you seen Emily Scarborough?"

Doreen's face twisted. Justin was tempted to recoil from its pure malevolence. "Emily Scarborough!"

she spat out. "She's the one wot started all this. I always knew she'd be the death of us all. The only

place I 'opes to see the little bitch is burnin' in 'ell!"

She tried to slam the door in his face. Justin caught her shoulders and pulled her out, pinning her against the iron railing of the stoop. Her nightdress whipped in the wind. "You're the one who threw her off the boat, aren't you? Yes, I see you are. She told me all about it. So unless you want me to fetch the police and bring you up on charges of attempted murder, I suggest you answer my questions."

Doreen's freckles stood out in sharp relief against her pallor. Justin could smell the fetid odor of sleep

and fear on her breath. Exhaustion was making him reckless. He gave her a hard shake, eliciting a

sullen whimper.

"I ain't seen the wench. Not since the day we give 'er to you."

Even though he had expected it, the disappointment was grueling. His mind raced. Who in London

would Emily turn to? "What of the other girl? The maid you called Tansy? Do you know what's

become of her?"

Doreen licked her thin lips with lascivious malice. "That I do. She's gone on to her natural callin'.

Servian' the young swells for some highfalutin madam."

"What house?"

"I don't know."

Justin's spirits plunged further. Could his own rejection have caused Emily to rush headlong into the

arms of another man? His grip loosened.

Doreen took advantage of his divided attention to twist away and dart back into the house. The door slammed, and he heard the sharp crack of the bolt being rammed home.

Certain she was lying, he lifted his fist, determined to break the door down if he had to. His hand slowly fell. He would be of no good to Emily if he ended up in jail for murder.

Turning his collar up against the cold, he started down the street, his steps driven by desperate purpose.

* * *

"Well, wot do ya think of it? It does ya real fine, don't it?"

Emily ran a tentative finger beneath her eye, smearing the thick kohl. "I look like one of those American raccoons."

Sighing, Tansy spit on a handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. Emily squirmed away, but Tansy

grabbed a fat ringlet and held her still. "There now. Keep yer 'ands away from yer face or we'll 'ave

to do it all again."

Emily gazed dourly at herself in the mirror. "I hate ruffles." She cast Tansy's reflection a pleading look. "Couldn't I be something more exotic? A Nubian princess? Or perhaps a harem girl?"

"Ye're a trifle light fer a Nubian, and Peggy's been promised the 'arem costume this week." Tansy gave her cheek a fond tweak. "Stop frettin'. Mrs. Rose says a ruffled little schoolgirl is every gent's dream."

Every gent but one, Emily thought grimly. She swallowed hard. "Who am I to argue with Mrs. Rose?"

Who was she, indeed? Last night the buxom mistress of the establishment had welcomed her in from

the storm as if she were a long lost daughter. She had dried her tears, tucked her into Tansy's bed, smothered her under a thick quilt, and coddled her with a devotion that made even Penfeld seem the

soul of cold neglect.

Tansy smoothed circles of rouge on her cheeks. When a door slammed in the next room, Emily started, shooting a streak of pink up to her temples. A female giggle was followed by a throaty grunt and then

by a rhythmic creaking that made the far wall shudder. Their gazes met in the mirror.

"Oh, no," Tansy groaned. "There ye go again. I keep puttin' pink in yer cheeks and it just keeps drainin' away."

She rested her hands lightly on Emily's shoulders. "Are ya sure this is what ya want, Em? It ain't too

late to turn back. '

Was it what she wanted? To be finally free? To pay her rent and board to Mrs. Rose out of her own pocket and not be dependent on someone else's charity? To never be beholden to any man-especially not Justin Connor? Even Penfeld had done what he had to do to win his independence from a life he no longer found tolerable. Surely she could find within her that much courage. Tansy was wrong. It had

been too late to turn back from the first moment she had laid eyes on her guardian.

From the next room came a guttural groan, then silence. The wall stopped rocking. Emily pressed her eyes shut. When she opened them, they had darkened to bitter sable. "I'm ready."

A fist slammed into the closed door. Emily jumped so high, she almost fell off the stool.

"Gor blimey, keep yer bloomin' drawers on," Tansy called out, pulling a ceramic chamber pot from a cupboard.

As she swung open the door, a disgruntled male voice rang out. '"Ell, Tansy, not again. Why can't ya

use the water closet like everybody else? Or are ya flat on yer back in bed too much?"

The open door blocked Emily's view, but she would have known that raspy voice anywhere. She lifted the skirts of the dressing table, searching for a place to hide.

Tansy cocked back the pot. "Empty it or wear it, Barney."

A wiry arm shot out to relieve her of her burden. "Damned uppity whore," he muttered. "Costs me a week's wages to get what I used to get fer free in the linen closet at Foxworth's."

Taunting him with a smile that would have melted an ice sculpture, Tansy lifted her shapely leg and rubbed it along the door facing. "But ya still pay, don't ya? '

Her provocative action sent the door swinging open, and Emily found herself staring into Barney Dobbins's greedy little pig eyes.

His mouth dropped open. The chamber pot tilted dangerously. "Hey! Wot's she doin' 'ere?"

Tansy gave his bony chest a shove. "Don't worry about it. It'd cost more than you've got."

He wiped his moist lips with the back of his hand. Emily shuddered. "Don't count on it," he said.

"I'll start savin' me pennies now. I've wanted a taste o' that fer a long, long time."

Tansy slammed the door in his leering face.

Emily clapped a hand over her mouth. The enormity of what she was about to do rolled over her in

dull waves of panic. But it was too late. Tansy was already powdering her nose, guiding her out the

door, shoving something into her hand.

Dazed, she looked down to discover she was holding a sugared pink lollipop. "What am I supposed

to do with this?" she asked, baffled.

Tansy gave her a gentle push toward the stairs. "Why lick it, of course!"

* * *

When Justin returned to Grymwilde late that night, all the lamps except for those in the parlor had been extinguished. He turned instinctively toward the gentle glow, knowing his family's comfort was better

than none.

None of them dared to speak as he threw himself into an upholstered chair and rubbed his bristled jaw.

His mother's needle flicked calmly through the flowered fire screen she was embroidering. "Unless you acquired some peculiar tastes in cologne in New Zealand, son, I would venture to say you smell like a house of ill repute."

"As would you if you'd visited every brothel in London in the past twelve hours."

"My goodness," she said dryly. "Such stamina."

Lily and Millicent blushed like twin roses. Edith buried her nose deeper in her novel.

Justin shot her a dark look. "Perhaps we should discuss this in private."

The duchess only smiled benignly. "Your sisters are married, aren't they? If they don't wish to hear what I have to say, they can join their husbands in their respective beds." She laid her embroidery across her knees and looked at Justin squarely. "I'm more interested in why you think your ward might have taken up such an unsavory occupation. Did she perhaps have a little nudge in that direction?"

Justin was shocked by his mother's frankness. All the spirit and fire she had banked for years flickered in her gray eyes. They must have been startlingly pretty in their day, he realized, like misty bits of smoked glass. His guilty soul could not bear their scrutiny.

He rose and paced to the hearth. A rumpled, hollow-eyed stranger stared back at him from the chimney glass. "I didn't touch her." He dropped his head, despising the lie. "I didn't compromise her," he amended.

"Perhaps you should have," his mother pronounced. "Then she might not have run away."

Justin swung around, wide-eyed, but his mother had returned to her embroidery. In the awkward silence Lily began to sing under her breath, some ridiculous tune about bees flitting from bloom to bloom.

Justin's raw temper snapped. He turned on her. "Would you stop that infernal squawking!"

Lily flinched. "So sorry. All of this talk of lewd pursuits put me in mind of Mrs. Rose's garden in Mayfair."

Justin failed to see how lewd pursuits related to some matron's garden in the fashionable district of Mayfair.

His mother nodded sagely. "Quite an establishment. Caters only to the carriage set-the creme de la creme of society."

Realization slowly dawned on Justin. "There's a bordello in Mayfair? How would you know of it?"

His mother blinked up at him. "Why, your father frequented it. Only on Fridays, of course. Saturdays

he saved for me."

A wild song of hope sang through Justin's heart. He snatched up Lily and kissed her full on the mouth. "Thank you, you witless little darling. If I find her, I swear I'll make Herbert secretary-general of Winthrop's." He dropped her back in her chair and dashed for the door.

"That's all very nice for Millicent," Lily called after him. "But what about my Harvey?"

* * *

Emily's fingers bit into the slick wood of the banister as she crept downstairs behind Tansy. Mrs. Rose's drawing room appeared far more crowded than it had last night. Masculine laughter mingled with the rich ripple of female conversation. A girl garbed in a canary-yellow ballet costume was twirling around the piano to the improbable strains of a Bach aria. Emily's eyes watered from the thin haze of smoke that veiled the room. Cutting through the smoke was the sickly sweet aroma of too many perfumes. A kissing couple on their way up the stairs brushed past them.

Two burly footmen flanked the front door, their battered, scarred visages looking incongruous beneath their powdered wigs. Tansy had assured her Mrs. Rose never dealt in "rough trade." With those two bulldogs guarding her gate, Emily could see why.

Emily froze as her gaze fell on a dark-eyed man leaning against the black marble mantel. She tugged the back of Tansy's skirt, bringing her to an abrupt halt. "I know that man. I met him in the park. Who is he?"

Tansy whispered. '"E's fabulous rich, that one. Some say a millionaire." Her pretty features took on a hard set, giving Emily a frightening glimpse of what she might look like after a few years of this life.

"But I can tell ya from experience 'e's got lots o' clever uses fer them pretty silk ties 'e wears-none of 'em decent. Stay away from 'im. 'E's more than ya can 'andle right now."

Emily suspected the grizzled old man dozing in Mrs. Rose's lap was more than she could handle. Her spirits plummeted as Tansy gave her a comforting wink and slipped away, leaving her to fend for herself.

She sank onto a settee in the shadow of the stairs and gave her lollipop a nervous lick. The virginal white of her skirt floated around her ankles in a diaphanous cloud so sheer she could see the shadow of her lace garters holding up her silk stockings. Flat white slippers adorned her feet. Dear Lord, what would her daddy say if he could see her now? Perhaps if she sat very still, no one would notice her.

Her hopes died as a portly gentleman sauntered over. He peered at her through an antique quizzing glass, his gaze lingering at her ruffled bosom. "My, my, what a precious little gel you are," he boomed out. "Would you like to sit on Uncle George's lap?"

Emily sucked noisily on her lollipop to keep from replying. She realized that was a mistake as his rapt gaze traced the shape of her lips cradling the hard, sugary candy. "Shy, are you? How delightful! Your uncle George loves shy little gels." Tittering, he tried to shove his bulk onto the settee beside her. "Scoot over and make room, won't you? I shouldn't wish to spank you for being ill mannered."

"Sorry, Uncle, this seat is taken." The voice was smooth and cold, like velvet ice. Emily looked up as

the shadow of the dark-eyed stranger she had met in the park fell over them.

Uncle George drew himself to his full height, huffing and puffing in protest. With taunting grace the stranger reached out and struck a match off the brass button of George's waistcoat. As he touched it to the tip of his cigarette, the dancing flame caressed the ruthless planes of his face.

"Well, I never . . ." Obviously deciding a hasty retreat might be in order, Uncle George trailed after a girl dressed as Queen Victoria, muttering something about his crown jewels.

The stranger propped his foot on the settee. The impeccable cut of his trousers hugged his long, elegant leg. Cocking an eyebrow, he offered Emily the cigarette. Shaken by her narrow escape from the jovial George, she snatched it and took a deep drag.

A paroxysm of coughing seized her. The man slapped her on the back. "Sorry. Turkish tobacco. Strong stuff. I should have warned you." He pried the cigarette from her shaking fingers, brought it to his lips, and inhaled deeply. Emily blinked away the burning tears, still wheezing. "You seem destined to rescue me, sir."

A smile played around his thin lips as if he were savoring some small, private joke. "I do, don't I?" His eyes flicked over her like hypnotic flames. "It seems you've become a bit more lost since our last encounter, cara mia." Her faint shiver at his endearment was not lost on him. "I fear you are correct,"

she agreed glumly.

The woman at the piano lurched into a new tune. The man dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out on

the Oriental carpet with his heel. "I despise Chopin. Why don't we retire upstairs, where we can talk without the burden of his tiresome romanticism?"

Emily eyed the silk folds of his tie nervously, remembering Tansy's warning. She had no intention of being led to her ruin by this urbane stranger. She searched the crowd for Tansy, but found no glimpse

of her. The brawny men at the door looked more menacing now. Were they planted there to protect

Mrs. Rose's blossoms, or to pluck them if they threatened to wilt before blooming? Her safest bet

would be to escape without an obvious scuffle.

Her hesitation cost her dearly. The man pulled her to her feet, his grip around her wrist as resolute as a silken snare. Perhaps she should just tell him the truth.

She searched his face earnestly. "I can't go upstairs with you, sir. I'm afraid I've made a dreadful mistake."

His eyes glowed with an unholy light. "So have I, my dear. But I intend to remedy it very shortly."

Twisting out of his grasp, Emily broke away and darted down the nearest dim hallway. Before she

could go more than a few feet, Barney Dobbins stepped out of a shadowy doorway, blocking her only avenue of escape.

He bared his yellowed teeth in a leer. "Ye'd best run back to yer fine fellow, Em. I 'eard 'e 'as a nasty temper if crossed." He lowered his voice to a taunting whisper. "I know ye're eager, but I can wait.

I ain't too proud to mop up the leftovers from them fine gents. My turn'll come soon enough."

Trapped, Emily backed away, as near to swooning as she had ever been in her life. God only knew

what lurid things they might do to her if she fainted.

She backed into the stranger's arms. His elegant fingers closed around her throat, pressing gently against her throbbing pulse.

"Come with me, cara mia," he commanded. "You won't be sorry."

Emily was already sorry. She bowed her head, sorry she had shamed her father. Sorry Justin didn't

love her enough to marry her. Sorry she'd been such a fool as to believe selling her body wouldn't cost her her soul.

A sinister swirl of music, light, and laughter enveloped her as he drew her inexorably toward the stairs. Suddenly, the frenzied gaiety was marred by shouts and the sounds of struggle. Emily jerked her head

up just in time to see one of the guards go flying into a walnut occasional table, splintering it. He sat up, eyes crossed and wig hanging askew over one ear, then slumped back over, out cold.

Women screamed and several of the gentlemen tried to climb over each other in a rush for the back

door, fearing a constable's raid. She saw lascivious Uncle George crawling around on hands and knees, searching for his precious quizzing glass. It rolled under Emily's foot, and she gave it an unkind stomp.

Shouts rang out near the door. "Grab him!"

"Careful, he might be an opium user."

"He's quite mad! A bloody savage!"

A cold rush of air behind her warned Emily her debonair captor had fled. She lifted her skirts and

peered around wildly, planning to take advantage of the chaos to make her own escape.

At that moment a path parted through the jostling crowd, revealing the golden-eyed tiger clawing his

way through their midst.

Emily's heart leaped in her throat, and she went flying across the room to fling herself into the mad savage's arms.

Chapter 28

Emily snuffled into Justin's rumpled waistcoat. "Oh, Justin, it was awful!" she wailed. "Tansy made me wear this ridiculous dress, and there was this horrid man with the whitest, sharpest teeth you've ever

seen just like the Big Bad Wolf's and the most cleverly knotted tie. Better than Penfeld's even. And

then there was Barney lurking in doorways, waiting to jump out at me just like he did at Foxworth's,

and he said the most awful things."

Emily was too intent on gulping in the musky spice of Justin's scent to realize how strangely stiff he

stood in her embrace. Clutching his sleeves, she tilted her head and peered up at his face. It was set in lines of polished granite. She dropped her arms and backed away from him, more afraid than she'd been in the entire terrible night.

In grim silence he reached down, pried her lollipop off his sleeve, and thrust the fuzzy offender into her hand. He wouldn't even look at her. His eyes were all for the buxom woman who came sauntering out

of the crowd.

Gone was the grandmotherly creature who had spooned warm broth down Emily's throat and bussed

her cheek good night. Mrs. Rose's ample curves undulated beneath the blush satin sheath of her dress. "You're that renegade duke, aren't you?" she drawled.

"Those damn ruffians have scuffled with a duke. Bloody hell, we're done for now," breathed one of

the women.

The guard who was still conscious awkwardly tried to brush off Justin's cloak. Justin shoved his hand away.

"Justin Marcus Homer Lloyd Farnsworth Connor . . . the third," he added, bowing and bringing

Mrs. Rose's hand to his lips. "At your service."

