The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

Angelique Margo Maguire

Berkshire — July 1819

The honourable Miss Angelique Drummond was so furious she could have spit. But ladies did not spit, either in public or in private, no matter how despicable their fathers might be. Even their deceased fathers.

“I do not understand the rush, Angelique,” said Minerva Drummond, querying her after their maid had fallen asleep. “My brother is not yet cold in his grave and here we are, flying off to Berksh—”

“’Tis two weeks since Father passed away, Aunt Minerva. And after what he’s done …”

Angelique tamped down the grief that threatened to overwhelm her, and allowed her anger to surface. She refused to grieve for her irresponsible, unfaithful sire who’d written his will so that she would be forced to beg for funds from the one man to whom she had not spoken in two years and refused to speak to now.

Her father, Viscount Derington, had lived his life frivolously, squandering his wealth so that he was in possession of very little beyond his entailment at his death. The meagre annuity he’d left his only child would be just enough to keep her and Minerva from the streets, but it was an unforgivable insult that he had not put her in charge of it.

He’d left the funds under the control of the Duke of Heyworth! Angelique ground her teeth in frustration at the thought of dealing with her former fiancé.

“I do not understand why you are so upset.”

Angelique looked squarely at her aunt and tried to be patient. Minerva was her father’s elder sister, but never the sharpest needle in the basket. Angelique knew she was still grieving the loss of her younger brother.

“You remember two years ago,” Angelique said, “when I — well, when Father and I — accepted Heyworth’s marriage offer?”

Minerva’s brows came together. “You seemed pleased at first. It seemed such a perfect match, and yet you left London before your nuptials. You upset your father …”

Yes, she had.

But his upset was naught compared to her own. Angelique had been enthralled by Heyworth. She’d fancied herself in love with him — the handsomest, most charming gentleman who’d ever requested a dance. He’d courted her diligently, as though she were the most desirable young lady in town. He’d sent her flowers and even a pretty locket on a golden chain. He’d declared his love and admiration, and then proposed.

And yet, two nights before her wedding, she’d learned the unthinkable. All through the weeks of their courtship, while Heyworth had been professing his love for her, he’d been visiting his mistress with some regularity.

Even now, Angelique’s blood boiled at the thought of his disingenuous attentions. What a rake. What a rogue. What an absolute scoundrel!

She would never wed such a man — a mirror image of her philandering father — and yet it was he who now managed the trust, the annuity that was Angelique’s livelihood. She would not be able to maintain Primrose Cottage — her house in Berkshire — without asking the Duke for funds. It was unthinkable, absolutely untenable, and Angelique intended to challenge her father’s will in court. She did not care how long it took, she would wrest control from the odious Duke and live on her own terms.

“Yes, I refused. But Father has seen to it that I must go to Heyworth and beg for my livelihood.” As though that might cause her to soften towards the man. If anything, it hardened her heart even more.

“My brother and Heyworth’s father had strong ties. And he is a duke, besides. You could not have done better—”

“Than to marry a lying womanizer? No, thank you, Aunt.”

“But most men …” Minerva blushed, hesitant to finish her thought aloud. But Angelique understood clearly. “Well, I understand that ’tis not unusual for a man … to … uh …”

“Which is why I will never wed. I have no intention of tying myself to some … some … stud who wants a wife merely for the purpose of breeding.”

“Angelique!”

“’Tis naught but the truth, Aunt Minerva.”

And when Angelique had learned of the lightskirt who was a regular fixture in Heyworth’s bed, she knew she could not bear knowing that his affections lay elsewhere. That she would not be the woman who owned his heart. Her very own mother had lived through the pain of that, and it had caused her demise at far too young an age. Angelique was not about to suffer the same fate.

She would write to Heyworth and request her funds, but there was no reason to have any closer contact than that.

Brice Colton, Duke of Heyworth, knew there was going to be hell to pay.

And he relished the thought of it.

He rubbed his hands together like an old miser, although he was anything but miserly. As Duke of Heyworth, he’d always made a point to use his vast wealth in many charitable ways, but he was not so inclined to be charitable where Angelique was concerned. He intended to make her beg. For her money, of course.

The thought of Angelique begging for his attentions had not abated since the day of their aborted wedding. He’d been incensed at first, at the very idea of Lord Derington’s daughter jilting him. He’d learned about Rathby’s lies far too late to rectify the situation, and hadn’t been able to find Angelique, either. Later, he learned that she’d fled to Italy — against her father’s wishes — on the very day they were supposed to have wed.

She was gorgeous, and any man in his right mind would want her. But it was her fine spirit that had attracted him to begin with. Angel was no missish flower who swooned — or worse, wept — at the slightest hint of social irregularity. She had gumption. She had fire.

She had opinions, by God.

Which made her exactly the kind of wife Heyworth wanted. Though her abrupt departure on the eve of their wedding day caused him no scarcity of embarrassment, he could only admire her courage and determination.

Heyworth had yet to see how determined she would prove to be against the seduction he had started planning the moment he understood the ramifications of her father’s will. With Viscount Derington dead, Angelique had no income. The Viscount had no son and no nephews to inherit, so his estate had passed to a distant cousin. There was nothing for Angelique but Primrose Cottage, bequeathed to her by her maternal grandmother, but she was going to need funds in order to maintain it. She could not live there without his largesse.