"I should be so lucky." She looked him up and down with the approving eye of a woman who has developed an appreciation for raw male beauty in all of its forms. "I once knew a Farnsworth Connor. But he always let me call him Frank. Among other things." She planted a hand on her hip. "I'm not

averse to a bit of brawling on a Saturday night, Your Grace, but perhaps I could interest you in some

of our more . . . delicate pleasures."

Justin finally looked at her then, but Emily wished he hadn't. She hardly recognized the man who swaggered toward her. The crowd melted back, leaving her to face him alone. He circled her leisurely,

his cloak swirling around his ankles. His hungry gaze devoured every inch of her. Her traitorous nipples tightened against the sheer material of her bodice, and a flush shot up her throat. She stared at the carpet, mortified. His blunt masculine scrutiny made her feel more like a whore than any of Barney's slurs.

He stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Emily shivered at the deft touch, but resisted the

lure of his stormy gaze.

His hand dropped to his side. "Little Bo Peep here will do just fine," he announced, all business again.

Her flush turned to one of anger. It was bad enough to be publicly humiliated. He didn't have to poke

fun at her silly costume.

Emily would never know if it was concern for her customer's satisfaction or a latent qualm of maternal conscience that forbade the throwing of lambs to lions, but Mrs. Rose bustled forward, clucking her disapproval. "Oh, no, she won't do at all. Far too young and raw for your seasoned palate, I'm sure. Perhaps one of my more refined lovelies …"

She dragged forward a girl draped in the gauzy veil of the harem and thrust her at him. The hapless

Peggy shrank back against her mistress, and Emily couldn't blame her. With his jaw unshaven, his hair tousled, and his eyes burning with contemptuous fire, Justin looked like the sort of heathen to debauch maidens with one hand while swilling down a tankard of virgin's blood with the other.

He looked Emily dead in the eye. "I want her."

Emily's knees quivered. Mrs. Rose harrumphed nervously and went in search of more tempting bait. "Why, here's my Solange, quite skilled in the Far Eastern art of- "

A fat purse of Persian leather clinked to the carpet at her feet. The madam bent and retrieved it, obviously intrigued by its rustle.

"A hundred pounds," Justin said coolly.

A gasp traveled around the parlor. Emily's suspicion that Mrs. Rose would sell her own daughter for a hundred pounds was strengthened as an avaricious smile curved the woman's lips.

She gave Emily an apologetic shrug. "Why don't you accompany His Grace upstairs, my dear? I do believe he's just the man to help you find your lost sheep."

Justin wasted no time. He swept her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

"Is the carriage outside? Are we going home now?" Emily asked hopefully, bobbing with each of his

purposeful strides. But those strides were carrying them not toward the door, but the stairs. She kicked and squirmed, but his muscular arm only tightened across her rump, holding her fast. "I don't want to

go back up there, Justin. Really I don't."

To her embarrassment, as they started up the stairs the crowd began to cheer and shout encouragement. Barney emerged from his rat hole and hooted, "Poke 'er once fer me, mate!"

Howling in outrage, Emily reached over the banister and slapped the lollipop in his greasy hair.

* * *

Emily bounced on Justin's back like a sack of meal. The muscled ridge of his shoulder cut off her

breath with each long stride.

"You . . . might . . . consider . . . putting . . . me . . . down," she gasped.

He ignored her. He paused at the first door they encountered and kicked it open, jarring Emily's entire body.

She heard an angry cry and a muffled squeak of protest.

"Sorry," he said, but his tone was unrepentant.

He swung away from the door without bothering to close it, treating Emily to a most sordid sight. She twisted her head to the left, then to the right, before slapping her hands over her eyes. "My goodness!

She must be frightfully agile, mustn't she? I saw something like that once in the circus."

Justin maintained his stony silence. His foot slammed into the next door. To Emily's distress, the room was unoccupied.

"I should really like to go home now," she said in a small voice.

He tossed her on the bed and strode back to bolt the door. She sat up and hugged her knees, curling into

a timid knot among the rumpled sheets. Stale perfume rose from their folds, and she tried not to think about what might have transpired there only moments earlier. A dank chill hung in the fireless room.

Justin whipped off his cloak and threw it over a chair, then turned to face her. Emily realized she had seen him angry before, but never so coldly furious.

He raked a hand through his hair. "I haven't slept for over thirty-six hours. I've spent the last twelve of those combing every lice-infested claphouse in London for you." A single word shot from his lips. "Why?"

She bowed her head, struggling to gather the threads of her pride, sensing she might need them. When

she lifted her head, her eyes were dry, her voice calm. "I no longer wished to be a burden to you. I wanted my freedom."

"Freedom?" His voice cracked on a disbelieving note. He crossed to the bed and snatched her up by the shoulders. "Is this what you call freedom? Spreading your legs for any man willing to lay down his coin?" His eyes blazed, giving her a harrowing glimpse of the raw hurt fueling his anger.

An uncontrollable shaking seized her. She couldn't look him in the eye.

He lowered her. "Fine," he said with glacial calm. "I've paid my coin."

He dragged off his tie and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

Emily scrambled back against the headboard. "Not you?" she whispered, horror-struck.

He stood with legs planted firmly apart, his fists resting on his narrow hips. "Any man but me, eh?

How gratifying. Didn't Mrs. Rose teach you to flatter your clients, not unman them?"

Emily could tell by the precise cut of Justin's broadcloth trousers that he was in no danger of being unmanned.

He strode to the bed and cupped her head in his palm. His long fingers tangled in her curls in a travesty

of tenderness. "Sorry, darling, but whores don't have the privilege of picking and choosing their liaisons. For a hundred pounds I'll expect a little enthusiasm." His lips came down on hers in a silken whisper. "Fake it if you must." Emily expected his kiss to be brutal, only to find it utterly ruthless in its gentleness. His mouth played over hers with merciless skill, teasing, tugging with his teeth, then laving her parted lips with his tongue, priming her for its deeper invasion. His was the kiss of the concubine, enslaving with its promise of erotic pleasures to come. It was a kiss to steal not only her body, but her soul as well. The first tear slipped from her lashes before he could pause to draw a breath.

* * *

He blew softly on her moistened lips. "Emily, sweet Emily," he whispered hoarsely. "You were made

for this, weren't you? Made to pleasure a man."

Not just any man, her heart cried. Only him. He slid his tongue between her lips, taking her mouth in deep possessive strokes as he eased her back on the bed. She felt herself sliding irrevocably beneath the lean, hard planes of his body. His hands glided down her sides, grazing the swell of her breasts, the slender dip of her waist. His palms cupped her rear, molding her for his pleasure, the sheer dress a gossamer web between them.

Emily felt herself losing to the consummate seduction of this cool, practiced stranger. Losing everything she had fought so hard to win. Her pride. Her independence. Even the anger that had kept the world at bay until she had washed up into Justin's waiting arms. She had outwitted the sea, only to find herself drowning in a deeper pool. She had leaned over to find her reflection in its still, cool depths and been dragged into a whirling maelstrom of passion. If she couldn't kick her way to the surface, she knew she would die a thousand shuddering deaths beneath his artful touch.

She tugged her mouth away from his. She was crying in earnest now, small convulsive sobs that

wouldn't stop. "Please, Justin. Not like this. '

"Shhh," he whispered. He gently stroked her breast, soothing her puckered nipple beneath his thumb.

His other hand wandered lower. "That's it, darling, open your legs for me. You're so sweet, Em. So

sweet and hot . . . and wet."

Her sob broke on a moan.

Justin smothered it with his lips, further beyond her reach than she realized. He had intended only to frighten her, to teach her a lesson. To show her she couldn't persist in her madcap schemes without suffering the consequences.

He had expected resistance to his crude assault. But when her soft, trembling lips had parted beneath his, he had become more lost than she. The lesson was out of his hands now. A primal lust overpowered

him. He had wanted her for so long . . . forever, it seemed.

Maddened by the promise of heaven cupped in his palm, he pressed his fingers deep inside of her, shamelessly ravishing her quivering warmth.

It was then that he realized how still she was lying beneath him. He lifted his head. She lay shivering,

her eyes shut, tears sparkling like gilt on her lashes. Dear God, she was going to allow him to do it, he thought. To take her in the punishing heat of anger. Her abject surrender was so alien to her proud

nature that he felt something inside of him twist in anguish.

Was it any wonder she was confused? One minute he was berating her like a child, the next fondling

her like a whore. He hadn't the courage to treat her like a woman because that might mean losing her forever.

Blood pounded through his groin in a primal protest, but he knew to take her now would somehow be

as cruel or cruder than rape.

She kept her eyes pressed shut as he wrapped his cloak around her and lifted her. Her arms crept around his neck with a lingering trust that reopened a raw wound in his heart. As Justin strode through the parlor with his burden, Mrs. Rose's clientele fell into an awed hush. Emily burrowed her face into his chest and he eased a fold of the cloak over her, shielding her from their stares and whispers. The footmen hastily stepped out of his way. Not a soul dared protest as he carried her into the sheltering darkness of the night.

* * *

Penfeld, God bless his proper English soul, didn't utter a word of reproach when his wild-eyed master came pounding on his bedroom door near midnight.

"Please," Justin said, holding out a warm, sleepy bundle. "Take her. '

The dire consequences of his refusal were clearly implied in Justin's gaze. Penfeld adjusted his nightcap, set his chimneyed candle on his washstand, and gently removed Emily from his arms. A corner of the cloak fell back to reveal an angelic countenance, marred by grubby tear stains.

As they disappeared down the shadowy corridor, Penfeld waddling in his long nightshirt, Justin sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. When the valet returned after tucking Emily into her bed, Justin was gone and the wild, wistful strains of Chopin's "Fantaisie-Impromptu" were pouring through the silent house.

Justin slammed the chord home, ignoring the unharmoni-ous groan of the piano. His fingers tore over the keys, no longer content to coax or cajole. They plundered each note, driving the music into the air with the force of a blow. The fine bones in his hands ached. Sweat trickled from his temples. But still he played on, fighting to drown his own wild despair in the crashing magnificence of the music.

He had thrown open a window, hoping the icy air might cool his fevered senses. The night was moonless. A single candle flickered on top of the piano, bathing him in a pool of fragile light. His battered fingers struck yet another blow, clumsy in their thwarted passion. The many faces of the women he had seen in that long day floated past him. Once he might have been the sort of man who could drown his desires in the perfumed arms of a stranger, but instinct warned him he needed far more than a shuddering spasm of relief to ease his longing for Emily. The music thundered to a crescendo. The shadows danced around him in macabre relief. In that half-beat of peace between one note and the next, he heard it-the faintest whisper of a sigh.

He was not alone.

His hands froze above the keys. Who in this household would be mad enough to approach him now?

The candle guttered in a gust of wind, and the shadows closed in with the silence. The harsh rasp of his breathing was the only sound.

He swung around on the bench.

Emily stood like a ghost in her long white nightdress, clutching her ragged old doll. Her feet were bare

and her cheeks still streaked with tear stains. A lump hardened in Justin's throat. She looked very young, like a child creeping downstairs in the night for a drink of water. But there was no denying her eyes were the eyes of a woman, darkened in some unspeakable plea.

His emotions choked him. Why couldn't he hold her? Why couldn't he draw her into his lap and gently cradle her head to his chest? Why couldn't he dry her tears on his shirt and promise her everything

would be all right?

Because it would be a lie. And he hadn't paid the price for his silence all these lonely years to start lying

to her now.

If he laid his hands on her, he wouldn't stop. The same hand that drew her into his lap would ease her nightdress up over her hips. The same lips that murmured soothing reassurances would cover hers as he laid her back on the piano, parted her ivory thighs, and drove himself home in her honeyed depths. He didn't dare touch her. He didn't dare even look at her.

He turned his face away, feeling his jaw stiffen as if it were set in granite. "Go back to bed, Emily," he commanded, hardly recognizing the hoarse voice as his own. "Now."

He felt her hesitancy, heard the soft shuffle of her bare feet on the rug. Damn her. Why couldn't she

ever do anything the first time she was asked?

Knowing he had no choice, he swallowed the ruins of his pride and leveled the full force of his raw gaze at her. "Go to your room and lock your door. Please."

Her lips trembled. A glistening tear slipped down her cheek, then another. The doll thumped to the

carpet as she turned and fled. The blackness of the house swallowed her without a trace.

"I'm sorry, Em. I'm so damned sorry," he whispered to the silent shadows.

His words were more heartfelt than she would ever know. He was sorry he had made her cry. Sorry David hadn't lived to introduce him to his spirited daughter. David had adored them both. Perhaps it wouldn't have been such a stretch to imagine him blessing their love.

But David had died, forever taking his blessing with him.

Justin picked up the doll and set her on the music stand. He smoothed her matted curls. "We're old friends, you and I, aren't we?"

The opaque blue eyes surveyed him without expression. He touched the piano, stroking first one key, then another, but the music had gone, leaving him in utter silence.

He rose and climbed the stairs, his tread heavy. His steps slowed outside of Emily's door. He heard nothing from within her room, no sniffing or broken weeping, only a whisper of silence more taunting than an invitation. He braced his brow against the door, choking back a groan. How long would it be before even locks would fail to keep him out? A week? A month? A year? Was he to betray David yet again by seducing his daughter? His hand clenched into a fist against the thick mahogany.

As he splayed his fingers to ease their tension, the door swung open without a sound.

Chapter 29

Hardly daring to breathe, Emily lay back on her pillows and watched the crack between door and frame slowly widen. A man appeared, his lean form silhouetted against the light from the corridor candles.

Time swung back to a barren attic room and a thousand other lonely nights. Her heart thundered. Her shadow lover had finally come to her as she had always known he would.

He closed the door behind him and twisted the key in the lock. The click of the tumbler echoed in the silence. He came toward the bed, measuring his steps as if drawn into a web he no longer had the will

to resist.

He braced his hands on each side of her head. His eyes asked the question her unlocked door had

already answered. "I've waited so long for you."

"Not nearly so long as I've waited for you," she said fiercely, entangling her fingers at his nape and

pulling him down to her.

Their lips met and mingled in sweet communion, soothed not by the salty balm of the sea, but by her tears. Justin traced the curves of her cheekbones with his thumbs. "No tears, angel. No tears tonight."

His mouth came down on hers to seal their vow. She clung to him as they rolled across the feather mattress, entangling the sheets around their limbs. A hoarse groan escaped Justin as he realized she was naked beneath him, just as she had been that night on the beach. They had wasted so much precious

time getting here from there. But this was no time for regrets.

Tonight he would bury his dark secrets in her tender body until there existed for them no past and no tomorrow. Only tonight. Only he and Emily, destined to love not in sunlight, but in the ebony cloak of night. His tongue flicked softly across her dimpled cheek. His lips grazed the curve of her jaw, then

glided downward to the milky smoothness of her throat.

Emily clawed open his buttons and ran her hands over his chest, marveling at the masculine mesh of

bone and muscle. She felt the flat disks of his nipples harden in response. Justin had breathed life into

the phantom who had once haunted her girlish dreams. She couldn't get enough of him. She wanted to feel the weight of him crushing her. She wanted to drink him in through her fingertips. She felt greedy

and selfish and fierce like a mewling baby tiger, blinded by the explosive light of its first sunrise. The

walls of her pride were crumbling beneath its heat.

She tugged at his hair, bringing his face to hers. Her voice broke on a whimper as she said the words she'd bitten back for so long. "Love me, Justin. Please."

He touched two fingers to her bottom lip. "You never have to beg me, Emily. Never."

Then he was sliding down on her into a darkness that heightened every sensation. His warm hands cupped her bottom, lifting and coaxing. A sudden burst of shyness made her clamp her thighs together.

He brushed his lips against her silky triangle of curls, then blew softly against the wet spot his mouth had made. His voice was a husky whisper, half command, half prayer. "Trust me."

He'd never before asked that of her. How could she deny him now? Her head fell back against the pillow and her legs went limp, giving him dominion over far more than her body. Moaning, she bunched the back of his shirt in her fists. He was her lover, both demon and angel, giving her ecstasy untold, burying his tongue in her velvety folds, flicking and stroking until her womb convulsed in an agony of pleasure. Before she could shatter the silence of the sleeping house with her cry, his lips were there, both shocking and intoxicating her with the taste of her own forbidden nectar.

The tiny hairs on the back of his hand tickled her naked belly as he tore open the buttons of his trousers. His intensity both excited and frightened her. She shuddered, realizing she was about to learn the full measure of this man's passion.

But her sweet torment at his hands had just begun. He slid his arm around her rump and lifted her to a half-sitting position against the headboard. His hands eased her thighs as far apart as they would go, exposing her fully. She felt terribly vulnerable and sinfully decadent. Even in the sheltering darkness she could feel her cheeks burn.

"Did I ever mention to you how very shy I am?" she whispered.

He touched her there, softly, eliciting a moan. "It was one of the first things I noticed about you."

"Really?"

She could hear the grin in his voice. "No."

A shudder of pleasure banished her shyness as he slid a finger from each hand up into her folds until

they found the silky little bud nestled beneath. At the same time, his thumbs began to circle the taut, distended satin of her flesh below, laving her, pearling the hot, thick honey around her melting core. Her world narrowed to pure sensation. An emptiness more gaping than any she had known yawned within her. Wild with need, she arched against him, pressing against his thumbs, wanting more, so much more.

Justin was half crazed from wanting her, but still he continued his exquisite torture. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he watched her face, entranced by the flickers of pleasure dancing across her features. She whimpered his name. Her teeth cut into the tender bud of her lower lip. Fighting for control, he clenched his jaw against the hoarse rasp of his own breathing. When he got to where he was going, he wanted her already there, waiting for him.

His deft fingers never ceased their maddening dance, not even when he rubbed the hard length of himself where his thumbs had been.

Emily gasped at the shock of it. Her eyes flew open. Justin's face, darkened by passion, was very near

to hers. His eyes sparkled as he pressed against her, sliding the very tip of himself into her, then withdrawing, taunting her with its promise. Both wonder and fear shook her as she realized his intent. When her first dark shiver of ecstasy came, this man was going to make her his own.

The flames of his fingertips licked her higher. His rigid manhood breached her again, probing gently,

then pulling back, maddening her into a frenzy with its deliberate teasing. She writhed against him. Her hands tangled in his hair. When he bent his head and took her breast into his mouth, first gently sucking, then tugging at her nipple with his teeth, Emily broke. Pleasure raked her in shuddering waves and Justin thrust up into her, hard.

Emily muffled her scream against his shoulder. The pain was no less phenomenal than the pleasure. As her untried body clamped down in protest, Justin threw back his head in masculine ecstasy and gritted

his teeth, pressing into her inch by unrelenting inch. Sweat sheened his chest.

She felt her tender flesh stretching to sheath him. Shamed by her inadequacy, her voice broke on a

groan. "I can't, Justin. Oh, God, you're too much. I can't take all of you."

Shifting her hips with his hands, he proved her wrong, driving upward until every throbbing inch of him was cloaked in the taut, velvety folds of her body. His lips caught her cry, drowning it in his own.

This wasn't the way Justin had planned it-panting, half undressed, pinioning Emily against the headboard, but when had life with Emily ever gone as planned? He fought the urge to move within her, wanting to give her body time to adjust to his invasion. His tongue soothed her swollen lips, sworled in tender apology through her mouth even as his body exulted in her exquisite gloving. A tear trickled from beneath her dark lashes.

He caught it on his tongue before it could reach her dimple. Her luminous eyes opened.

"No tears," he said softly. "You promised."

She kissed him gently, a smile trembling on her lips. "No tears," she repeated. As proof of her pledge

she braced her palm against his chest and arched her back, taking him both higher and deeper than he would have ever dreamed possible.

A guttural groan escaped him, but even through his haze of ecstasy he saw her flinch. He caught her

hips in his hands and eased her flat beneath him, determined to banish all memories of pain from her

mind or die a glorious death trying.

As Justin began to move deep within her, Emily felt her body surrendering to his sweet sorcery. He braced his weight on his hands and ground his hips against her, both consuming her and making her

whole with each silken stroke. She clung to him, unable to remember a time when he had not been

a part of her. Her hips rose to meet each of his bewitching thrusts. This sensation was different from

the earlier ecstasy he had given her, fuller, darker somehow, and fraught with all the perils of surrender. Small, helpless noises escaped her throat until finally, drugged with pleasure, she could do nothing but

lie beneath his powerful body, spread for the slaking of his desire.

"Emily," he muttered in evocation against her lips. "My sweet, sweet Emily."

He reached between them and touched her then. The gentlest touch of his fingertips set off a quaking tremor. Just when she thought he couldn't get any bigger or harder, he did, and the tremor became a shuddering explosion. Their lips crashed, fusing in the desperate need to silence their screams as all the passion he'd kept locked inside came roaring from his loins, spilling hot within her.

Groaning, Justin collapsed against her and buried his face in her curls, breathing hard. She rubbed her

lips against his stubbled cheek, tasting the salty wetness, and knew that this night they had both broken their vow.

* * *

Tingling ribbons of sunlight caressed the exhausted muscles of Justin's back. He was drowsing in the warm sand beneath a cobalt sky, lulled by the whisper of the waves against the shore. The sand was powder-fine and soft, so soft he could feel himself sinking painlessly into its feathery depths. He drew

in a lungful of its fragrance-a musky vanilla like the purest and most potent of aphrodisiacs.

He rolled to his back and stretched, savoring the ache of his sated muscles. He didn't want to open his eyes. He wanted to sleep for another week. Warmth bathed his face.

Where was he? he wondered. Where were the heavy bed curtains that smothered the light and kept the fresh air at bay? He forced his eyes open to find himself gazing up at the scalloped half-tester over Emily's bed.

He sat up abruptly, pulling the sheet to his waist. It wasn't the waves he had heard but the soft shuffle

of Emily's hands as she folded her undergarments into a carpeted valise. Her back was to him, and she wore nothing but his discarded shirt. The dawn light cast a buttery halo around her curls.

"What are you doing?" he said. His untried voice sounded gruff, even to him.

"Pudding is very fond of your stables," she said calmly. "I believe I shall leave him to Jimmie's care. Do you think I might have a cat at my new lodgings? Miss Winters always detested them. I don't require a

lot of room, you know. Daddy and I were always happiest in our more modest apartments. My fondest memories are of our little cottage at Brighton." Her hands faltered. "I've never been a mistress before.

I hope I shall be a good one."

It took Justin's bleary mind a moment to sort out her ramblings. When he had, he rose, leaving the sheet behind, and padded up behind her. He slipped his arms around her waist and drew her back against him. She couldn't meet his eyes, not even in the full-length looking glass fixed between her wardrobe doors.

Touched by her unexpected shyness, he rubbed his bristled cheek against her temple. "And where do

you think you're going?"

Emily felt her gaze drawn inexorably upward, captivated by the spell cast by their reflection. The

contrast was stunning. Justin's dark hair next to her burnished curls. His feral, naked grace against the rumpled folds of the shirt. She watched in fascination as his bronze hands glided over the white linen, unable to forget the feel of those hands on her . . . and in her.

She drew in a shaky breath. "Your mother . . . your sisters … we mustn't expose them to my tarnished reputation."

He cupped her breasts in his reverent palms. "Is that how I made you feel last night? Tarnished?"

Emily thought of all the times she'd been made to feel less than she was. She met his gaze boldly in the mirror. "No. Not tarnished. Cherished." She laced her fingers around his. "Did you know you have the most amazing hands?"

His slow, lazy grin melted her bones. "I always knew practicing those infernal scales would pay off someday. ' He nuzzled her throat, sending a shiver of delight down her spine. "You're not going anywhere, angel, except back to bed."

She lay her head against his shoulder, baring her throat for his sweet plundering. "There's no time.

What if Penfeld comes looking for you?"

He nudged his hips against her rump and began to gently ease the shirt upward. "I assure you, this won't take nearly as long as I'd like."

* * *

Peace reigned at Grymwilde Mansion for the first time since its master's return. The only explanation Justin offered for Emily's brief disappearance was that she had become "lost." Only he and Emily knew how close she had come to being eternally lost. His family was too wise to press for more. They were

all reaping the benefits of his sunny disposition.

The parlor rang with laughter and music at all hours of the day. Justin and Emily played endless rounds

of cards with Lily, sang warbling duets with Edith, and helped Millicent pick out the tangled threads of

her embroidery. Each morning Herbert and Harvey marched off to their new offices at Winthrop Shipping, proudly displaying the handsome leather writing cases given them by their brother-in-law. Finally, bored and grumbling, Harold even took himself off to apply for a position at the Exchange.

If this was yet another manifestation of His Grace's mysterious brain fever, whispered the servants as they counted their generous bonuses, it was a pleasant one indeed. Only Justin knew he had been possessed by a different sort of fever altogether.

Penfeld was gazing out the bay window overlooking the garden one afternoon when the duchess came sailing up.

The two of them stood in silence, watching Justin and Emily romp around a frozen fountain, Pudding hard at their heels. Their antics brought such a breath of spring to the dead garden that the duchess wouldn't have been surprised to see a blush of green come creeping over the trellises before their very eyes.

As they watched, Emily darted behind the naked spines of a hawthorn bush, her cheeks flushed with laughter and cold. Her escape was cut short when Justin caught a handful of her hood in his fist and dragged her back over his arm. The laughter faded from Emily's eyes and she went still. He inclined

his head, his lips hovering so close over hers that the mist from their mouths mingled.

The duchess sucked in an audible breath.

At that moment a jealous Pudding stood on his hind legs and thrust his pug nose between them. Penfeld pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow.

They must have seen the flash of white, because both of them looked guiltily to the window. Emily

broke away from Justin's arms and waved cheerily before kneeling to bury her face in Pudding's brindle coat.

Penfeld tilted his nose in the air and sniffed. "Heartwarming, is it not, to see a man taking such an active interest in his responsibilities?"

The duchess eyed the portly valet through narrowed eyes. "Oh, deeply affecting. Deeply."

The game was on. Justin and Emily played it with relish. By day they appeared the very model of propriety with no one the wiser if her foot climbed up his calf beneath the shelter of the tablecloth, or if he slipped her an extra card beneath the loo table. The interminable moments ticked away, measured not by the swing of the pendulum in the long-case clock, but by longing looks and stolen kisses until finally the hour came when Emily might politely smother a yawn into her handkerchief and climb the long, curving stairs to bed.

She would lie trembling on tenterhooks of anticipation until the house fell silent. Then the telltale creak

of the unlocked door would come and Justin would slip into her bed and arms.

With the pleasure of Emily's company by day and the delight of her lithe young body by night, Justin felt he had died and gone to heaven. He was in thrall to her tender possession of his heart and body. He had never in his life imagined such sweetness and passion at his fingertips. She was a miracle, a marvel who brought the same enthusiasm and adventurous spirit to her lovemaking as she had brought to his life.

Late one night the drowsing peace of the house was fractured by the crash of heavy furniture and breaking glass. A herd of feet stampeded to Emily's door.

Harold's fist rattled the mahogany panels. "Hullo there, gel. Open up! What's going on in there? Are

you all right?"

Emily swung open the door, her cheeks burning, to face a nightcapped mob that included Penfeld,

Justin's entire family, and a few of the bolder servants.

She brushed back her tousled curls, laughing nervously. "I'm my clumsy old self, I fear. I must have

been having a nightmare. I seem to have fallen out of bed and overturned the nightstand." She reached

up to smooth the ribbons of her nightdress, then realized in horror they were trailing down her back because her nightdress was on backward.

One of the wide-eyed housemaids tried to peer around her at the carnage. "I'll fetch a broom, miss, straightaway, and clean up the mess."

"Oh, no," said Emily hastily, narrowing the crack between door and wall. "That won't be necessary.

I'm really quite exhausted. You may clean up in the morning."

Justin's mother rested her fists on her ample hips.

With her iron-gray ringlets wrapped in rags, she resembled a matronly Medusa. Emily lowered her eyes, fearing the duchess's accusing gaze might turn her to something worse than stone.

"Where's my son?" she demanded. "I would have thought a crash like that would have brought the dead running."

Penfeld quickly piped up with "My master is a very sound sleeper."

They all stared at him. Emily couldn't stop her own mouth from falling open at that preposterous falsehood. But even in his tasseled nightcap and long nightshirt, Penfeld's dignity was so profound that

no one dared challenge him.

"Harrumph," pronounced the duchess skeptically.

She charted a course for her chambers, the skirts of her brocaded dressing gown frothing in her wake. One by one the others trailed away.

Penfeld was the last to go. He gallantly tipped his nightcap to Emily and gave her a knowing wink.

She closed her door and twisted the key. "Why, that pompous little scoundrel. He's known all along."

She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her giggle.

The door of her wardrobe swung open and Justin emerged, her satin dressing gown wrapped around his waist. He plucked a stray ostrich feather out of his hair.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. "I didn't lie. I did fall out of bed."

He wagged the feather at her. "Like you fell off that boat in New Zealand?"

"Oh, no. That wasn't the same at all."

"Thank God." He bent to graze her lips. He trailed the feather down the curve of her back and she moaned softly. "I despise this need for silence. I wish we were in New Zealand now, lying on the beach with nothing but the moon and stars to hear us." His voice lowered to a husky whisper. "I'd like to spend all night making you scream."

She buried her mouth in his chest. "What did you have in mind? A complete recitation of Penfeld's tea collection?"

"Why don't I just show you?" He gently guided her around until she was kneeling in the plush cushions

of the window seat. The curtains of Brussels lace tickled the tip of her nose.

Her voice caught on a tremulous note. "Justin?"

"Mmm?" he answered, kneeling behind her and pushing the backward nightdress up.

"If we fall out the window, I'm going to leave the explanations to you."

"My pleasure, darling."

As the dressing gown fell in a shimmering satin pool around their knees, Emily arched against him, knowing the pleasure was all hers.

Justin wrapped a gossamer curl around his finger, then freed it, watching it spring back against Emily's cheek. She mumbled something in her sleep and wiggled deeper into the pillows.

* * *

The watery light of dawn crept across the tangled sheets. Justin despised its arrival. He hated dragging himself out of the warm cocoon of blankets and sneaking through the drafty old house to his own barren bed. A pain seized his heart. Emily looked so sweet and warm with her cheeks rosy with sleep and her curls rumpled. He didn't want to leave her. He realized with a shock that he never wanted to leave her.

He wanted the right to spend all night and all day in bed with her if he chose. He wanted to escort her

to the countess's fete that afternoon and show the whole world that she belonged to him.

"Oh, David," he whispered. "What have I done?"

David had once given her to him. After all those years of self-imposed exile, would he still find him worthy of such a prize? Justin knew if his friend were alive today, he would have gone to him on

hands and knees if necessary to beg for her hand.

He smoothed back her curls and tenderly kissed her brow before climbing out of the bed. When she moaned a protest, he slid a pillow into the hollow his body had left. She pulled it into her embrace and tucked it under her chin, sighing in content.

Stepping over the carnage from the previous night's mishap, he dressed quickly, fearful his resolve to go might weaken. He wondered what his ever-so-proper servants would do if he simply jerked the tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling and ordered eggs and kippers in bed for him and his ward. He grinned at

the thought.

His smile faded as he opened the door to find his mother leaning with arms crossed against the opposite wall.

Chapter 30

Olivia Connor was no less intimidating in dressing gown and slippers than she was armored in a full ball gown and bustle. Justin reached behind him and pulled Emily's door shut.

He faced his mother squarely, trying to ignore the flush he could feel creeping up over his cheekbones.

He forced a wry smile. "Why do I feel like I'm six years old and I've been caught dipping into Gracie's cookie jar?"

Her steely gaze raked him, taking in his unbuttoned shirt, the rumpled folds of his trousers. "It seems you've been caught dipping into much more than that."

Summoning the remnants of his grace, he leaned against the door and crossed his arms, mirroring her posture deliberately. "Guilty as charged. So what are you going to do? Disinherit me again?"

"Have you forgotten? You're the duke now. I can't disinherit you. But you may pack me off to a

dower house if you desire."

"Ah, but that would imply there was another duchess waiting in the wings."

She nodded toward the door. "Isn't there?"

Justin raked a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling less six than sixty. "I'm afraid not."

"More's the pity. The two of you would make pretty children together." She lifted an eyebrow.

"That is, if you haven't already."

A muffled oath exploded from his lips. He strode a few paces away and stood with hands on hips, his back to her. A bitterness he'd pushed deep down clawed its way to the surface. "You were never there for me before, Mother. What makes you think I'd confide in you now?"

Her voice was devoid of self-pity. "I don't think you will. I know what I was. A good wife and a

wretched mother."

Justin swung around, surprised by her blunt confession.

"Did you ever ask yourself why your father resented you so much?" she asked.

He stared at the carpet. "Every day. And I always came up with the same answer. There was something wrong with me."

She shook her head. "There was something right with you. Something so shining and bright that it

blinded him with jealousy." He stared at her disbelievingly. "Frank Connor wasn't always the man you knew. He didn't want the business or the title any more than you did. It was like a lead anchor around

his neck, dragging him down. He longed to sail one of those graceful clippers right over the horizon and explore the world. But he didn't have your guts. He didn't have the courage to simply walk away."

Justin stood awash in conflicting emotions as she moved toward him.