Heyworth expected her to arrive at any moment. Her father’s heir would have taken possession of the house in town, as well as the estate in Shropshire — as decrepit as it was. And Angel could not flee to Italy, not this time. She had no choice but to come to her grandmother’s house.

And deal with him.

Perhaps she would believe him this time. Trust him.

Heyworth looked around at the fine appointments in the drawing room. Primrose Cottage was far more than what its name implied. There were five or six bedchambers, and two parlours besides the drawing room in which he sat, as well as several small sitting rooms interspersed with the bedrooms. The kitchen was large and only a tad outdated. Best of all was a very fine portico that overlooked the back gardens, with a large sofa that would be the perfect place to commence his seduction.

He heard the squeaks and clatter of a carriage and waited for it to come to a halt in front of the house. Soon, there were voices and carriage doors slamming. The angel of his dreams was finally here.

“Thank heavens there is a meal already prepared,” Angelique said as she entered the foyer. The delicious aroma of a roasted something was in the air and it made her stomach growl. “I am famished.”

Footmen began to unload the carriage and, with all the commotion, Angelique hardly took note of the butler when he said, “Miss—”

“We ’ll take supper in the breakfast room, Thornberry. I do not wish to put you and Mrs Thornberry to any additional trouble. ’Tis bad enough that we arrived on such short notice.” She removed her gloves while heading towards the small dining chamber, with her aunt right behind her, and stopped suddenly when the last man she wanted to see stepped into her path. Minerva bumped into her, pushing her into his chest.

“Heyworth,” she whispered as he caught her elbows. She could not have been more shocked. She was not ready to face him.

“At your service, Miss Drummond.”

Angelique tried to step back and compose herself, but failed miserably. Not only was Minerva right on her heels, Angelique had never anticipated seeing the Duke at Primrose Cottage.

He did not release her arms right away, and a powerful frisson of awareness raced up her skin. “I took the liberty of visiting your lovely cottage … to assess your financial needs personally.”

“I’ll just leave you two to … uh …” Minerva bustled away towards the breakfast room, leaving Angelique to face Heyworth alone. She withdrew her arms from his grasp, and accidentally dropped one of her gloves. They both bent to retrieve it, and inadvertently bumped heads.

One of his big hands darted out to take hold of her once again, catching her to help her keep her balance. This time, he did not release her when she started to move away. He pulled her close and bent his head, his lips barely an inch away from hers. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

Angelique clenched her teeth, wishing his voice had lost its power to turn her knees to pudding. He smelled like shaving soap and leather, and his dark-green eyes were undeniably striking. Her breasts touched his chest, causing her breath to catch in her throat. What a husband he would have made …

If he hadn’t been keeping a lover while professing his love for her.

This time, Angelique did pull away. “I sent you a letter requesting quarterly funds, Duke. There was no need for you to travel so far on my behalf.”

“Ah, but there was great need.”

“I do not see why. You are not my guardian.”

“But I would make a very poor trustee indeed if I did not come and see the conditions of the estate in person.”

“As I said, it was not necessary. I did send you a letter which — very accurately — spelled out my needs.”

If she could have taken back her last two words, she would have, for Heyworth — from the way his gaze focused upon her mouth — was quite obviously reading more into them than she’d intended. He swallowed heavily, drawing attention to his masculine throat and the chiselled line of his jaw. It was entirely unfair of him to possess such a manly chin with a hint of a cleft.

“M-my requirements are not extravagant,” Angelique said in an attempt to turn his attention to the matter at hand. “The house is in good repair, so my father’s annuity will suffice.”

“How could you possibly know the condition of the house? You have not been home in, what? Two years?”

Twenty-three months, Angelique thought as her face heated. She had not planned on having to confront him at any time this decade, especially not at such close quarters. And alone.

“My father wrote.” But she did not wish to think of those letters or the sharp pang of grief that had settled just below her breastbone. She was angry with him, angry with Heyworth.

“I expect he asked you to return to London.”

“No. As a matter of fact, he did not.” She’d explained her position quite clearly, so Derington knew better.

“I understand he visited you in Florence.”

“Yes. Once.”

“But you did not reconcile.”

She was not about to dwell upon that awkward visit. Derington had been anything but a model father, and his desire that she wed into the wealthy, prestigious Colton family was pointless. Angelique wanted naught to do with a suitor who kept a mistress while he paid court to her.

“If you don’t mind, it has been a long journey. I am tired and famished and would like to retire as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” He gave a slight bow and allowed her to pass.

Clearly, it had not dawned on Angelique that he would be spending the night under her roof. Heyworth had no intention of giving her an opportunity to toss him out — which she had every right to do. There was an inn only three or four miles from Primrose Cottage. He probably could have acquired a room there, in spite of the crowds that had come to Maidstone for the horse race.

But that would defeat his purpose.

His nerves tingled with awareness of the woman who could still make him burn, just at the sight of her. Even in her unrelenting black muslin gown, she was magnificent, her doe’s eyes flashing fire at him as she spoke, her loose blonde curls shimmering in the candlelight. She’d given no overt indication of losing her composure, but Heyworth had noted the racing pulse in her delicate neck.

How he’d craved a taste of those plump lips.

He turned abruptly and went in search of his valet. The man was never far away, and Heyworth quickly located him. “I’m going out for a long ride while Miss Drummond and her aunt get settled in. Make yourself scarce as well, Grayson. I do not want the lady to realize we’re billeted here just yet.”