"Denying himself his dreams made your father a bitter, mean-spirited old man." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, filling his nostrils with the longforgotten comfort of lilac and camphor. "Don't make the same mistake, son."

Justin stood alone, staring at nothing, after his mother had gone. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was time to bury the old ghosts and let David rest in peace at last. Perhaps the time had come for him and Emily to seize not only the day, but the morrow as well.

* * *

Emily handed the waiting footman her cloak as she and Lily entered the foyer of the Comtesse Guermond's sumptuous apartments. The drawing room beyond had been decorated in the Greek

Revival style favored over a century ago. Graceful Doric columns mushroomed from polished bases.

A lethargic quartet was playing in the corner. Emily's scalloped train swept the marble floor as they

were ushered into the chattering fray.

The chandeliers sparkled beneath the kiss of winter sunlight streaming through the casement windows. After being smothered in the Gothic gloom of Grymwilde for so long, Emily found the effect dazzling.

As Lily wandered off with a friend, Emily stole a glance behind her, hoping to catch a glimpse of Justin entering. He had ridden alongside their carriage on a handsome bay-a striking sight in his top hat and greatcoat. He had seemed strangely excited all day, his golden eyes warmed by more than their usual glow. The afternoon would be sweet torment indeed. They didn't dare even dance together for fear of revealing themselves. But later, Emily thought, in the still, sweet hours of the night, while the rest of the world slept, their patience would be rewarded. Her cheeks warmed at the thought. Who would have

ever dreamed she would make such a pudding of herself over a man? Especially that man.

"Emily, oh, Emily darling, is that you?" She cringed at the sound of Cecille's voice. Her old nemesis caught her in a girlish embrace. "I promised Henry you'd be here. He's simply drooling for a dance."

Emily tried to wiggle free. "I don't think so. I'm afraid my card is full."

"How can it be full? You just got here. Don't move an inch and I'll go fetch him."

As soon as Cecille trotted out of sight, Emily ducked into a safe corner and began to madly scribble fictional names on her dance card.

"I say, gel, haven't we met?"

She jerked her head around to find a bloodshot eye studying her through a cracked quizzing glass.

A silent sigh of dread escaped her.

"I fear you are mistaken, sir." She edged away from the portly fellow.

"I'd stake my life on it," he boomed out. "You look frightfully familiar." His lascivious gaze lowered to

the ruched silk of her bodice. "Perhaps we met at the earl's card party last week?"

"I think not." To her relief, Emily saw Justin approaching through the crowd. An impish smile transformed her face as she threw her arms around the gentleman's neck. "Why, Uncle George!" She beckoned to Justin and called out in a voice that carried through the entire room, "Look, Your Grace,

it's one of my father's oldest friends-my dear old uncle George! You remember him, don't you? He

used to so love to dandle me on his knee."

Justin may not have remembered, but Uncle George was beginning to. He went pale in her choke hold

as the Duke of Winthrop parted the crowd with deadly grace. Several people were beginning to stare.

"No, no, gel," he stammered. "I'm sorry. You've got it all wrong. I don't know anyone named George. My name is Harry. I mean Alfred."

"Surely you jest!" Emily cried as Justin stopped in front of them. "Why, the resemblance is uncanny." She grasped his fat cheeks, turning his face for Justin's perusal. "He's the very image of George, isn't

he, Your Grace?"

Only too aware of her adventures in the bordello, Justin stroked his chin. "Positively eerie. Are you sure you don't have a twin somewhere, my good man?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Perhaps I do. My mum was never too clear on the matter. Now, if you'll

excuse me, I really must be going." Uncle George-Harry-Alfred awkwardly extracted himself from

Emily's embrace and fled toward the foyer, racing past the puzzled footman holding out his greatcoat

and cane.

Laughter bubbled from Emily's throat. The heat of Justin's gaze warmed her like a touch. Her heart

did a clumsy somersault.

"You look lovely," he said.

She inclined her head, suddenly shy. It was hard to equate this staid, elegant gentleman with the playful satyr who loved her until dawn each night. "So do you."

"Will you dance with me?" he asked, his eyes somber.

"What will they think?" For the first time in her life Emily feared the opinions of others. She had Justin's reputation to consider now.

"They'll think the rich, mad duke has finally found a woman daft enough to marry him."

Emily turned away from him, choking on emotion. Justin wanted her. Not just for a few hours of stolen pleasure in the night. For always. "But the scandal," she whispered. "You're my guardian. I've been

living beneath your roof for over a month. They'll never accept us."

"Then they can all go to hell and I can take my bride to New Zealand for a Maori wedding." He waited for a long beat of silence. "What do you say? Will Cecille forgive us if we announce our engagement at her fete?"

Emily swung around, smiling through a blur of tears. "She forgave me for stuffing the dead mouse in

her boot, didn't she?"

Justin folded her into his arms, ignoring the curious stares. "Stop that, now. Penfeld would never forgive you for soaking all the starch out of my lapels." He held his handkerchief to her nose. "There now. Blow. That's a good girl. Feel better?" At her nod, he said, "Come on, then. You've faced down cannibals and dragons. Surely a few matrons and snobbish swells don't scare you." Emily nodded again, this time more violently. "Well, if you must know, they scare me too, but there's no help for it. If they get mean, I'll send for my mother to defend us."

As he led her toward the open floor where people were dancing, Emily shyly clutched his sleeve. No one appeared to notice them. All eyes had turned to a new arrival from the foyer. A curious murmur rippled through the drawing room.

As the crowd parted to reveal the object of their fascination, Emily groaned aloud. "Not again. Do the countess and Mrs. Rose always travel in the same social circles?"

Justin's arm went rigid beneath her hand. She looked up. His face had gone stark white, drained of the last vestiges of tan.

She squeezed his arm, alarmed. "What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

He shook her hand away and stood in utter stillness, his face drawn into a wary mask over his bones. Emily searched the room for a clue, but all she saw was the debonair stranger she had met in the park

and the bordello charming his way through the guests. Impeccably attired as always, he drifted from group to group, tossing off a smile here, a witty remark there. A fluted champagne glass dangled from his elegant fingers as if he'd been born with it. Admiring glances followed his path.

"Why, he's as handsome as everyone says, isn't he?" Emily jumped as Cecille popped up behind them. Her stage whisper would have startled a deaf person. "All the girls are in a swoon over him. He's Italian, and you know what they say about Italian men." She giggled slyly. "And a millionaire at that. They say

he made his fortune in gold."

As he paused near them to kiss a simpering beauty's hand, Cecille saw her chance. She darted out, grabbed his arm, and dragged him over. Justin and the stranger stood eye to eye.

Cecille began, "Your Grace and Emily, I should love to introduce you to-"

"Hello, Justin," the stranger interrupted. His voice was as smooth as cognac and lightly accented, as

Emily had remembered. Smiling, he lifted his glass and took a lazy swallow of champagne.

"Hello, Nicky," Justin replied. Then he drew back his fist and smashed it into the stranger's smug face, sending him reeling into the column behind him.

Spattered by champagne, Cecille finished in a daze. "-Mama's new and dear friend, Mr. Nicholas Saleri."

Chapter 31

Emily swayed. Cecille caught her before she could fall. The crowd stood in silent shock.

Nicholas sat up, bracing his back against the column. Blood spattered his immaculate shirtfront and trickled from a corner of his mouth. A lank strand of ebony hair dangled over his eyes. He smoothed

it back, regaining his composure quickly.

Waving away the footmen who rushed to assist him, he struggled to his feet. "It's a pleasure to see you again, too, Justin."

Weaving slightly, he bowed and brought Emily's limp hand to his lips. "Always a delight, Miss Scarborough. You have the look of your father about your eyes."

Emily stared at her hand, dazed. His blood smeared her knuckles. She tried vainly to wipe it away on

her skirt, leaving an ugly stain.

"Keep your filthy hands off her," Justin snarled, taking a step toward him.

The footmen backed away, more than a little leery of the duke's reputation for unpredictable savagery.

Nicholas drew a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his lip. He eyed the results distastefully, then tossed it to a trembling maid.

He favored Emily with a patronizing smile. "You'll have to forgive my old friend, Miss Scarborough.

I should have expected such a welcome. Guilt can have an odd effect on the human brain. I dare say

he's been quite unhinged ever since he murdered your father."

A gasp traveled through the crowd.

"What are you talking about?" Emily cried. "Are you completely mad?" She grabbed Justin by the lapels. They were still damp from her tears of joy. Her frantic gaze searched his face. "What is this man saying? It's ridiculous. Tell him to stop making these absurd accusations."

Justin stared straight ahead.

She gave him a hard shake. Her voice rose on a hysterical note, ringing through the silent room. "Tell him, Justin. Tell him now. Tell them all you didn't kill my daddy!"

He looked down at her then, his gaze so fraught with pity that she wanted to die right there in his arms. He reached down to gently disengage her fingers from his coat, then turned and walked away. The murmurs and cries of shock swelled, but Emily could hear nothing but the merciless roaring of the sea.

She found him in the conservatory at Grymwilde. The late afternoon sun slanted through the west wall

of frosted glass, staining the flagstones amber. A low, pebbled fountain sprang from the exotic tangle of flowers and vines. Justin sat on its edge, slowly plucking the petals from a fat winter rose. A puddle of scarlet surrounded his boots.

The damp heat of the winter garden had molded his shirt to his shoulders and tightened the hair at his nape to boyish curls. Emily realized with a shock how much it had grown since he had cut it.

She sank down on the pebbled ledge behind him, smoothing her bloodstained frock. A petal fluttered

from his fingers. Emily stared, transfixed by the grace of his beautiful hands. A murderer's hands.

He lifted his head and she knew his gaze was fixed not on the shiny leaves of the aspidistra twining around the miniature trellis, but on a moonlit beach. His ears, like hers, were tuned not to the trickle

of the fountain but to the primeval roar of the sea.

His voice was strangely flat. "Nicky had been missing for almost a week before I went to search for him. At first we thought nothing of it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd disappeared without explanation. But then the rumors started trickling in-rumors of conflict between the Maori and the whites.

"All I found of Nicky was the bloody rag that had been his coat. The Maori ambushed me less than a

mile from our encampment. I fled for my life. They weren't like the Maori you met on the North Island. These were Hauhaus-a fanatical cult who despised all whites. They did things to their captives in the name of their religion- unspeakable things."

Emily knotted her fingers in her skirt to keep from touching him.

"I'd emptied my pistol of all but one bullet." A black laugh escaped him. "I was saving that for myself

in case they caught me.

"By the time I reached the beach, I couldn't hear them anymore. I could see the lantern burning in the tent and I knew David was waiting for me. If we could just launch the boat, we had a chance of escaping with our lives. God knows, the Hauhaus had left us little else." He bowed his head. "I crouched in the bush for the longest time, afraid to brave that open stretch of sand. But then I thought about you."

Emily trailed her fingers through the cool water of the fountain.

"I thought of how David had traded his precious kid gloves for a piece of polished amber to send you. Somehow that thought gave me the courage I needed. I sprinted down the beach and stumbled up to

the tent. David caught me as I fell."

My God, boy, what is it? Where's Nick? Is it worse than we feared?

"At first I couldn't convince him. He was dazed. He couldn't believe it was all gone-Nicky, the gold, your inheritance. I had to shake him, curse him."

Goddammit, David! There's no time for this. We've got to launch the curricle. It's our only chance.

A tear rolled off the tip of Emily's nose and plopped into the water, disappearing without a trace.

"I dragged him down the beach toward the boat. But he broke away from me and ran back to the tent. I've never felt as alone as I did at that moment. Standing on that beach, I felt as if I were the only man alive. The only white man.

"Then I heard them. They swarmed out of the rain forest and over the tent like tattooed spiders. I screamed a warning and ran toward the tent.

"Before I could reach it they dragged him out by his arms and legs. He was fighting them with every ounce of his strength. Then he started to yell something at me, but they were all screaming and I

couldn't understand what he was saying."

Emily stared at Justin's profile, mesmerized by its bleak purity.

"I waved the pistol wildly, not knowing whom to fire at. There were too many of them, and I had only one bullet. Then I realized what he was saying. What he was begging me to do."

Shoot me! For God's sake, Justin, shoot me!

"He cursed and howled and begged. And I just stood there, crying so hard I couldn't even aim. They

were dragging him into the bush." His head dropped. "So I shot him."

Emily closed her eyes, flinching at the echo of the explosion. Her nostrils twitched at the acrid stench of gunpowder. Then, in the conservatory as on the beach, there was nothing but silence. Silence forever binding them together. Silence forever tearing them apart.

"When he slumped in their arms, the Hauhaus got very quiet. They just stared at me. I knew they'd

come for me then. I taunted them."

Come get me! Come on, you miserable sons of bitches! What the bloody hell are you waiting for?

"Then they just dropped him and melted back into the forest." His shoulders slumped. "That was the worst of it, you know. When they didn't come back and kill me.

"When I lifted David in my arms, the chain was still dangling from his fingers. He'd never let go, not

even in all his struggles. I knew then why he'd gone back to the tent. To get the watch-the watch with your photograph in it."

Emily rose, unable to bear any more.

Justin waited until she was at the door, her hand on the crystal knob. "Emily?"

He looked her straight in the eye, his golden gaze more searing than the sun. "Always remember one thing. I never lied to you."

She stiffened her chin to still its quiver. "Nor," she said softly, "did you tell me the truth."

As she pulled the door shut, the last thing she saw was the crumpled bloom falling from his limp fingers.

Justin slipped through the darkened house in absolute silence. He knew which creaking boards to step over, which occasional table to dodge so as not to rattle the silver-framed photographs clustered on its top. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps. The clock on the landing below bonged twice.

He felt as if he'd tumbled into one of his own nightmares. The endless corridor rolled out before him, a corridor with a door that grew farther away with each measured step. He feared he might walk forever and never reach it.

But, at last, there it was before him. He wiped his damp palms on his trousers before touching the knob. He'd never before noticed how cold it was. The chill seemed to shoot up his arm to his thundering heart. He forced his rigid fingers to close and slowly turned it. It moved a quarter of a turn, then stopped. He twisted harder. Nothing.

"Emily?" he whispered hoarsely. "Emily, please . . ."

His other hand clenched into a fist. For one crazy moment he wanted to slam his shoulder against the door, to splinter it beneath his weight. But he knew he'd only find another door behind it-a door thick and impenetrable with suspicion and betrayal.

His hand fell away. Despair washed over him in inky waves. He had hoped, foolishly, even wildly perhaps, that the darkness might lower the terrible cost of his silence. That Emily might relent and allow him to spin his regrets in the tender, forgiving cocoon of her embrace. He should have known he couldn't steal with his body what the truth should have bought him. Images from the past night assailed him with fresh grief. Could he have loved her any better if he had known it was their last night together?

He would have held her, just held her in his arms all night long, memorizing the tilt of her snub nose, the ethereal softness of her curls beneath his fingertips, savoring the warm aroma of her skin for all the cold, lonely nights to come.

"Good-bye, my love," he whispered. He pressed his open palm to the polished mahogany of the door,

his hand lingering in reluctant farewell.

* * *

Emily huddled against the door, her knees drawn up to her chest, and listened to Justin's footsteps fade into silence. She shoved her hair away from her face with shaking hands, pressing hard against her temples as if she could somehow muffle the agonizing whispers of the ghosts in her head.

He don't want you. Nobody wants you.

I said I didn't like you. I never said I didn't love you.

. . . since he murdered your father.

I'll be back for you. I swear it.

Trust me.

Shoot me.

She rocked back and forth in a knot of aching misery. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. One by one the ghosts reared their heads in visions seared like photographs onto the blank plate of her memory. Doreen thrust a coal bucket in her hand, taunting her. Nicholas's elegant lips curled in a sneer. Justin emerged from the waves, his dark hair whipping in the wind, his bronze skin misted with sea drops. Her daddy folded his tall frame to kneel before her so he could button her coat and straighten her bonnet before sending her out in the snow to play.

Yet, even those spirits were tolerable. The ghost who haunted her now was a child. A child dancing with sweet abandon through the darkened room, her petticoats layered with moonlight. She paused in her dance and bent to peer into Emily's face, her dark eyes softened with empathy as if she couldn't quite comprehend that anyone could hurt so much.

Emily recognized her then. She was the child she might have been had her father not died at the hand

of her lover. Trusting, loving, convinced the world was a bright place filled with people of good heart. Believing that someday a man would come, a man as fine and handsome as her daddy, who would love her forever.

It was that child Justin had touched with his love, that child Justin had wounded with his silence. The woman she might have become could have found it in her heart to forgive him. That woman would have been free of rancor and cynicism, free of the bitterness that raged within Emily now, burning their love

to crashing ruins.

She reached out a trembling hand toward the child's luminous face. She vanished without even a good-bye, leaving Emily in utter darkness.

Chapter 32

It was midmorning the next day when Penfeld knocked on Emily's door. "His Grace requests your presence in the study," he announced.

Did the valet's voice sound strangely thick, or was it her own overwrought imagination? she wondered.

"Tell His Highness I shall hasten to answer his summons," she replied.

She stole a look out the window as she dressed. The same underfootman who had been lurking in the shrubs all morning was still there, whistling under his breath and studying the slumbering foliage as if his life depended on it. Emily took her brimming pitcher from its basin, eased up the sash, and poured a stream of wash water down on his unsuspecting head.

"Damn it all!" he sputtered, shaking himself like a sheepdog. "What in the deuced hell-"

"Hello, Jason," Emily called out. "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't realize you were down there."

His gaze shot up to the window; a sheepish smile transformed his freckled countenance. "Quite all right, Miss Emily. I was just inspecting the roses for-"

"Blight?" she suggested.

"Aye, blight!" he quickly agreed. "Been a bad year for it."

"Let's be thankful I discovered you before I emptied my night convenience," she said airily, slamming

the window shut.

When she glanced out again, the dripping Jason was watching her window from the safer distance of

the drive. She opened the door to find Penfeld still standing stiffly outside of it.

"I waited to escort you, miss," he explained.

She gave his starched collar a brittle flip. "They're dressing the prison guard with a bit more flair these days."

Refusing to rise to her bait, he accompanied her down the stairs to the study, where she marched in and stood in military posture before Justin's massive pedestal desk. He glanced at her over his spectacles,

then went back to his scrawling.

His pen scratched across a ledger bound in cloth. "I hope after our talk yesterday, you better understand why I couldn't face you sooner."

"I understand quite clearly. You preferred to stay in New Zealand, wallowing in self-pity and flaying yourself alive with guilt. Far be it for me to deny you your pathetic entertainments."

Justin brought his pen to a grating halt and looked up. The feminine allure of Emily's cream wool frock and ribboned curls was belied by the steely angles of her shoulders.

He laid the pen down with a deliberate motion. "I realize I have no right to ask anything of you, but I need your assistance."

She bent over the desk. "Mending, perhaps? Does your hair shirt have a tear in it?"

He shot to his feet and slammed his palms on the desk. "No. My whip for self-flagellation is too short to reach my back. Although that shouldn't be a problem as long as your venomous tongue is available to

lash me."

He was close enough to count every freckle on her pert little nose. The wicked sparkle of her eyes made his breath come at odds with itself. The last thing he had expected to feel toward her was anger. He was stunned by how invigorating it felt. Driving his fingers through his hair, he sank back into the chair.

"I need your help nailing Nicky. There's only one way he could have known I killed your father. The bastard was there. He saw the whole thing. He turned the natives on us, believing we'd both be killed, then took the mine for himself."

Emily propped her hip on the edge of the desk and picked up a glass paperweight, toying with it. "Charming fellow. And you thought there were no snakes in New Zealand."

"Perhaps I should have chosen my friends with more care."

She set the paperweight down with a gentle thump. "Perhaps my father should have as well."

He let that one pass with only a dark glance. "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it was Nicky's plan from the beginning. He was the one who spotted David coming into the music hall. He was the one who asked around until he found out David had an inheritance to invest." Justin leaned back in the chair and propped his boots on the desk. "I've made several inquiries this morning. It seems our debonair friend has been dividing his time between a gold-mining empire on the South Island of New Zealand and the Continent-Italy, France, Spain-wherever men of his ilk go to spend their ill-gotten wealth."

"But why would he return to England now?"

Justin leveled his gaze on her. "For the same reason I did. You."

Her eyes clouded. "Me?"

He nodded. "Like myself, Nicky thought you only a baby when you father died. I believe he's been

biding his time, waiting for David's daughter to become old enough to start asking questions. I think he returned to England to protect his investment."

Emily shivered. Now that Nicholas realized she was not a child, but a woman grown, she presented that much more of a threat to him. She was not only old enough to ask questions; she was old enough to inherit. What might have happened to her that night at Mrs. Rose's if Justin hadn't intervened?

"What about you?" she asked. "Why didn't he kill you in New Zealand when he had the chance?"

Justin's throat tightened as he remembered all those lost years spent grieving over Nicky and David, all those regrets. "For all intents and purposes, he did. I'm sure it was only his perverse sense of humor that stopped him from burying me. He didn't have that much mercy in his black soul." A mocking smile touched his lips. "It must have been quite a shock for him to realize I'd returned to England, and an

even worse blow to discover David's grown daughter was now part of the equation."

"He handled it with admirable aplomb."

Justin snorted. "Nicky would. Even when we hadn't a shilling to split between us, he'd spend his money on clothes instead of food. I've yet to see his elegant feathers ruffled."

"You'd like to ruffle them, wouldn't you?"

"I'd like to see him plucked, skinned, and thrown in the pot. That's why I've invited him to call this afternoon."

Emily straightened. "Have you gone mad?"

"Quite." He lowered his feet and rose. "At least that's what I want Nicholas to believe. We must force

him to let down his guard by convincing him neither of us is any threat. I can capitalize on my reputation as a lunatic, which, I might add, seems to burgeon with any public appearance you and I make together. So far he's seen me wrestling with the trained bears at a bordello, carrying you off on my shoulder like a barbarian, and smashing his pretty face over champagne at a countess's fete."

Justin would have sworn it was a sparkle of mirth that warmed Emily's eyes. "What would you have

me do?" she asked.

He could have answered that a thousand ways, but he choked them all back. Instead, he mustered his courage and folded her hands in his own. "You must portray the naive innocent seeking the truth about her father's death." She gazed down at their entwined hands. A wry smile quirked her lips. "Innocent,

eh? That'll be a bit of a stretch."

Justin dropped her hands and bent to shuffle a pile of meaningless papers. "You must promise me one thing. You're never to see him outside of this house."

"Why not? Are you afraid he'll compromise my virtue?"

Justin's hands spasmed. The papers scattered. Emily drifted to the window as if realizing she'd pushed him too far.

"You can't afford to forget that this man is very dangerous." He came around the desk, softening his voice with effort. "I'm still his legal partner, and you, my dear, are your father's only heir. We're all that stands between him and his precious fortune, and we both know to what lengths he'll go to protect it."

Her translucent skin seemed to absorb what little sunlight penetrated the narrow window. Justin stood behind her, aching to brush aside her curls, to lay his lips against the fleece at her nape. He clenched his hands to keep from touching her.

"I'm not asking you for love, or even friendship," he said softly. "I'm asking you for justice." She stood

as silent and unreadable as that damned doll she insisted on keeping on her nightstand. Once again he

felt that dangerous flare of anger and passion. The deliberate lightness of his tone belied his turmoil. "Think of it this way. If we succeed in proving his guilt, you'll be a millionairess. You won't need me anymore."

She pivoted on her heel, her smile as bright and cutting as a blade. "I'll do it."

Her ruffled sleeve brushed his arm as she walked around him. Before she could reach the door, it

opened from the other side to reveal a stalwart Penfeld.

She turned in a graceful swirl of wool. "It's safe to call off your dogs. I've no intention of running this time."

"Nor do I," Justin replied, jamming his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "It's also

safe to leave your bedroom door unlocked. I've no intention of going where I'm not wanted."

Color brightened her cheeks. Penfeld cleared his throat, choked, and doubled over, wheezing. Emily ushered him out, slamming the door behind them so hard that the glass panes of the secretaire rattled

in protest.

Justin sank back against the windowsill, a thoughtful smile playing around his mouth. Only time would

tell if he'd just earned himself a partner or an adversary.

* * *

Later that afternoon Emily paused at a gilt-framed mirror to smooth her skirt and pinch a smidgen of

color into her ashen cheeks. Her hands felt like ice as she braced herself to meet again the third actor in the grim drama of friendship and betrayal that had begun over seven years before. Justin had chosen the smoking room in the east wing tower for their reunion, and as Emily entered, it was easy to see why.

The gloomy room was a study in masculine opulence. Decorated in the Turkish style, it boasted luxuriant Oriental rugs and fat leather chairs studded in brass. The day was already warm and the fire crackling on the hearth made it nearly unbearable. The palm plants scattered throughout the room drooped in the sweltering heat. Emily had barely taken two steps before she felt beads of sweat pop out on her brow.

Nicholas Saleri hovered near the door, his white-gloved hands clasped around the ivory claw of an

elegant walking stick. Emily barely noticed him. She was too amazed at Justin's transformation.

He sat hunched in a spidery wheelchair by the fire, wearing nothing but a silk dressing gown and a pair

of woolen stockings. His dark hair was rumpled, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl. Penfeld fussed over him, smoothing a blanket over his legs.

Emily almost started when Nicky bowed and brought her hand to his lips. "Good afternoon, Miss Scarborough. I must admit your summons gave me a bit of a shock. I would have called on you sooner, but I feared you wouldn't consent to see me after our little misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?"

He ducked his handsome head and gave her a sheepish look from beneath the obscene length of his lashes. "At the house in Mayfair. Knowing you a lady of quality, I sensed you'd become embroiled in circumstances beyond your control. I knew of a back exit, but I'm afraid you misread my intentions

when I sought to lead you to it."

Her gaze flicked involuntarily to the snowy folds of his tie. If Justin hadn't intervened that night, she wondered how long it would have taken before they found her strangled corpse.

She inclined her head, hoping he'd mistake her flush of anger for shyness. "An unfortunate incident, to

be sure. I fear it was a result of a rather unpleasant quarrel with my guardian. Let's speak of it no more, shall we?" Emily offered no more of an explanation, allowing him to speculate on the sordid circumstances that might have led a lady of quality to seek shelter in a notorious bordello.

He cast Justin a nervous glance and lowered his voice to a whisper. "His Grace's attendant suggested I

not approach him until you arrived. He said you had a calming effect on him."

Recovering her composure, Emily smiled sadly. "Only on his good days, I fear. Yesterday was one of those. We don't dare take him out too often." She forced her fingertips up to graze Nicky's swollen lip. "I'm sure you understand why."

A feral growl came from the other side of the room. Emily snatched her hand back.

"Dammit, man," Justin snarled, knocking away the box of cigars Penfeld was offering. "I don't want a cigar. I want my soldiers." His eyes narrowed as he peered through the gloom. "Who goes there? Do I know you?"

As Penfeld scrambled for the fallen cigars, Emily cast Nicky an apologetic look and rushed to Justin's side. She patted his hand soothingly. "There now. You mustn't fuss so. Your Emily is here now."

Justin wrapped his long fingers around her wrist and jerked her down to study her face. "Who the devil are you?" His voice rose an octave. "Mother, is that you?"

The devilish sparkle in his golden eyes was almost her undoing. She choked back a frantic giggle. "You remember me, don't you? It's Emily. David's Emily."

His face lit up with boyish pleasure. "Of course I remember you. Emily, my darling child."

He pressed a fervent kiss to her palm. She tried to pull away, but he refused to free her until she reached beneath the blanket and gave his thigh a sly pinch.

Throwing him a warning look, she crooked a finger at Nicky. "Look who's come to see you this fine afternoon, Your Grace. A very dear old friend."

Nicky approached, twisting his hat in his hands, but Justin ignored him. He tugged at the back of her

skirt instead. "Why don't you sit for a while, love? Perhaps we can play at soldiers together." His smile slanted to a triumphant leer. "My Napoleon came very close to mastering your Wellington last night."

She reached behind her and slapped his hand, all the while keeping her smile pasted on. He just tugged harder. Her seams groaned and she was forced to sit on the rug at his feet or risk losing her skirt altogether.

His fingers threaded gently through her hair; her scalp tingled a warning.

Nicholas cleared his throat. "Perhaps this isn't a good time . . ."

"Balderdash!" Justin bellowed, startling them all. Beneath the shelter of her hair his hand found her sensitive nape. His broad fingers pressed, working their soothing magic on her tense muscles. Her skin burned beneath his livid touch, and her breath came fast and shallow.

He glowered up at Nicky. "Who the hell let you in?" He drew back fearfully in his chair. "Are you a native? Penfeld! Check the brush. It's crawling with savages, you know. I can scent them."

Penfeld dutifully parted the fronds of a palm plant. His face emerged like a broad moon on the other

side. He gave Nicky a conspiratorial wink. "No savages, sir. They're all locked in the water closet, just

as I promised."

With Justin's hand stroking her so possessively, it was no challenge for Emily to summon an embarrassed blush. "Perhaps you're right, Mr. Saleri. Perhaps this isn't a good time." She rose. "If you'll keep an eye on His Grace, Penfeld, I believe I shall accompany Mr. Saleri for a walk in the garden."

"That's my girl." Justin grinned. "Run along now and play like a good child." Emily choked back a yelp

as he gave her bottom a fond pat, his hand lingering an instant too long on its rounded curve.

As she escorted their guest from the room, her cheeks burning from more than the stifling heat, Justin's querulous voice rose to a shout. "I don't want a frigging cup of tea, Penfeld. I want my soldiers. Fetch them for me posthaste, or it's off with your heads for the bloody lot of you!"

* * *

Emily chose a muslin shawl from the coat rack and accompanied Nicholas Saleri into the garden. After the stifling gloom of the smoking room, the cool, sunlit air sparkled with iridescence. A gentle breeze

blew from the south and the plain little wrens hopped and twittered across the softening earth in a poignant reminder that winter would not last forever.

They strolled in companionable silence for several moments before Nicky sighed heavily. "He's much worse than I feared. How do you bear it?"

She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "On his good days he flirts with amnesia. On his bad days, insanity itself. I fear the shock of seeing you yesterday put a terrible strain on his mind."

His voice oozed polite sympathy. "I'd heard rumors about his more bizarre incidents, but I didn't suspect the worst of it. Did he really threaten to eat one of your suitors?"

Emily bit her lip to keep from laughing. "I'm afraid so. But that wasn't nearly as devastating as the night he tried to end his life by throwing himself out of our opera box."

Saleri shook his head. "Tragic. Simply tragic. He was such a talented young man. It breaks my heart to see so much promise wasted. It's astounding what guilt can do to a mind of such fragile, artistic bent."

Emily sank down on a rustic garden bench, hugging her shawl about her in a protective gesture. "Perhaps we shouldn't speak of him so, Mr. Saleri. He did take me in and give me a home. I feel disloyal."

"You, disloyal?" He folded himself beside her, propped his walking stick against the bench, and cupped her hands in one of his own. "Surely you must be the most forgiving of creatures."

He tilted back his hat with one finger. Emily forced herself to meet his dark, hypnotic gaze. "Forgiving? How could I not forgive him? He explained everything to me in one of his brief moments of clarity."

Frowning as if deep in thought, Nicholas freed her hands and withdrew his cigarette case from his

pocket. "I'm afraid my encounter with your guardian has shaken me deeply. May I?"

She inclined her head demurely. "By all means."

He lit the cigarette, his hands steady, and took a deep draw. His lips puckered to blow out a flawless smoke ring. "I suppose Justin told you that ridiculous story about shooting your father to spare him a gruesome death at the hands of the natives."

"Ridiculous?" Emily echoed, trying to ignore the icy pounding of her heart.

"A charming fiction, I assure you, although perhaps he's grown to believe it himself over the years. I always told him he should have been a novelist instead of a pianist." He slanted her a look as if to assure himself of her full attention. "Justin's ambitions unbalanced him long before he shot your father. David suspected him of cheating us both and, sadly enough, chose to confront him while I was visiting with the natives."

"The Maori," she said softly. "I know of them. I spent some time with my guardian on the North Island."

"A kind and gentle people, as I'm sure you discovered. Hardly the devils with long forked tails of Justin's absurd tale." Trini's beaming face floated in Emily's vision. Saleri tapped away a cylinder of ash before continuing. "I heard Justin and your father quarreling when I approached from the bush that night. From what I could gather, David had caught Justin altering our land grant, erasing our names in favor of his own, all the better to cover the mysterious disappearance he'd planned for us." Emily remembered the ornate sheet of paper she'd found in Justin's cubbyhole. The sheet of paper she'd never bothered to examine.

"David was threatening to expose him to the governor general. Justin panicked and shot him. I had no choice but to flee for my own life. "

"How terrible for you!"

"It was. After the murder Justin fled and I sought shelter with the Maori until I could be sure he wouldn't return. Then and only then did I dare to claim the gold mine. But I spent years looking over my shoulder, knowing Justin still had in his possession that altered land grant and a motive for murder. You can imagine my shock to discover he was once again living in London."

"And what brought you to London again after all these years, Mr. Saleri?" she asked, fearful she was treading on dangerous ground.

"You."