It was underhanded, he knew. But so had been the reason she’d fled two years ago, too. The unscrupulous Lord Rathby had spent a full year trying to injure Heyworth in retaliation for an incident at the races, and the bastard had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. Rathby had to have known that Angelique would be horrified by his deceitful “revelations” and cry off their wedding.

It had been the most humiliating day of his life, learning from the newspapers, for God’s sake, that his fiancée had fled to Italy rather than stay and marry him. Heyworth’s anger had known no bounds. He’d searched for Rathby only to discover that the blackguard had gone to ground after doing his damage.

After his initial fury passed, Heyworth had quickly realized that Rathby was not the priority. He had to go after Angelique — he had no doubt he could convince her of his innocence. And Rathby’s despicable treachery.

He made arrangements to follow Angelique to Italy, but on the morning he was to depart, his mother had fallen ill. There’d been no question of leaving London then, and the dowager duchess had lingered near death for a month before succumbing to a series of strokes that finally caused her demise.

And when the mourning period was over, it seemed that one thing after another prevented Heyworth from going after Angelique. He finally put his foot down and decided that everything else, no matter how crucial, could wait.

He’d gone to speak to Angelique’s father only a week before his death, informing the man of his intention to track down his daughter and bring her home to England. And then marry her. He hadn’t anticipated that she’d have to come home for Derington’s funeral.

Angelique had fallen asleep within moments of going to bed. And yet now she lay awake, her encounter with Heyworth plaguing her dreams. She thought about all she’d lost two years before. If Heyworth had not been so deceitful, Angelique would have married him happily, for she’d desired him as she’d wanted no other.

And it seemed that had not changed in the least.

The fact that she could not control her attraction for Heyworth, in spite of all that had happened, was beyond annoying. Fortunately, he was gone now, so she would be able to put him out of her thoughts as she’d finally managed to do in Italy. Until the next time she needed money, that is. Every farthing she required to live on would have to come from the Duke and, judging by their earlier interchange, she would no doubt have to go through the same rubbish she’d had to endure earlier.

She was twenty-four years old and, as Aunt Minerva was so fond of reminding her, well on her way to being quite solidly on the shelf. And now she was beholden to a man whose very presence made her heart quake in her chest.

It would have been so easy to lean into the comfort of his body. But Angelique again recalled the conversation she’d had with Lord Rathby only two days before she was to marry Heyworth. She was grateful that at least Rathby had been honest with her, unlike her fiancé and her own father. Neither of them must have thought she’d mind having a husband who kept a mistress in Chelsea.

Well, she did mind, and she was not about to go through the same misery her mother had. Luckily, she’d learned of Heyworth’s duplicity before she’d made any vows to him.

In need of a glass of milk to soothe her nerves, Angelique got out of bed and pulled a light wrapper over her chemise. Her nerves might be in a tizzy, but the house was quiet, and comfortably warm. Angelique crept down the stairs and headed in the direction of the kitchen, only to stop cold when she smelled smoke coming from the portico.

A fire would be disastrous. Angelique ran quickly towards the smell, afraid that Thornberry might have left one of his cheroots burning.

“You!” She stopped short when she saw Heyworth stretched out on one of the padded chaises.

He moved like an agile predator, coming to his feet without the slightest effort, and moving — stalking — towards her. He’d discarded his coat and collar, and had rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. In the pale lamplight, Angelique could easily appreciate the dusting of dark hair on his forearms, and his powerful hands. He tossed away the cheroot and her mouth went dry with feminine awareness.

Angelique felt next to naked. Her chemise was nearly transparent, and her dressing gown hardly better. As he came towards her, she felt her bare toes curl on the cool floor.

“I knew your hair would be even more lovely when you let it down.” He touched her shoulder, but only to pick up a lock of her hair, which he rubbed between two of his fingers.

“I thought you’d left … gone to the inn.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not going to let you go so easily this time.”

Every nerve ending in Angelique’s body was fully alert and clamouring for his touch. And then she remembered why she’d gotten off so easily two years before.

“I was very sorry to learn of your mother’s death, Heyworth. It couldn’t have been long after … after we … after I …”

“Thank you,” he said, stepping even closer. “I was in no position to come after you in Italy then. But, rest assured, had circumstances been different, I would have.”

His eyelashes were long and black, the perfect frame for his persuasive eyes. Angelique swallowed when he slid his hand along her jaw and cupped the side of her face. She tried to back away.

But her feet would not move. His touch felt like balm on a raw wound, far too compelling to disregard. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, brushing lightly against her mouth as he’d done during the earliest days of their courtship.

Angelique had tried to forget the shuddering pleasure of those light kisses, but her dreams had often reminded her of his sensual power. Far too often.

She wanted him now, wanted his arms around her, his brawny chest against her breasts, his loins against her own. She shuddered, and he suddenly deepened their kiss.

A small cry came from the back of her throat when he drew her close, changing the angle of his head for deeper penetration. His tongue touched hers, and Angelique’s knees went weak, though she felt protected by the heat of his body, and his powerful embrace. His arousal was thick and heavy against her pelvis and, when he moved, a sensation of pure pleasure skittered up her spine.

Her wrapper slid off her shoulders, and Angelique yearned for more. No, less. Much less clothing between them. She wanted to feel Heyworth’s bare skin against hers, their legs twining together. She’d dreamed of it often enough.