His answer so closely mirrored Justin's that it shook her to the core. "Me?" she whispered.

"I've been holding David's share of the gold mine in trust for you all these years. I would have returned much sooner, but I feared my very presence might put you in jeopardy. I had no way of knowing you were already living with the man who had gone unpunished for your father's murder."

Emily wrung her hands. "Perhaps the price he has paid for his treachery is worse than imprisonment."

"Perhaps," he said, skepticism thick in his voice. He dropped the cigarette and ground it into the sparse grass. His gaze floated over her like silken fingers. "He could still be dangerous, you know. I hate to

think of a sweet, fragile creature like yourself living under his influence."

Emily stood abruptly, as if his bold look had shied her. "Your concern touches me."

He stood, his big, masculine shadow dwarfing her. "I've arranged for my solicitor to call on you to

discuss your inheritance. I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for your present situation.

Perhaps if I had not waited so long to return …" He cupped her chin in his hands.

His smooth thumb grazed her lower lip. "May I call on you again as well, Miss Scarborough?"

She gazed up at him, softening her lips with the hint of a provocative pout. "I should be wounded if you did not, Mr. Saleri."

He snatched up her hand and pressed it to his lips. "I would rather destroy myself than wound you."

With that passionate declaration he gathered his walking stick and started toward the drive, pausing only once to look back and doff his hat to her in gallant farewell.

She stood alone after he had gone, the fringe of her shawl whipping in the wind. One question haunted her: Why was Nicholas Saleri offering to hand over her father's share of the gold mine without so much as a murmur of protest? Could Justin have been wrong about the man? And if he was, was he wrong about other things as well? The cold finger of a lengthening shadow touched her, making her shiver. She glanced toward the house. The sinking sun had set the windows of the west wing ablaze, but there was

no mistaking the watchful stance of the dark figure framed in an upstairs window. Tucking the shawl around her, Emily bowed her head and strode quickly toward the house.

Shadowy shapes cavorted in the firelight, their bronze bodies sheened ivith sweat. They leaped and twirled in a feral frenzy, rolling eyes and thrusting hips to the hypnotic chant of the sea and the

thundering rhythm of Emily's heart. She stood in their midst, her sheer nightdress dancing in the

balmy wind.

The natives parted ranks and that's when she saw him-a dark figure emerging from the bush, a

panama hat tilted low to hide his eyes. She tried to move, tried to run, but the sand sucked at her

ankles. It was too deep, too thick.

Toying with her, the man drew a cigarette case out of his pocket and slipped the thin cylinder between

his chiseled lips. He struck a match, and in that brief flare of glowing ash Emily saw ill his eyes-not

the molten brown of Nicky's eyes, but ruthless gold. Justin's eyes.

He advanced on her, stalking her with the lean, deadly grace of a tiger. As he passed through the

shadows cast by the feathery branches of a punga tree, he became a tiger, padding toward her on all fours. His powerful muscles shifted in lethal synchronicity as he crouched for the kill. Then he was

Justin again, flicking the burning cigarette into the night.

Emily stood frozen. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Bewitched by his approach, she realized she didn't want to move. Tears of shame trickled down her cheeks as she realized she was willing to pay

any price to feel his embrace one last time. He slipped behind her and wrapped his strong arms around her waist. He had the eyes of a tiger but the hands of a man. They were so warm, she could feel her

flesh melting beneath their heat. Her head fell back in surrender.

The heat from the flames climbed as he bent his leg between hers, dipping low to mold the muscular planes of his body to her own. His palm drifted down to cup the damp fabric of her nightdress to her breasts, then to the throbbing flesh between her legs. She could feel the dark, watchful eyes of the

natives on them, but was helpless to stop his sensual mastery of her body and soul.

Through a haze of dark pleasure she felt a new weight, heavy and cold, against her belly. Her gaze

drifted down to see the pistol gripped in his beautiful hand. With exquisite tenderness he trailed the

barrel between the aching fullness of her breasts and up until she felt the icy press of the muzzle against her temple. She writhed against him.

At the exact second his artful fingertips pressed her into ecstasy, his mouth sought and found hers, his

kiss so sweet and fraught with tender promise that it made her sob . . .

. . . then he pulled the trigger.

Emily sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. The flames of her dream were gone now, leaving her drenched with sweat and shivering among the twisted bedclothes. Her bedroom was dark, the fire

almost out. She kicked the sheets off her ankles, remembering how the sand in the dream had held her fast. Her body still tingled as if from a lover's touch. She glanced at the door, half wishing the knob

would turn, the door would swing open.

Justin's mocking words came back to her: I have no intention of going where I'm not wanted.

Justin was wrong. She wanted him badly. She wanted him to cradle her in his arms, to reassure her

that Nicky was lying about her father's death, to chase away her doubts and nightmares with his tender kisses. But he'd kissed her in the dream, hadn't he . . . ?

Shuddering, Emily threw back the covers and padded restlessly to the hearth. Justin obviously had every intention of keeping his word. They'd barely spoken after Nicky's departure. Supper had been a stilted affair with the duchess and Justin's sisters casting puzzled glances between their guarded faces.

She stabbed at the glowing embers with the poker, hoping to stir the dying fire into flame. Beneath her clumsy probing, the last burning coal crumbled to ash. She dropped the poker and hugged herself, shivering. The sweat was drying on her skin and her bare feet felt like ice. Glaring at the door, she made her decision. Without bothering to grab her robe, she threw open the door and plunged into the black corridor.

* * *

Emily quickly realized it must be very late. The candles left burning at bedtime had all guttered in their sconces. The darkness enveloped her in its unrelenting folds. As she navigated the corridor, her toes slammed into the taloned base of an occasional table. Swearing under her breath, she caught a teetering china figurine before it could fall.

She continued on, hugging the center of the corridor. A loose board groaned beneath her weight. She froze, foot poised over the next board, waiting for a bevy of servants to come rushing up the stairs or

for Harold to pop out of his bedroom and hit her over the head with something, believing her a burglar. The silence held its breath along with her.

She dared to move on, wandering the long corridors until she stood before the door to the master suite.

Its carved mahogany splendor dwarfed her. She lifted a hand to knock, then drew it back. Was this how Justin had felt at her door-like a desperate pauper come to beg?

She brushed back her curls, then lifted her hand again. She still could not find the courage to shatter the fragile silence. So she folded her trembling fingers around the brass handle and gently eased the door open.

Chapter 33

As Emily peeped into Justin's room, an unbidden rush of fondness flooded her. She should have known

he wouldn't be sleeping at this late hour. He sat propped against the pillows, reading by the flickering

light of a single candle. The heavy curtains of the four-poster had been drawn back and tied with incongruous lengths of hemp.

The downy comforter rode low on his abdomen. His chest was bare, his hair tousled. The candlelight danced off his gold spectacles. There was something so compelling about eyeglasses on a handsome man-such a teasing hint of leashed potential that Emily felt her breath catch with desire.

He looked up then to find her peering in at him. His eyes darkened with surprise, then displeasure.

Seeing no chance of honorable retreat, she crept into the room and stood shivering in the middle of his Aubus-son carpet. A fire stoked by fresh coal crackled on the grate. Justin laid aside the book, then

drew off his spectacles and folded them on the nightstand. Emily approached the bed. It loomed over

her, sumptuous, warm, and inviting. Unlike its occupant.

"I … um … I wanted . . ." She stammered, unable to find her words beneath his harsh gaze.

He threw back the comforter and bounded out of the bed, dragging the sheet around his waist. Emily realized he was nude beneath it.

He paced the bedroom in long strides. "So this is what it's come to between us. You think you can waltz in here after you've made it clear what you think of me." He paused in his pacing to glower at her. "Do you think me so desperate I'd take any scrap you'd care to throw my way?"

Dumbfounded by his impassioned speech, Emily felt her mouth fall open.

He raked a hand through his hair and circled her. "How could you expect me to face myself in the

mirror tomorrow if I compromise my honor for a few fleeting seconds of ecstasy?" He caught her by

the shoulders and gave her a hard little shake. "Do you think you're so charming in that silly little nightdress that I can't resist tumbling you? Do you think I have no pride when it comes to you?"

"B-b-but I-"

"Well, you're right," he shouted. "I don't!"

With that, his lips came down on hers. Emily tilted her head back, giving the full measure of her mouth

to his possession. His tongue plundered her with warm, rough abandon. She answered his desperate plea with a soft swirl of her own.

He swung her around to the bed and laid her beneath him. His hands tore at her drawers, shoving them away with none of the artful preliminaries he excelled in. It was as if he were afraid any hesitation might give the lonely night cause to take her back. He pressed himself into her, groaning when he found her as ready for him as he was for her.

Emily wrapped her arms around him, shivering at his rough urgency. She had been cold before, but now

a molten fire was spreading through her blood. His tongue invaded her mouth, taking her there just as

his hips were taking her lower. There was a savage edge to Justin's love-making she'd never experienced before. Both shock and pleasure rippled through her as he dragged her hips to the edge of the bed and stood between her legs, spreading and molding her until she could feel each of his fierce strokes pounding at the mouth of her womb. She wanted to scream beneath the force of it. She bit her lip, tasting blood. She felt her eyes roll back as her body threatened to succumb to that dark netherworld between pleasure and swooning.

He cupped her face in his hands. "Look at me, Emily," he commanded her hoarsely. "Look at me now."

She met his devouring gaze, seeing the beautiful face of the man she loved strained in an agony of pleasure. Still holding her gaze in his golden vise, he pinned her shoulders to the bed, forcing her

writhing body still for an even deeper possession.

Without warning, spasms of ecstasy wracked them both, and not even Justin's mouth on hers could completely muffle her broken wail.

* * *

Emily awoke with her mouth pressed against Justin's chest. Their bodies lay in a sleepy tangle, her leg thrown over his, his arm cupping her rump. The fire cast fingers of flame against the shadows. Caught

in the cradle of Justin's arms, she found the massive bed warmer and cozier than she ever could have dreamed.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest, utterly sated. He had made love to her again after the first time, extinguishing the candle and taking her with such reverent gentleness it had made her weep. His hands had stroked and soothed her tender flesh as if to ease away the rough edges of their desperate coupling.

She sighed. If only the past were so easily vanquished.

Pulling the blanket over him, she sat up and delicately untangled herself from his embrace. As she crept out of the bed, every muscle ached in protest. She was surprised she could walk at all.

She had almost reached the door when Justin sat up. His bitter voice cut the shadows like a blade. "Leaving so soon? Did you get what you came for?"

Emily bit her lip, unable to stifle an odd little giggle. "No. Actually, I came to borrow some coal for my fire."

She eased open the door and slipped out, missing Justin's flabbergasted expression as he spread his

arms and flopped back among the pillows.

* * *

When Emily entered the parlor the following day, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. The servants hastened in and out with their feather dusters, shooting Justin nervous glances. Word of his relapse, hastened by the bizarre accusation made by the wealthy Italian at the Comtesse Guermond's

fete, had flown through their ranks. Emily had to admire his sisters' composure. They sat poking at their embroidery as if it were completely normal for their brother to be accused of murder, then to appear at midday garbed in nothing but his dressing gown and stockings. Although Justin was unable to explain the reason for his bizarre dress, he seemed to be maintaining a semblance of sanity while in their company.

Justin glanced up from his book as Emily claimed the balloon-backed chair opposite him. She was not completely able to hide her wince of pain as she sat. His gaze shifted quickly away.

The duchess beamed and held out an embroidered pillow. "Pillow, dear? Those unupholstered chairs

can be so uncomfortable.

"No, thank you," Emily mumbled.

Could his mother possibly have heard their uninhibited cries in the night? Justin wondered. He was saved from further speculation by the arrival of Penfeld, who tilted his disapproving nose in the air and announced, "A Mr. Saleri is here to call upon Miss Scarborough."

The color drained from Emily's cheeks. She exchanged a look of dread with Justin. Neither of them had expected Nicky to take the bait so quickly.

"Tell him I shall receive him in the garden," she said, rising.

Edith rose along with her, laying her embroidery ring aside.

"Down, Edith," Justin commanded. "Emily's a big girl. She doesn't need a watchdog."

Bewilderment touched Edith's eyes. "But I thought . . . surely a chaperone …"

The duchess rose and took her daughter by the arm. "I do believe I need a chaperone, dear. Shall we stroll to the conservatory and check the roses?" As she led Edith from the room, she cast both Emily

and her son a speculative glance over one shoulder.

* * *

Nicholas was waiting for her by a terra-cotta fountain, resplendent in a gray-striped morning suit. The

day was much cooler. As Emily approached him, she pulled the woolen hood of her cloak over her hair

to hide her expression.

He squeezed her hands and favored her with a melting smile. "Miss Scarborough, ever a delight. I

believe you are fresher than even the morning dew."

"Why, Mr. Saleri, you flatter me." He certainly did. There had been little time for rest between her nightmares and bouts of Justin's loving and she knew the bags beneath her eyes must be roomier than portmanteaus.

He drew her hands to his lips and Emily braced herself to be licked. The first haunting notes of Chopin's "Waltz in C-Sharp Minor" floated into the garden. Nicky paled and glanced toward the opaque plates of the drawing room windows. It was the first time she had ever seen him shaken.

"He still plays?"

She nodded. "At times. It's one of the few comforts left to him."

Recovering his composure, Nicky tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her down a cobbled path. "I could hardly sleep last night for thinking of our conversation. I fear you must think me the most despicable of liars."

The timeless strains of music drifted on the wind. Emily imagined Justin's strong, graceful fingers striking each key, sending her the strength to murmur, "I could never think ill of you, sir."

"Ah, but after all, it is my word against your guardian's. If only I could show you that land grant for the mine … do you think he has it in his possession here?"

Emily thought of the morass of papers and books moldering away on the North Island. "I doubt it. He was planning only a brief sojourn to England. He left all his papers in New Zealand."

Nicky shook his head. "How unfortunate. It's all I have to prove my story."

And all Justin has to prove his innocence, she thought grimly. "Even without proof I find you very convincing, Mr. Saleri."

He swung around to face her. Emily forced her expression to remain wide-eyed and ingenuous, hoping she didn't resemble a besotted rabbit.

He eased her hood back from her curls. "Please call me Nicholas, dear. Or even Nicky, if you would forgive my boldness."

His thumb stroked her cheek. He slowly lowered his head. Emily closed her eyes, praying God would give her the strength not to be ill. Before his lips could touch hers, a cacophonous banging shattered the moment. A raucous male voice broke into song:

Naughty Maud, the Shrewsbury bawd,

She'll steal yer purse an' tickle yer rod,

And still leave ya yell in' fer more, by gawd!

Nicky snatched his hand back, wincing. Emily hoped her choking noise would be construed as one of humiliation rather than laughter. She jerked up her hood and took a few hasty steps away.

Nicky dogged her, obviously eager to try a new tactic. "His behavior must be a constant source of embarrassment to you. Has he ever harmed you in any way?"

"Oh, no. I believe he's quite fond of me"-she hesitated for the necessary heartbeat-"in his way."

As they walked on, Nicky took the bait and began to weave his serpentine twists of logic like a web around Justin's story. Each irrefutable strand was sticky-sweet with his charm. He dropped constant hints about the missing land grant until she wanted to clap her hands over her ears and run screaming from his presence. Oddly enough, it was Penfeld who rescued her when he appeared in the garden and engaged their elegant guest in a conversation about the competing merits of Indian and Chinese tea. Shooting him

a thankful glance, Emily excused herself to summon a maidservant to serve refreshments in the salon.

* * *

As she marched through the drawing room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a hand shot

out and dragged her into a curtained window alcove. "Are you all right?" Justin asked.

"Yes. No." She clutched the lapels of his dressing gown. "I can't bear it. We have to end this soon."

His eyes hardened; their grim determination chilled her. "We'll end it right now if you like."

"No! We mustn't. He hasn't revealed anything yet. We have to push him somehow."

The click of Nicky's boots sounded on the parquet floor. They stood paralyzed until Emily reached up and frantically rumpled Justin's hair.

"What in the hell are you doing?" he whispered.

A heartrending sob caught in her voice. "No, please, Your Grace, I've begged you not to do this."

Justin quickly caught on to her scheme. He ripped a scrap of lace from her collar and shouted, "Come

on, little girl, just one kiss for your new daddy."

They both heard the approaching footsteps pause. Emily emerged from the alcove, clutching her torn collar. She pretended not to see Nicholas tiptoeing toward the doorway behind them.

"Oh, please, sir, you promised not to do it again."

Justin grabbed her around the waist with a leer a bit too convincing for Emily's taste. "Don't fight me, child. You know you enjoy it!"

Nicholas peeped around the door frame.

"Hit me," Emily mouthed.

Justin jerked her close, genuine desperation in his grasp. "Don't ask that of me," he hissed.

Pretending to struggle, she dug her fingernails into his arms and pressed her mouth to his ear. "Hit me, dammit!"

His voice rang out. "You little brat, I'll teach you to disobey me." His eyes darkened in agonized apology as he drew back his hand and slapped her across the face.

His elbow bore the brunt of the blow. Emily barely felt a sting, but the shock of it still brought genuine tears to her eyes. At the flood of answering remorse in Justin's eyes, she would have done anything to summon them back. Justin hadn't the flare for playacting that she had. If Nicky took one glance at his face, the game would be up. The true enormity of what she must do struck her harder than his blow. Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she whirled around to flee, only to find Nicholas standing rapt in

the doorway.

It took him a second too long to veil the cruel, excited twist of his lips with righteous anger. "I say,

man, what's the meaning of this?"

Justin shoved past him without a word. Emily flung herself across the room and crumpled into Nicky's arms. Clucking his sympathy, he led her to a settee beneath the window, where she made a valiant show of getting a grip on her emotions, all the while snuffling into his pristine shirtfront. He pried her off him and fished out a handkerchief, poorly hiding his moue of distaste.

"Please forgive me," she said, blowing her nose daintily into his handkerchief. "I never meant you to witness such a disgraceful spectacle."

"It only confirmed my worst suspicions," he said, his face set in noble lines. "I had hoped this wouldn't

be necessary, but I fear your guardian's behavior has made it so."

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny derringer. Emily's hands began to tremble in earnest. He opened her icy fingers and laid the weapon on her palm.

"I want you to take this, cara mia. To use it if need be to protect yourself from that madman. There's

not a court in this land that would convict you for killing him."

Emily stared down at the charming little pistol, knowing it was no less lethal for its size. It was plated in polished mother-of-pearl and fit her palm as if it had been made for it.

He folded her fingers around the gun. "Go on. Take it. Your father would have wanted you to have it."

She gazed up at him, hypnotized by the glow of sincerity in his eyes. A blustering shout sounded from

the nether reaches of the house.

Nicky hastily stood. "I think it best if I go now. I shall call again tomorrow. Don't forget what I said."

"I won't," she said, rising like a zombie. "Oh, Nicholas," she called as he turned to go.

He pivoted expectantly.

She waved the crumpled rag. "You forgot your handkerchief."

Smiling wanly, he took it between two fingers. She watched him juggle it all the way to the door before

he finally stuffed it into a potted palm on the cloak rack.

When he had gone, Emily stood staring at the small gun. Seven years ago a weapon such as this had ended her father's life. A footstep sounded behind her, and she hastily dropped it into the pocket of her skirt.

She turned to find Justin watching her.

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing." She averted her gaze. "Nothing of any import."

She started to walk past him. He caught her shoulders; his gaze searched her face. "You're lying to me. Why?"

Unable to bear the pain crystallizing in his eyes, she pulled away. "Please. I'd like to be alone now. I'm tired."

She brushed past him, knowing the most dangerous role in her charade had just begun. As she fled up

the stairs, the derringer lay like a cold weight against her thigh.

* * *

Emily was slipping away from him. Moment by moment. Day by day. The knowledge tore at Justin's

soul like jagged claws. Nicky's daily visits continued, but she no longer confided in him. He would enter

a room to find them sitting with heads together, laughing and whispering. They would fall into silence at the sight of him, and Emily's beautiful eyes would turn dark and cold with suspicion. Was she so eager

to believe ill of him that she'd allow even Nicky to spread his poison through her mind? He continued to play the invalid lunatic, at times querulous, at others fiercely jovial, each day feeling more like the madman he was pretending to be.

Both family and servants gave him wide berth. Not even the wounded bafflement in his mother's eyes was enough to make him lay down his pride and break his silence. It hurt too damned much to believe Emily would turn on him so easily. She made no more visits to his room, and he spent his nights pacing the spacious suite like a caged tiger. As his panic grew, he began to make his own inquiries into Nicholas's business ventures.

He returned from one of those sojourns late one evening, shaken to learn Nicky had booked two passages on a tramp steamer sailing for New Zealand within the week. Discovering Emily had gone out to attend the opera with her dear friend Mr. Saleri only fueled his panic.

"You did what?" he roared at the bewildered Edith. "You allowed her to go out unchaperoned?"

"You never wanted her chaperoned before in his company," she protested, her lower lip trembling.

"You said he was an old friend of her father's. How was I to know?"

"If you'd use that porcelain head of yours for something besides hanging your ringlets on, you would

have known," he shouted.

Edith dropped her embroidery and burst into noisy sobs. Lily and Millicent closed ranks around her, patting her heaving shoulders and giving Justin looks that would have shamed the devil himself.

He paced away from them, running a hand over his weary eyes.

His mother shoved her bulk out of her chair. "You were always a good boy, Justin. Your father never even had to take the cane to you. I'm beginning to think that was a terrible mistake."

Justin spun around. "What did Father need a cane for? He had his sarcastic wit and his demeaning remarks for weapons. I wish he'd had the common decency to give me a beating with his fists."

Emily's dulcet tones cut through the chaos. "Here now. What's all this fuss about?"

They all froze, staring at her. She stood in the doorway of the parlor, dripping sophistication. A cream-blue dress of ruched satin hugged her hips, falling to scalloped ruffles draped to reveal an ivory underskirt. She wore matching gloves studded with pearl buttons, and her hair had been swept back at

the temples by mother-of-pearl combs. Combs he had bought for her, Justin realized, fighting blind rage.

Her skirts rustled as she swept in and knelt beside Edith, handing her a handkerchief from her satin reticule. "There now. You mustn't cry so. You're getting your lovely embroidery all soggy." She straightened and looked at him, her gaze free of reproach, or any feeling at all. "Didn't they tell you?

I just went to the opera. La Traviata. It was marvelous. I do so love all things Italian."

Justin bit back the obvious retort. What was she trying to do? he wondered. Provoke him to murder

right there in the parlor. "I need to talk to you."

She smothered a yawn into her gloved little hand. "In the morning perhaps. I'm off to bed now."

She strolled out, her bustled rump swaying beneath its satin sheath. There was dead silence for three

long, lazy sweeps of the mantel clock's pendulum. Edith didn't dare even to sniffle. Then somewhere

in the house a door closed. And locked.

That muffled turn of the key was Justin's downfall. He slammed out of the room and climbed the stairs two at a time, not caring anymore who heard him traverse the darkened corridors to Emily's room. His thigh struck a table, overturning it. The photographs toppled and struck the floor in an explosion of shattering glass. His long strides devoured the carpet until he stood outside her door once again. Sometimes he felt he'd spent half his life there.

Justin didn't waste time knocking or toying with the knob. And he definitely wasn't in the mood to beg.

So he simply lifted his leg, and in one powerful motion, kicked the door down.

Chapter 34

Emily pressed her palm to her thundering heart. Justin stood in the doorway, the splintered door lying

like an altar of pagan sacrifice at his feet. The shattered lock dangled from its mooring. He stretched out his arms and braced his weight on either side of the door frame. His lazy grin never reached his eyes.

"Hello, darling. I thought you might need some coal for your fire. Or has someone else been stoking

your flames these days?"

His clothes were rumpled. His untrimmed hair hung in shaggy disarray. His eyes were red-rimmed and wild from desperation and lack of sleep. He was everything the polished and urbane Nicholas Saleri

could never be.

She broke away from his compelling gaze, forcing herself to remain cool, knowing there was only one way to earn any peace for either of the men she had loved.

She slipped an airy note into her voice. "If you must know, Nicholas has asked me to marry him."

The wild look in Justin's eyes deepened. "What a tidy way to wrap up your inheritance! He marries you, takes you back to his mansion in New Zealand. And how long do you think it will be before the new

Mrs. Saleri suffers a tragic accident? A week? A month? I know Nicky. Once he has your money, he'll have no further need for you. You'll only be an encumbrance to him. He'll dispose of you just as he did David and me." Justin crossed to her. "Have you forgotten what a monster he is? My God, he plotted your own father's death."

She lowered her lashes before he could see his own agony mirrored in her eyes. She had to use all of

her wiles and passion to convince this man she hated him. She closed her eyes, summoning back all

those feelings of anger and abandonment she'd fought so hard to vanquish.

When she opened them, she knew they sparkled with furious contempt. "He wasn't the one who pulled the trigger though, was he? Or the one who lied about it for seven years."

Justin ran a hand through his hair. A cynical laugh escaped him. "Nicky always was a randy little bastard. He'll probably let you live for a little while. At least until he tires of your skills in bed." He lifted a

mocking eyebrow. "And we both know how considerable those are."

Emily drew back her hand and slapped him. He stared at her, giving her a harrowing glimpse of his

utter helplessness before his eyes hardened to polished amber.

With one smooth motion he shoved her back against the wall. His powerful hands cupped her throat and his voice lowered to a husky growl. "If you think I'm capable of murder, you're bloody right. Because as God is my witness, I'll kill you myself before I'll let him have you."

He ground his lips against hers in a brief, raging kiss, then he was gone, leaving her heart as splintered

as her door.

She slid down the wall to a sitting position and pressed her mouth to her knee to muffle her anguished sobs.

"Sir, sir! Please! You must wake up."

Someone was shaking him. Groaning, Justin batted the persistent hands away and rolled to his side. His fingers struck something cool. He pried his bleary eyes open to discover it was the taloned foot of the settee. He vaguely remembered collapsing in the study in the wild hope of silencing the torment in his head long enough to let him sleep. But it was stupor, not sleep, that had finally claimed him.

David's face had danced through his restless slumber. In his dreams he had reached for him, but David had vanished, just like Emily.

"Sir, please! You don't understand. You have to get up!"

The genteel hands lost their patience. They fastened on Justin's lapels and jerked him up, shaking him

like a rag doll. The round moon of Penfeld's face finally penetrated the shrouded gloom of the library. The valet looked dangerously near tears and that fact, more than any other, stirred Justin to consciousness.

"Penfeld? My God, what is it, man? What's wrong?"

The valet's plump lip quivered. "She's gone, sir. For good this time, I fear."

* * *

Emily stood on the deck of the steamer and watched the coast of England melt into the dawn mist.

Every rhythmic chug of the engine's pistons, every wave riding against the iron hull, carried her farther away from Justin. She pulled up her hood, drawing it like a cool veil over her seething emotions. As Nicky rested his hands on her shoulders, her gloved hands clenched on the rail.

"It's only a matter of time now, cara mia. Once we find that land grant he tampered with, we'll have

the evidence we need. We can take it to the authorities and, with your testimony, have him put away for life. He'll never harm either of us again." He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. Emily shuddered. "Don't be afraid, love. I'll take care of you now. Once we've put this ugly business of the past behind us, we can discuss our future. But first we must bring your father's murderer to justice."

Emily faced him. "Yes, Nicky," she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "That's really all I

ever wanted. Justice."

* * *

As her bedroom door flew open, Olivia Connor, the Duchess of Winthrop, rolled over and sat up in her modest tent bed.

"Opening the door instead of going through it? How dreadfully conventional. You disappoint me, son."

Justin strode across the room and flung himself to his knees beside the bed. He wrung her hands in his desperate grasp. "Please, Mother. I need your help."

Her rag-wrapped curls bobbed knowingly. "It's the girl, isn't it?"

"Isn't it always?" His beseeching eyes searched her face. "Father's fastest ship. I have to know. What is it? Is it a steamer? A sailing ship? Think hard, Mother. Emily's very life may depend on it."

She absently twirled a ringlet around her finger. A slow smile dawned on her face. "I should have thought of that sooner." She beamed up at him. "Why, the fastest ship would be the Olivia, of course!"

* * *

Sailors scurried like ants over the polished deck of the graceful clipper known as the Olivia. They scrambled up and down ramps, staggering beneath the crates and barrels of supplies for the long journey ahead. They shimmied up the towering masts to secure the sails, all the while casting their new master some very uneasy looks. Even the most grizzled and salt-beaten of them was aware that London gossip reputed him to be a madman. Should they bid a tearful farewell to their mistresses and wives? Was he about to send them all on a dark voyage of destruction?

They found it even more perplexing that their young captain stood straddle-legged on the deck,

bellowing instructions as if he'd been born to command.

Justin was well aware of their trepidation, but there was damn little he could do about it now. He was determined to have the ship outfitted and asail by nightfall if it took every sailor in London to do it. The sea had brought him Emily, and he was more than willing to harness the sea to keep her.

As he stalked to the prow of the ship, the cool moist air filled his lungs. A blanket of fog had hung over the harbor all day. The slender spars rose like ghostly fingers into the darkening sky. The massive bosom of the clipper's figurehead jutted over the water.

Justin reached up and ran his fingers over her carved cheek. "Wish me luck, Duchess," he whispered. "I'm going to need it."

"Sir?"

Justin swung around to see a figure emerging from the fog. A carpeted satchel swung from his hand. A heavy woolen pea coat had replaced his frock coat, and a parrot-green bandanna hung at a jaunty angle around his neck. But even those things did not shock Justin as much as the dangerous-looking rifle slung across his back.

"Penfeld?"

The valet clicked his heels and gave him a snappy salute. "Aye, Cap'n, reporting for duty."

A rush of helpless affection blurred Justin's vision. God seemed to have dedicated himself to making amends for giving him Frank Connor for a father.

"Ah, Penfeld, I can't ask you to follow me halfway across the world, searching for a woman who may

not even want me to find her."

"Pish posh, sir, if I may be so bold as to say so. I've discovered civilization isn't to my taste. I've come

to believe a bit of adventure, like a cup of hot tea, warms the blood and keeps a man's heart thumping." He reached into the deep pocket of his coat. "Forgive my presumption, but I stopped at a shop on my way to the harbor. I thought you might have need of this."

Justin almost ducked as a long-barreled pistol came sailing at his head. He caught it between two fingers and ran his hands over the sleek metal. It was the first time he had held a pistol in his hands since he

had killed his best friend with one.

The valet's eyes sparkled with a determination to match his own. Justin gave him a roguish grin and tucked the pistol into his waistband.

He strode down the deck and threw an arm around Penfeld's shoulders. "Come on, you old tar, there'll

be no slackers among this crew. There's work to be done and bonnie fair maidens to be rescued."

* * *

Emily sat in a chair on the deck of the small steamer they had booked in Melbourne, watching Nicholas shave. He insisted on shaving outdoors, where the light was better. A white towel was slung around his neck and his shirt was half unbuttoned to reveal the smooth muscles of his chest. He leaned over the round mirror clipped to the railing and puckered his sensual lips.

Nicholas was talking. He was always talking. He talked incessantly, always about himself. She wondered why he'd bothered to rid himself of her father and Justin in such a clumsy manner. If they had remained his partners, it would have taken him only a few years to bore them to death. At least she'd been spared fending off any romantic advances. She understood now why he was satisfied with only chaste pecks on the cheek. No man that much in love with himself could have any desire for another. He seemed content to satisfy his own selfish pleasures with the mirror.

Her fingers dug pale cresents into the page of her book as she fought the temptation to plant her boot in the middle of his tight derriere and shove him over the side.

Perhaps he wouldn't be as fortunate with the sharks as Barney had been. She'd gladly cut off her entire hand and toss it after him if it would whet their appetites. She caught him watching her in the mirror's shiny surface and hoped her expression didn't reflect her bloodthirsty musings.

"What should I wear to dinner tonight, pet?" he asked. "The silk jacket or the paisley?"

"Oh, the silk," she said mildly. "It so complements your complexion."

He swore in Italian. "I'm not tanning, am I?" He tilted his chin for a critical perusal. "The sun always draws out the olive in my complexion." He slipped a tie around his neck and knotted it in crisp folds.

Emily fantasized about pulling the ends tight and drawing out the purple in his complexion.

A faint shudder raked him. "Too much sun is lethal for the skin. I should hate to look as old as Justin does."

Emily closed her eyes. Justin's bronze complexion floated in her memory. She imagined seeing the tiny lines around his eyes crinkle in laughter, tracing the chiseled grooves around his mouth with her tongue, running her fingers through the sun-streaked silver in his dark hair. A wave of longing, more potent than the sea, rushed over her.

She opened her eyes. "Don't fret, Nicky. Looking old is one thing you'll never have to worry about."

With that cryptic reassurance she buried her nose in her book and went back to basking in the warm

rays of the sun.

* * *

The clipper's sleek bow sliced through the jade-colored waves, scattering whitecaps in its path. Justin stood at the prow, his foot braced on a coil of hemp. He leaned forward as if his very posture could somehow hasten the magnificent ship's speed through the endless vista of sky and sea. Her sails rippled and snapped above his head, capturing the wind in billowing canvas clouds. The ship's navigator had assured him they were making excellent time and should reach the North Island by nightfall.