He lowered one strap of her chemise, and Angelique cried out with amazement when he cupped her bare breast.

“Aye, ’tis soft and full as I always imagined it. You are so perfect, my sweet.”

Angelique let out a low sigh when he bent down and touched the swollen peak with his tongue. He held her securely, but she felt as though she were floating in a sea of sensation, of need. She wanted it all — it seemed as though she’d always wanted to lie with him, to finally share her physical passions with the man she loved.

“Rathby lied, Angel,” he whispered, his voice harsh. He feathered kisses up to her neck. “He’s a scoundrel who doesn’t deserve half the credence you’ve given him.”

Angelique pulled away suddenly, as though a pitcher of frigid seawater had been dumped upon her head. What was she doing? Allowing her heart to be broken yet again? By the same man who’d nearly destroyed her two years before?

Disgusted by the whimper she heard coming from her own throat, she covered her breast with her chemise and whirled away, then made haste to the staircase. It took only seconds to scamper upstairs, where she quickly entered her bedchamber, closing the door tightly behind her. If she’d had a key, she would have locked it.

Whether it was to prevent Heyworth from entering, or to keep herself from making the same foolish mistakes with him again, she was not sure.

Heyworth was up early, but he didn’t enter the breakfast room until Angelique and her aunt had gone in and begun their meal. He wanted to give Angelique no possible avenue for avoidance. Of him.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, drinking in the sight of her.

“Your Grace,” said the elder Miss Drummond, “I had no idea you were still here. Why, I …”

“There is a horse race tomorrow down at Maidstone. Which means, of course, there are no rooms to be had within twenty miles.” He took a seat across from Angelique, who would not look at him. Still, he took satisfaction in the blush that rose on her cheeks, for she was obviously recalling the intensely sensuous interlude they’d shared the night before.

“I hadn’t heard,” said Minerva. She turned to Angelique. “Did you know of it?”

“No, Aunt.”

“Well, it has naught to do with us,” the older woman remarked.

Heyworth did not take his eyes from Angelique as he stirred his tea and half listened to her aunt discourse on the subject of escaping to the country only to find the crowds of London encroaching on their little corner of Berkshire. He’d never spent a morning with Angelique before, their courtship always taking the conventional course: afternoon rides in the park, balls and soirées in the evenings.

In the time before their aborted wedding day, Heyworth had imagined vividly the mornings they would soon spend together in bed — making love before the servants brought their breakfast, feeding each other tender morsels between heated kisses, then making love again before they arose to face the day.

She wanted him. Heyworth had no doubt whatsoever of that. If only he’d kept his silence last night, she would never have recalled the reason for her precipitous abandonment of their nuptials. He’d have driven her as mad with desire as she made him, and they’d have consummated their bond. Then Angelique would have had no choice but to make use of the special licence Heyworth had had the foresight to procure before coming to Berkshire.

But, dash it, he wanted Angelique to trust him. It had been far too easy for Rathby to convince her of Heyworth’s alleged misstep. He did not understand how she had so easily believed Rathby’s lies rather than his honest declaration of love.

For he did love her. He’d buried himself in his work — and his grief — and tried to forget her two years before, but it had been impossible. He was determined not to err this time. For he knew how much he had to lose.

Angelique was never happier to have an interruption than when Squire Stillwater arrived. She had slept badly the night before, and felt exhausted — from the funeral, the travel, the late night nearly succumbing to Heyworth’s seductions.

She rose quickly from her seat when Thornberry announced him, intending to go into the drawing room to receive their old family friend. Her grandmother and Mrs Stillwater had been close in years past, and she had always been more than kind to Angelique.

“Bring him in, Thornberry,” said Heyworth, stopping Angelique in her tracks. “Set another place and let him join us here.”

She scowled at Heyworth, looking squarely at him for the first time since he’d entered the breakfast room. She had not trusted herself to do so before.

And with good reason. He was outfitted as any gentleman might be, in a green waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes, a black cutaway frock coat, and dun-coloured trews. And yet he filled them out as no other gentleman could do. His raw masculinity was beyond tempting, but Angelique wanted nothing to do with a man who could lie so convincingly to her.

Her father had made a far too frequent practice of it with her mother. Women, drink and cards … Viscount Derington had done it all, and lied to Suzette through his teeth about his women and his gaming losses. His behaviour and the pain it caused her mother had taught her well. Angelique had no intention of losing her heart to a scoundrel like her father. When Rathby had told her the truth about Heyworth, she’d picked up her skirts and fled as quickly as possible to Florence, where she had friends.

“Good morning, good morning!” said Squire Stillwater as he entered the breakfast room.

He was barely as tall as Angelique, had the ruddiest complexion and brightest smile of anyone she’d ever known. The sight of him there, in Primrose Cottage, brought back memories of earlier days, and Angelique felt a deep twinge of grief for the loss of her father. She hadn’t shed a tear for him, and yet now she was on the verge.

She took a sip of tea to clear the sudden burning in her throat.

“Oh dear,” said the Squire. “I fear I have interrupted your breakfast.”

“Not at all,” said Heyworth, as though he owned Primrose Cottage. Angelique was temporarily glad of his proprietary manner, for it changed the cheerless direction of her thoughts. “Please join us.”

“Alas, but no. I cannot. We heard word of the Miss Drummonds’ arrival, and Mrs Stillwater bade me to ride over first thing … well, nearly first thing—” he chuckled “—to invite you to sup with us this evening at Tapton Manor. We had no idea Your Grace was here as well. You’ve come down for the race?”

“Aye,” Heyworth replied. Angelique looked at him sharply. Hadn’t he come to Berkshire … well, for her?

“The festivities are in full swing. Perhaps you’ll go into town and enjoy the fair — a real medieval exhibition with … Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear.” Stillwater seemed to take note of Angelique’s mourning attire all at once. He and his wife had travelled to London for the funeral, of course, but they were not compelled in any way to observe a mourning period for Viscount Derington. “Please accept my sincere apologies … I should never have mentioned—”

“Thank you, Squire. Though we cannot attend any of the activities in town, my aunt and I would be pleased to join you this evening. ’Twill be an intimate gathering?”

“Oh yes, of course. Our granddaughter, Caroline, and her husband have come down, and we’ll have a few neighbours as well.” He turned towards Heyworth. “And of course, Your Grace, if you would care to join us.”

Heyworth gave a slight bow of acquiescence. “I would be honoured to escort Miss Drummond and her aunt.”

“Esc—?” Angelique closed her mouth tightly and bit her tongue. She needed no escort, especially not an arrogant nobleman who quite obviously believed that women ought to worship at the sight of him. As she had done last night, much to her chagrin.

She knew better now.

It was truly unfortunate that Angelique was unable to come into town and enjoy the lively fair with its jesters and jugglers, its roving musicians and craftsmen’s booths. Heyworth remembered that she enjoyed such entertainments. They’d attended plays in Drury Lane and concerts in Vauxhall Gardens. They’d played cricket in the park in May of that fateful spring when Heyworth had courted her, and ridden together along the pretty bridle paths near Primrose Cottage.

But with her father so recently in his grave, she could not indulge in such frivolity. Heyworth knew it was not going to be easy for her, not that she’d been close to her sire in recent years. Derington had been an inept father, and an even worse husband, if the rumours were to be believed. He’d run through his own inheritance and, as far as Heyworth could ascertain, the Viscount had left only a small annuity to support Angelique and her aunt.

There’d been no dowry two years before, when Heyworth had offered for her, but that had been no obstacle to his intentions. She might have been destitute for all he cared. He had wanted Angelique and Angelique alone.

That had not changed. If anything, he wanted her more today than he had two years before.

It was a particularly warm day even here in the country, and Heyworth was glad to have escaped the heat and stench of London. He felt confident of his mission in Berkshire, convincing Angelique of his sincere intentions and winning her as his wife. There was nothing that mattered more to him.

A large number of London’s fashionable set had arrived for tomorrow’s race, and Heyworth knew he wouldn’t have been able to hire a room even if he wanted one. He stabled his horse and took in the sights of Maidstone while he walked through the crowded lanes. He had one purpose in mind, but was interrupted by a sour greeting from his one-time nemesis. Rathby.

Heyworth had forgotten Rathby owned a country estate nearby. The bastard had been on friendly terms with Derington and his family, which was the reason he’d had the opportunity to tell his lies to Angelique. And why she had believed him.

“Heyworth, what are you doing here?” There was no mistaking the hostility in Rathby’s voice.

“I’ve come down for the race, of course,” Heyworth replied as smoothly as he could. He had no intention of mentioning Angelique’s presence at Primrose Cottage, although it was only a matter of time before Rathby discovered it for himself. “Have you bribed anyone this time round, Rathby?”

The other man coloured deeply. “You have your nerve, Heyworth. Naught was ever proved.”

“No, but you forget — I saw you with my own eyes. Paying off a jockey. My guess is that you’re far more careful not to be seen these days.”

The Earl sputtered, and Heyworth brushed past him before the man could refute the charge, his mind whirling with possibilities. Rathby’s presence could very well work to Heyworth’s advantage, if he played him just right.

Solidifying a plan in his mind, the Duke entered a little shop of novelties. Several other shoppers were looking at the wares displayed on the shelves while the proprietor looked on. Heyworth browsed the offerings, bent on finding just the right gift for Angelique.

He spied it almost immediately.

“Would you mind,” he said to the shop owner, pointing to a lovely music box on a high shelf.

“Of course, My Lord,” said the man, who moved a ladder into place and climbed up to retrieve the box that featured a pair of dancing dolls on its top — a blonde lady, and the gentleman as dark as Heyworth. “They dance while it plays a right pretty tune, sir.”

He handed it to Heyworth, who gave the key on the bottom several twists. When he set it on the counter, the dancers moved around a clever little track on top while the box played a tinkling version of the Mozart waltz that had been his first dance with Angelique.

“How much?”

Heyworth paid the man and watched him wrap it, then he went back to the stable for his horse. He had a short visit to make at Squire Stillwater’s manor before returning to Primrose Cottage. And a favour to ask.

“Tell my aunt I’ve gone to the lake to read,” Angelique called to her maid as she stuffed a book into a small satchel alongside a spare shift, a thin blanket and a towel. Fortunately, Minerva was napping. She would be horrified to know Angelique’s true intentions.

Well, it was nearly as hot in Berkshire as it was in London, and Angelique had become accustomed to swimming on sultry days while in Italy. So even if Minerva wouldn’t approve, Angelique had no qualms about taking a short dip in the private lake nearby. She hoped the cool water would help clear her head.