In the weeks they'd been at sea the sun had bronzed his skin and gilded his hair with a net of silver. He wore no shirt, and his worn dungarees hugged his hips and thighs like a second skin.

With the gold hoop once again dangling from one ear and the pistol wedged in his waistband, he knew

he looked like the worst sort of pirate.

The primitive spirit of adventure that had sent him to New Zealand the first time roared through his veins. It had taken Emily to bring it to life, to pull him out of the emotional coffin he'd buried himself in. He

had to find her. He'd promised David he'd take care of his daughter, and he intended to do just that, at the expense of his pride, or even his life.

All that mattered to him now was that she was still alive. He had tracked her and Nicky to Melbourne, where they'd switched steamers. He still had no idea why Nicky had veered off for the North Island instead of taking Emily to the palatial kingdom he'd built for himself on the South.

The balmy wind whipped his hair around his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, savoring

its salty tang. Its heat and scent had haunted him through the long, cold nights in London, nights softened only by that too-brief idyll when Emily had loved him.

As he opened his eyes, hope stirred within him like the faintest curl of a child's fingers reaching toward the sun.

* * *

The breaking waves slapped at the hull as Justin and Penfeld rowed the wooden dinghy toward the

shore. Justin's men had already boarded the modest steamer anchored off the western coast of the

North Island only to be told a man and woman had gone ashore at sunset.

They followed the curve of the shoreline, not wanting to warn anyone of their approach. Justin's restless gaze raked the shadowy forest. Was Emily there somewhere? Waiting for him?

He pressed a finger to his lips, silencing Penfeld's oars. The dinghy drifted around a narrow finger of sand. A chill touched him to see the familiar bluff and David's cross silhouetted against the violet sky. Penfeld removed his hat in a gesture of respect and clutched it to his chest.

The bottom of the boat scraped against land. In silent accord they climbed out and dragged it up the sandy slope, hiding it between two towering dunes. Penfeld reached around and drew his rifle from its sheath, handling it with surprising grace.

"Stay put," Justin commanded. "No matter what you hear, I want you to stay put. You've got to be

ready to take her away from here if something goes wrong. Do you understand?"

"But, sir-"

Justin shook a stern finger at him. "That's an order, Penfeld. Disobey it and I'll . . . I'll . . . dismiss you."

"Aye, sir," he replied with obvious reluctance. He settled down with his back against a dune and the rifle cradled in his folded arms.

Justin picked his way along the shadows of the dunes until he came to the rim of the open beach. He squatted in the sand, remembering another night, another beach. There was no sign of the natives now. The glittering carpet of beach rolled out before him. A primitive fear knotted his gut as he braced himself to step onto that shimmering stretch of sand and sea, naked to any eyes that might be watching from the forest.

Then he saw it, a light shining through the trees from the hut just as the light had once shone from David's tent. This time he would not be too late. His hesitation wouldn't cost him the life of someone he loved.

He burst from the cover of the dunes and pounded down the beach, sending chunks of wet sand flying

in his wake. Cold sea spray battered him. The beach unfurled in a sparkling ribbon, mocking him with

the serene beauty of the rising moon silvering the indigo swells.

A ghost stepped out from the shadows. Nicky, luminous in a white linen suit and a wide-brimmed panama hat. Justin stumbled to a halt.

He stared, mesmerized, at the graceful flick of Nicky's fingers as he struck a match and touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. The sickly sweet aroma of burning hemp filled the air, and Justin knew it wasn't tobacco he was smoking.

Nicky held out a gold case and raised one mocking eyebrow. "Cigarette? As I recall, you sometimes indulged."

"Why couldn't you have left us alone, Nicky? We were happy together. Why couldn't you just walk

away when you found us?"

A beatific smile curved his lips. "And give up the sheer pleasure of watching you destroy each other? You've always misread my intentions. I never wanted to kill you, Justin. I just wanted to watch you bleed."

"Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"Nothing." Nicky took a deep draw from the cigarette; his eyes glittered. "Yet."

With one smooth motion Justin drew the pistol from his waistband and pointed it at his old friend, his hands oddly steady. "I want to see her."

Nicky slid the cigarette case into his pocket and held up both hands. "Please don't shoot me. I'd never

get the bloodstains out of this suit, and you know how expensive Egyptian linen is."

"Take me to her."

He dropped his hands, giving Justin a beleaguered smile. "I've always found your singleminded sense of purpose quite dull. I told you. She's safe for now. At least until I tire of her."

Justin started for him. "You ruthless bastard."

Nicky's low laugh rippled. "Ah, so that's the way of it.

I thought so. I wonder what your precious David would say if he knew you'd been tumbling his sweet little Claire between the sheets. I don't think that's quite what he had in mind when he asked you to take care of her. But I do hope you rode her hard and broke her in well for me. "

Blinded by rage at the full extent of Nicholas's betrayal, Justin rammed the pistol back in his waistband and rushed him, coming in low and hard. His shoulder slammed into Nicky's stomach. The cigarette flew from his elegant lips. They rolled to the powdery sand in an explosion of flailing arms and legs.

Justin's right hook connected with a solid crack, rocking back Nicky's head. He wanted to pound his face to a bloody pulp, but all he got in was one more blow before he realized Nicky hadn't lifted his fists to fight back, but had balled them in front of his face to protect it. A keening whimper escaped him.

Grabbing his lapels, Justin slammed him to his back and straddled him. He shook him with each anguished word. "How could you do it, you son of a bitch? You were my friend! "

Nicky slowly lowered his hands, and Justin realized with horror that he was crying. Tears streaked the

grit on his cheeks but didn't dim the virulent hatred in his eyes. "You don't know what it was like," he screamed. "You always had it all. You never had to scrounge in the sewers of Rome for food or pennies, selling whatever you could to stay alive-even yourself."

Justin sat back on his haunches, stunned.

"We could have had it all, you and I, but you gave up your inheritance! You just threw it away like it

was nothing. And why shouldn't you? You never had to let some fat Sicilian pig maul you with his

sweaty hands in the hopes he might give you a loaf of bread afterward for your trouble!"

Justin turned his face away. "I never knew, ' he whispered. "I swear I never knew."

He was completely unprepared when the sharp heel of Nicky's boot slammed into his jaw, knocking him backward. Before he could react, Nicky rolled up. Striking with the speed and cunning of a serpent, he snatched the pistol from Justin's waistband and leveled it at him.

Justin stood, backing away. Nicholas followed, scooping up his hat as he rose and tilting it back on his head at a rakish angle. His grip on the gun wavered wildly. "You ruined everything, you rich brat. Together we could have had the world."

There was a sigh then, softer than the wind, and they both turned to find Emily standing in the sand, the moonlight pearling off the barrel of the derringer cradled in her palm.

Chapter 35

Emily looked so beautiful with her skirts blowing in the wind and her hair tousled by its fingers that

Justin wanted to weep. He was surprised she couldn't hear the crack of his heart breaking.

Nicky slowly lowered his pistol.

She moved toward Justin, the gun never wavering in her grip. The moonlight polished her skin to porcelain and shaded her piquant features to an inscrutable mask. Only her eyes were alive, sparkling

with an inner flame that burned bright and hot.

"I was hoping you'd leave me the pleasure of shooting the bastard," she said.

A grin spread across Nicky's face. He tossed Justin's pistol aside, pulled out a handkerchief, and scrubbed at his palm as if the weapon had defiled it. "The pleasure is all mine, cara mia."

Justin faced her as he should have seven years earlier- with his arms spread wide and his heart in his hands. "It's all right, darling. Killing me won't stop me from loving you."

She took another step toward him. A single tear slipped from her lashes and tumbled down her cheek. Her thumb toyed with the hammer; her voice was as soft and lethal as a caress. "Now you'll know what it's like to die a thousand miles from home at the hand of someone you love."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. I am home. And I'd much rather die by your hand than his."

"Go on. Shoot him," Nicky urged. "Before he kills the both of us like he killed your father. Oh, they

were a fine pair, those two. Always had their heads together, laughing about something, shutting me out like I wasn't good enough for the likes of them. What really happened the night he died, Justin?" he taunted. "Was it truly an act of mercy, or perhaps a lover's quarrel?"

With no warning Emily swung the gun around and aimed it at Nicky's head. "Nobody talks that way about my daddy."

The derringer exploded in a smoky blur.

Nicky's hat flew off. He rubbed his head, his expression of bewilderment almost comical. "Do you

know how much that hat cost, you stupid little bitch?"

"More than your coat?" she queried politely, cocking the derringer and firing again. She winged his coat, tearing a blackened hole through the armpit. When she steadied her arm, the pistol was pointing straight

at his heart.

"You don't have to do this, Emily," Justin said very softly, inching toward her. "We can have him put away for a very long time."

Tears were streaming down her face in earnest now. "Not long enough," she said, raking back the hammer.

Nicky's eyes rolled wildly, but his attention was not on her. It was as if he could hear something they could not. They froze, listening. It was the silence. There was something wrong with the silence. In that instant of Emily's hesitation it had become a living, breathing thing. The shimmering leaves of the rain forest quivered and sighed, alive with knowing eyes. Justin's skin crawled.

The brush exploded in a screeching mass of lithe bronze bodies. Justin dove for Emily, pressing her to

her knees, forcing her face into his chest, wanting to spare her the sight of the familiar tattooed faces contorted into demonic masks of fury. Their ear-shattering cries for revenge drowned out the roar of

the sea. Hordes of sun-browned feet stampeded around them in a beat more primitive than drums or thunder. Someone was screaming. It might have been Emily or it might have been him.

Nicky's hysterical wail rose above it all. "For God's sake, you savages. Not the suit. Don't tear the

bloody suit!"

Justin lifted his face from Emily's trembling throat. A writhing mass of natives had Nicky by the arms

and legs. Justin stared mesmerized as they dragged him howling and bucking into the forest, leaving

only his panama hat flattened in the sand.

The screams and howls slowly died. For a wavering moment the silence was broken only by the

whisper of the waves and the shrill cry of a kiwi.

Someone was watching them. The hair on Justin's nape stood erect. He turned his head to find a lean figure squatting beneath the shadow of a punga tree. Their gazes met across the moonlit stretch of

beach, man to man, friend to friend. Then the native lifted his hand and melted into the arms of the

brush without so much as a rustle of his flaxen skirt.

Chapter 36

"Never underestimate the resourcefulness of an English valet left to his own devices," Justin murmured into Emily's hair.

She nuzzled against his chest, loath to surrender the comfort of his strong arms around her. He tasted so good -salty and gritty and real, as a man should taste. Her convulsive shivers slowly abated. She tilted her face to his, laughing and crying at the same time.

"Oh, Justin!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck.

It took her a moment to realize something was wrong. He knelt rigid in her embrace. She drew back fearfully. "You didn't really think I was going to shoot you, did you?"

"The thought did occur to me."

"But you were so wonderful, so gallant about it." She gazed up at him through a puddle of besotted

tears. "Why, you smiled at me like an angel."

He pried her arms off his neck and stood, brushing the sand from his knees. "My manners at guppoint have always been impeccable."

He walked to the edge of the waves and stared out to sea.

Emily trailed after him. "I had to do it, you know." She waded out in front of him, heedless of the foam washing over her skirt. "It was your face." Reaching up, she cupped his cheeks in her hands. "Your beautiful face. It's so expressive. I had no choice. You could have never maintained the charade. Nicky would have seen right through you. To make him believe I hated you, I had to make you believe it, too."

The planes of his face were cold and stony now. Only his eyes revealed the depths of his stormy thoughts. "You did an admirable job."

Emily dropped her hands. She paced back and forth through the waves, frantic to make him understand. "Saleri started harping about this land grant he claimed you altered to cheat him and Daddy out of their shares of the mine. He was going to use it to have you put away for life. I was afraid if he came here alone and got his hands on it, he would destroy it, or, even worse, doctor it himself to have you brought to trial for my father's murder."

Justin's voice was chillingly devoid of emotion. "Are you sure that's why you came with him?"

She wheeled to face him. "What do you mean?"

His eyes narrowed. "Maybe somewhere in your mind was just the tiniest smidgen of doubt. Maybe you wanted to see that land grant for yourself and find out if I really did murder your father."

"No!" She lifted her sodden hem and stumbled toward him. "I believed in you. I swear it. You're all

I ever believed in."

Snorting in disbelief, Justin scooped up a shell, then drew back his arm to toss it into the sea. "What

were you going to do after he took you to the land grant? Shoot him in cold blood?"

She grabbed his arm, not even realizing herself the full import of her words. "I didn't even think about what would happen next. I knew you'd come for me."

The shell slipped from his fingers. He slowly swung around to face her. "And if I hadn't come?" he

asked brutally. "If I had decided a woman like you was hardly worth chasing halfway across the world?"

She bowed her head, wondering if he would ever understand or be able to forgive her for her own dark passions. She lifted her head, her heart in her eyes. "I would have done what I had to do. He killed my father."

A strange expression passed over Justin's face, then was gone, leaving it as impassive as before.

He ran his thumb over her cheek to flick away a tear. "Then you'll understand when I do what I have

to do." With those words he gently disengaged her hand, turned, and walked away.

Emily's hands hung limply at her sides. "Where are you going?"

His stride did not slow. Desolation overwhelmed her with abandonment nipping close at its heels. All

she could see was Justin Connor walking away from her one more time.

She trotted after him, pausing to hop up and down on one foot to peel off her sodden slipper. "Go on, you coward!" she yelled. "Run away from me. It's what you do best, isn't it?"

She hurled the slipper. It struck him solidly between the shoulder blades. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then kept going.

Her voice rose. "I don't need you. I never needed you. The day Emily Claire Scarborough needs

anybody will be the day they grow tulips in hell!" She took a few more stumbling steps, then sank to

her knees in the sand. "I don't need you, you bastard." Tears blinded her. Her voice faded to a mumble. "I don't need anyone."

* * *

Emily sat on the bluff where her father was buried, hugging her knees to her chest. She watched as Justin's clipper unfurled its sails and set for open sea. The same warm wind that tossed her curls around her face filled its billowing sails, sending it slicing for the horizon. It was a magnificent sight, silhouetted against the pagan moon like a ghost of days long gone. Its beauty would have broken her heart if it

hadn't already been broken.

The lights of the ship slowly faded over the horizon, leaving her alone with the brilliant glitter of the

stars. She tangled her bare toes in the tussock grass and laid her damp cheek against her knee.

An unearthly sound filled the night. Emily lifted her head, stiffening. She was afraid to turn around,

afraid she might have imagined the hymn brightening the darkness, afraid it might be only the stars rubbing points or the melodic wanderings of a lost choir of angels. The music rose on magical wings, drifting through the wind to her ears.

Her hands clenched into fists. She stood and dared to turn, only to find a shimmering line of torches winding their way down the beach toward the bluff. Her breath caught in her throat.

The procession topped the bluff. Among their well-loved faces stood Trini in full ceremonial garb,

running his hands down the lapels of a rumpled coat of the finest Egyptian linen; Dani and Kawiri, their lithe naked bodies draped with shells and fragments of polished amber; the stern ariki, his mouth folded

in what might have been a smile on a more expressive face.

But Emily had eyes only for the man at the head of their procession. A barefoot king in a pair of ragged dungarees.

The silence rustled expectantly around them.

"You're late again," she said, swallowing around the knot in her throat.

"Not too late, I hope," Justin replied. "It's bad form to be late for your own wedding."

Emily pressed her fingers to her trembling lips. She understood that he was offering her his life as

bravely and as gallantly as he had on the beach. Not to end it in a flash of smoking gunpowder, but to

cup its fragile moments in her palm, to nourish it and protect it as she would her own through all the sweet years to come.

She opened her mouth to give him her answer.

A silver tray popped into her vision, crowned by a conch shell brimming with amber liquid. Penfeld bowed. "A spot of tea, perhaps, my dear? To celebrate this momentous occasion. '

He didn't utter a protest when she shoved the tray aside and flew across the bluff into Justin's waiting arms. Trini's deep-throated laughter pealed out as Justin rocked her in his hard embrace.

He swept out an arm toward the wind-battered cross. "I wanted David to share the moment with us."

"Oh, he is," Emily breathed in wonder. "Look."

They both stared at the base of the cross to discover a single fragile pohutukawa bloom had pushed its way up through the sandy soil, its tender petals unfurling in a fresh promise of new life.

Their lips met in a melting caress, making promises and vows they would gladly spend their lifetimes keeping. As the natives danced around them, Justin stroked her hair and pressed his lips to her ear, whispering the words she'd once thought never to hear again except on the distant wings of the wind-

"Stay with me always, my sweet, my love . . . my Claire."