She wanted to dispel all memories of Heyworth’s touch. She would never marry the man, and such intimacies were absolutely unacceptable. She couldn’t succumb to him again. The bond between them was merely physical attraction. There was no substance to his intentions — no honesty beyond the pleasure of the moment. Angelique refused to become the same kind of wretched victim her mother had been, waiting for the man she loved to favour her with his presence. Always wondering if her husband’s assertion of love was sincere and true, or yet another falsehood from an inveterate womanizer.

The lake was small, and its location a secluded little glade, the perfect haven in which to spend a warm, sunny afternoon with her dismal thoughts. It was quite different from the lake near her little villa in Florence. There was hardly any beach at all, with an unkempt lawn and trees growing right up to the water’s edge.

It was where her father had taught her to swim when she was a child, when he had found it amusing to pretend to be a father.

It was peaceful and quiet at the lake, but Angelique found it painful to think of her father, of the weeks he’d been ill before she’d come home. She hadn’t believed his first letter, and it wasn’t until the third that she’d realized he was in earnest. He was dying.

She’d been so damnably stubborn.

The sun shone brightly through the trees, and bees buzzed about the clover in the grass. Derington had once been a devoted father. In those days, he hadn’t gone running off every night to chase skirts and lose his money at the gaming tables. Angelique didn’t know what had caused him to change, but the change had not endeared him to her. She had barely acknowledged him as her father.

She forced aside her upsetting memories and put her satchel down beneath a tree. She pressed the blanket to her breast and smothered her sorrow, refusing to shed the tears that threatened. There was no point. She could not imagine that he’d have wanted her to weep, anyway.

Swallowing the thickness in her throat, Angelique spread out the blanket she’d brought. She sat down and removed her shoes and stockings, then took a quick look around to be sure she was truly alone before unbuttoning her bodice.

In a few short moments, she was completely undressed, but for the thin cotton chemise she wore under all her dull, black clothes.

She stepped into the water and found it refreshingly cool. After she waded out deeper, she lay back and floated, gazing up at the clear blue sky while she tried once again to empty her mind of all its troubling thoughts.

But her melancholy would not abate. Nor would her questions. Angelique could not understand why her father had thought it acceptable to make Heyworth trustee of her funds. When her father had come to Florence to chastise her for leaving England, Angelique had made it perfectly clear that she would never wed the Duke. Obviously, Derington thought they were well matched, in spite of Heyworth’s philandering ways. Her father must have believed that renewed contact with the Duke to work out the disbursement of the annuity would result in a new engagement.

It would not.

A bleak sob escaped Angelique and she came to her feet. Her father did not deserve her tears, yet her eyes filled and she found herself weeping over his loss. Whatever had occurred between her mother and father, Derington had been her papa. He’d taken her on pony rides and bought her sweets. He’d carried her on his shoulders and pushed her in the swing behind the cottage.

The guilt for leaving him alone during the last months of his life had been niggling at the edges of her awareness, but now it overtook her. She stumbled out of the water, feeling anything but refreshed. When she reached her blanket, she fell to her knees, then lay down and pressed her face into the soft cloth and cried as though her heart was broken.

At first, when Heyworth had come upon Angelique wading out of the lake, he’d thought himself the most fortunate of men. Her chemise was nearly transparent, allowing him a view of her perfection. Her every move was a seduction, her high, full breasts swaying as she left the cover of the water, her long graceful legs stepping from the lake. He felt a deeply visceral reaction at the sight of her.

And then he realized she was weeping.

Her indifferent exterior had been just that — an exterior. It was clear, in spite of her anger with Derington, she felt the loss of her father deeply.

Heyworth felt like a cad for ogling her while she was in such obvious distress. Without considering how she would react, he went to her, knelt beside her and put his hand on her back, gently caressing her shoulder. She turned to him suddenly and clung to his shirt, allowing him to hold her as she wept against his chest.

“H-he made me s-so angry,” she sobbed.

“Aye, I know, love.”

“He was unfaithful t-to my m-mother.”

Heyworth knew that, too. But he kept his silence.

“And h-he made you tr-trustee.”

“Hush, my darling. We’ll work that out.”

She looked up at him with the most beautiful teary eyes he’d ever seen. “H-how? You have complete—”

“No. Whatever you need — ’tis yours to use as you see fit.”

She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek. “R-really?”

His heart twisted in his chest at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes and the tears that fell from them. “Of course. I never meant to keep you from your inheritance, Angel.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, content to merely cradle the woman he loved in his arms.

Angelique slept like the dead for an hour or so, after walking back to the house with Heyworth. He had not attempted to kiss her or touch her in any way after she pulled herself together, and she …

She could hardly credit that she’d been disappointed. She didn’t want him to touch her. And yet …

Heyworth’s caresses were unlike anything Angelique had ever known. He was strong yet gentle, insistent but patient. She yearned for his embrace, but did not want to encourage his attentions. He’d told her she would have control over the annuity, when her father had given him jurisdiction over it.

It was all too much. She did not want to grieve for a father who’d hurt her mother so deeply, and who had seen nothing wrong with tying her to a fiancé who was unfaithful. And yet that fiancé was being so kind to her now.

Heyworth handed Minerva into the enclosed carriage, and when Angelique looked round, she saw that there was no horse saddled and ready for him. “You are not riding?”

He gave a shake of his head, and a lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead. She longed to touch it, to thread her fingers through the thick mass of it.

“It will be far cooler outside the carriage,” she said. She did not want to spend the next half-hour in such close quarters with him.

“You aren’t afraid of having me near, are you, Angel?”

“Of course not.” It was a lie. Even with Minerva present, Angelique could not dispel her ridiculous longing for him.

“Very good. Shall we?”

He helped her into the carriage and off they went. Angelique tried to keep her attention on the passing scenery outside her window, but she felt his gaze on her and, whenever the carriage went over a rough patch, his knees bumped into hers, sending shivers of longing through her.

“Will you attend the race tomorrow, Your Grace?” Minerva asked.

“I doubt it,” he replied, and Angelique looked up at him, puzzled by the contradiction. “I have other plans.”

“Oh? Will you be returning to London?”

He looked right into Angelique’s eyes. “I don’t think so. Not just yet.”

“There’s no reason for you to stay any longer, Your Grace,” Angelique said, in spite of the conflicting emotions churning within her. “Once you release the funds my aunt and I will need to live on—”

“That was done before I came down to Berkshire.”

The world shifted suddenly. “What?”

“I had my solicitor transfer control of your funds yesterday morning. A letter was sent, but it seems you left London before it could be delivered to you.”

“But then why—”

“Angelique, do not badger His Grace,” said Minerva. “’Tis perfectly clear that he came all this way to tell you personally.”

That could not be true. He’d sent her a letter. Angelique bit her lip in consternation. If he hadn’t come for the horse race, or to talk to her about the annuity, then he must have come specifically because of their broken engagement.

Had he changed? According to Lord Rathby, a certain Mrs Dumont was a frequent recipient of Heyworth’s attentions. At least it had been a Mrs Dumont two years ago. Did she dare hope that he’d changed his ways? That he was ready to become a responsible, faithful spouse?

She took in the strong line of his jaw and his intense green eyes and wished it were so. She feared she still loved him, and knew that marriage between them could be wonderful.

Or a complete disaster.

When they arrived at Tapton Manor, Angelique was quite surprised to encounter Lord Rathby. Yet his presence made perfect sense, for he had an estate nearby where her father had often gone shooting. Of course he was on friendly terms with the Stillwaters, but Angelique had not seen or spoken to him in the two years since the fateful conversation that had resulted in her abrupt departure from England.

She felt awkward facing him now, but the same was not true of Heyworth. Obviously, the Duke was unaware of Rathby’s part in her abrupt departure and the cancellation of their wedding, or he would not have been quite so cordial with the Earl.

And yet his cordiality had a strange edge to it, something Angelique could not quite define.

Heyworth took her elbow, as he drew her into the house. Angelique allowed herself to enjoy his innocent touch, nearly as comforting as the caresses he’d given her at the lake. She had never felt more attracted to him than she did at that moment.

When she was in Italy, it had been far easier to deny everything she’d felt for him. It was nearly impossible now.

She’d wanted him during their engagement, had lived for their stolen kisses and the promise of pleasures she could not even imagine after they were wed. Angelique tried to curb her longing for his touch, but feared she still loved him. She feared she did not have the strength or the will to reject him again. If he took her into his arms, or kissed her …

She would quite possibly melt.

Mrs Stillwater embraced her lightly. “You look pale, my girl. Come inside and sit down.”

“I’m quite all right, Mrs Stillwater,” Angelique said. “’Tis very good of you to invite us.”

Lord Rathby came and bent over her hand. “My sincere condolences, Miss Drummond, and my apologies as well, for my absence at your father’s funeral. I was in York and did not hear of his passing until it was too late.”

“’Tis quite all right, Lord Rathby. You were a good friend to my father.”

“Aye,” he said quietly and, when he slipped away to the far side of the room, Angelique suddenly wondered why he had bothered to seek her out two years before, to tell her about Heyworth’s perfidy. He’d been so earnest … and yet now, he was not quite so bold in his demeanour. His gaze darted towards Heyworth, as though worried that the Duke would suddenly divine who had tattled on him two years earlier.

Angelique made a study of him as the conversation flowed around her. It wasn’t as though Rathby himself had been vying for her hand, for he had not been one of her suitors during that season. What difference would her marriage to Heyworth have made to him?

Would he have had some reason to lie to her?

A leaden feeling of dread centred in the pit of her stomach. She’d never had any reason to doubt Heyworth before Lord Rathby’s tale of loose women. Rathby might have held a grudge or had some other reason for wanting to damage Heyworth. And yet Angelique had jumped to the conclusion that her betrothed was just as unprincipled as her father. She’d been afraid to trust him, afraid to trust that he was different.

Her mind reeled with possibilities.

“Do you plan to stay at Maidstone for very long, Your Grace?” Mrs Stillwater asked the Duke.

“No. Only until tomorrow.”

“Then back to London, is it?” the Squire asked.

“For a short while, then I plan on travelling.”

“How lovely. Where will you go?”

“To Greece. My agents are en route now, securing lodgings and a cruising yacht for my use.”

A little wave of panic came over Angelique. He could not go. She needed to speak to him, to ask him some pointed questions, something she should have stayed and done two years before. She’d been a rash and headstrong fool.

“Such a romantic trip,” said Mrs Stillwater. “I would have enjoyed travelling at one time, but now I’m quite comfortable in our old house, and glad to have our grandchildren nearby.”

“How do you find Maidstone, Ange—Miss Drummond?” asked her childhood friend, Caroline. “It has been some time since you were here last, has it not?”

Angelique nodded, swallowing her agitation and turning her attention to Caroline — now Mrs Gedding, a vicar’s wife. Caroline was only a year older than Angelique, and yet she and her vicar husband already had two children. Angelique felt yet another troubling emotion, a pang of longing for what she’d foregone when she’d left England. Left Heyworth.

She needed to speak to him alone, to ask him … Dear heavens, there was so much to ask, starting with his forgiveness. “Primrose Cottage is just how I remembered it,” she said, looking for an opportunity to take him aside, but finding none. “’Tis a lovely respite from the close confines of London.”

Caroline glanced at her father. “There is quite the crush in town, isn’t there, Papa?”

“Aye, but we will not be part of it, thank heavens.” He turned to Heyworth. “Your Grace, will you escort the elder Miss Drummond in to supper?”

“Of course,” Heyworth said, taking Minerva’s arm. They all retired to the dining room, where Angelique was directed to a seat beside the Duke.

She’d had no good reason to doubt him two years before. He was far too kind to her now, and his civility towards Rathby rankled.

The Duke hardly looked at her, though his eyes flashed with intelligence and awareness. He seemed tense, his powerful body poised for action, while Lord Rathby remained nearly silent all through the meal. When it was over, Squire Stillwater invited the men to retire to the veranda to smoke, and Angelique resigned herself to waiting until they returned to Primrose Cottage for the private moment she intended to have with him.

It would be now or never. Heyworth was counting on the Squire to make sure that he and Rathby were left alone for a few minutes. And Mrs Stillwater was to bring Angelique into the small sitting room adjacent to the veranda. From there, she would be able to hear the men’s conversation.

Heyworth sensed that Rathby was about to bolt. The Earl had done all that etiquette required after discovering that the Duke would also be dining at the Stillwaters’ and now he could leave. He wouldn’t want to spend any more time than necessary with the man who had not only witnessed his attempt to rig a horse race, but seen to it that he was censured by the jockey club and banned from the races for a full two seasons.

Heyworth hoped Mrs Stillwater had had time to bring in Angelique. He stood in front of the door, blocking Rathby’s path of escape, and blew out a plume of cheroot smoke. “Have you got a favourite tomorrow, Rathby?”

Rathby hesitated, eyeing Heyworth with a measure of extremely justified mistrust. It was mutual. “I certainly wouldn’t tell you. I don’t want you betting against me.”

“You don’t ever want to bet against me, Rathby.”

The man’s complexion darkened. “Oh? My bet that Miss Drummond would believe my tales of your duplicity destroyed you, did it not?”

“Nearly, Rathby. You lied to Miss Drummond, but I am about to rectify that matter.”

The door burst open and Angelique came through, her expression one of heated astonishment. She looked at Rathby with complete disgust. “You … you lied to me?”

Rathby tossed his cheroot to the ground and started to walk past, but Angelique grabbed his sleeve. “Tell me the truth now. When you came to me and told me about Heyworth’s mistress …”

“Aye. You heard me admit it.” He cast a hateful glance at Heyworth, looking more like a petulant schoolboy than a peer of the realm. “’Twas a lie. All of it. I wanted my revenge, and I got it, by God.”

He made an abrupt turn and walked round the outside of the house, leaving Angelique and Heyworth alone. Angelique was speechless. Heyworth approached her and took her gently into his arms.

“I was such a fool,” she finally said against his chest.

“No.” He slid his hands down her back, pulling her closer. “He was your father’s friend. You couldn’t know—”

“I should have known.” She felt tears fill her eyes for the second time that day. “I should have trusted you. You were always honest with me, but I was afraid — afraid to trust my own judgment.”

“’Tis all right, Angel. Rathby’s lies are in the past.”

A well of despair opened up inside her. “B-but you’re leaving for Greece—”

“Not without you, love.” He stepped back and, keeping her at arm’s length, looked into her eyes. “Marry me now. Tonight. It seems impossible, but I love you more than I did two years ago. I don’t want to go another day without you as my wife.”

Angelique sniffled. “I have no dowry. And I’m in mourning.”

“You had no dowry two years ago, either. It didn’t matter.”

Angelique was shocked. He’d wanted her — a disreputable viscount’s daughter — even without a dowry? “But the banns—”

He pulled a folded sheet of vellum from inside his coat and showed it to her. Angelique read the special licence quickly, then looked up at him, gazing deeply into his eyes.

“I love you quite desperately, you know,” she whispered.

“I know. That’s why you had to flee England.”

She raised her brow in question.

He caressed the side of her face. “Because I had the power to hurt you quite dreadfully. I promise I never will, my darling.”

“Oh, Brice, I love you. These past two years without you have been abominable.”

He tipped his head down and touched his lips to hers in a light kiss that held the promise of so much more. If only they could leave the party and return alone to Primrose Cottage.

“We ’re together again. ’Tis all that matters, Angel.”

Angelique slid her arms round his neck and kissed him deeply. He growled and pulled her against his body, claiming her as his own, finally.

“Shall we go and see if Squire Stillwater’s son-in-law will perform the service?” he asked when they finally broke apart.

“Oh yes, my love,” Angelique whispered. “’Tis all I’ve ever wanted.