The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

Remember Michèle Ann Young

London — 1820

“She is the widow, Madame Beauchere?” Hatred pounding in his veins, Gerard Arnfield, His Grace the Duke of Hawkworth, observed the lush woman in peacock blue on the dance floor.

Charlotte. After all this time.

But not the Charlotte he remembered.

The curvaceous form looked the same. The violet eyes and glossy chestnut tresses struck achingly familiar chords. But for the rest? Pure artifice. A neckline designed to draw the male eye to the swell of creamy breasts. The full lips promised of heaven to any man who won them, but instead led to hell.

Nothing about her rang true.

Beneath the chandeliers, her skin glowed with the translucence of a pearl. A pearl he’d once claimed, only to discover he held nothing but smoke.

Something as sharp as a knife twisted in his gut. Damn her for coming back.

“You know her?” His old friend Brian Devlin stepped back, his pale, thin face rife with curiosity.

“I know her,” he said without emotion.

“Biblically speaking?” Dev looked hopeful.

Gerard allowed himself a grim smile. “For a man requesting a favour, you ask too many questions, Dev.”

A brief nod acknowledged the set down. “Will you do it, though? I can’t think of anyone else who could draw her off. My aunt is frantic.”

“Why not?” Why not pay her back in kind for her cruelty? Although, on the one hand, he should thank her for teaching a naïve youth about the ways of women, except it would be like thanking his father for beating sense into his head.

Madame Beauchere laughed up at her partner, Dev’s cousin and heir to the Graves fortune. His fair, open expression beneath its thatch of carefully coiffed sandy curls reminded Gerard of a besotted calf.

Much like the expression Gerard once had plastered on his face.

Devlin sighed. His brow furrowed. “It won’t be easy. She’s got her claws firmly hooked.”

Seeing her so beautiful, so womanly, Gerard’s anger flared anew, a blazing inferno of rage — along with lust for her delectable body. Something he hadn’t expected. Something he quickly controlled, but didn’t fight. Yes, he still wanted her. Only this time it would be different. This time he’d make it impossible for her to leave until he decided she would go. This time he would get her out of his mind and his blood entirely.

He gave his friend a cool glance. “You may bank on my success.”

Dev must have heard something in his voice, because his frown deepened. “Don’t tell me you have fallen for the wench.”

“I don’t fall, Dev,” he said gently. “I fell them.”

The benighted ladies of the ton had called him Axe Arnfield for years, because they fell at his feet at the snap of his fingers.

And bored him nigh unto death. At least Charlotte represented a challenge.

“Well, I hope you haven’t met your match,” Dev grumbled under his breath.

Once she had been his match. Now, she was simply another female to conquer and leave behind.

Gerard observed her glide sensually down the set. Graceful, alluring and utterly feminine. He could see how an impressionable youth like Graves would end up bewitched.

“I’ll introduce you when the set is over,” Dev said.

“No need. She’ll remember.”

Devlin gave him a morose glance. “My aunt will pray weekly for your soul in gratitude.”

He laughed softly. “Tell her not to bother. I don’t have a soul.” Not where Charlotte was concerned.

Charlotte couldn’t shake off the sensation of being watched. No, it wasn’t quite that. She had been stared at from the moment she arrived in London, mostly by jealous females. This felt more intense and not completely unpleasant.

She let her gaze wander as her feet followed the music. As a girl, she’d loved dancing, but now it was simply a means to an end. It showed off her charms and grace, and allowed her to flirt.

There. Leaning against a pillar. A tall, exquisitely tailored man with dark-blond hair, sardonic amusement in icy blue eyes. Their gazes clashed.

Heat flared in her body, the fire of desire, even as her heart twisted in pain and her stomach plummeted to her royal-blue slippers.

Gerard. The sound of his name in her head was a cry of despair.

He acknowledged the brief meeting of their eyes with a slight dip of his head. I dare you, those cold eyes said. Her smile suddenly felt stiff, her cheeks tight.

Her heart rattled against her ribs while her mind absorbed this latest disaster. Nom d’un nom. He wasn’t supposed to be in town. Her spy had promised he would not return until autumn.

His gaze drifted away.

Perhaps she’d imagined the challenge. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her after five long years. Lord, she hoped so.

Dragging her gaze back to Lord Graves as he took her hand in the centre of their four, she swallowed dry fear. Serious-faced and hazel-eyed, he was the answer to all her prayers — and Father’s last hope of rescue from his dank Calais prison.

She smiled and he flushed a bright pink. She wanted to ruffle his gleaming curls, pat his shoulder. He was a nice young man. The kind of man to whom she’d be a loyal and dutiful wife. That he had more than enough money to cover father’s debts made him the perfect suitor. If she could bring him up to scratch.

Worry gnawed at her stomach. Gerard was here. His presence sent her mind spinning, her heart tumbling.

The cotillion concluded and Lord Graves walked her back to Miles O’Mally, her father’s loyal friend and her supposed uncle. A dandy in his youth, he was still a fine figure of a man with a penchant for flashy waistcoats. Tonight ivory brocade embroidered with pink roses hugged his paunch.

With a light laugh, she fanned her face. “So energetic. I protest, I am quite parched.”

“Let me fetch you a drink,” Lord Graves said eagerly.

“A true knight indeed, My Lord.” She gave him a glowing smile of approval. He hurried away.

A twinge of conscience twisted her insides.

Why should she feel ashamed? She was doing exactly what the nobility had done for centuries, binding two families together for the good of both. She would be good for the feckless youth. A steadying influence. Not for a moment would he have cause to suspect her lack of emotional engagement. Never would he know the sting of betrayal. Such loyalty as she promised came at a price: her father’s freedom.

She leaned close to Miles, her fan hiding her lips, her voice lowered. “He returned.”

The charming Irishman’s florid face frowned. “Are ye sure?”

“My dance, I believe,” a rich tenor murmured behind her.

O’Mally’s brown eyes widened, then his brow lowered.

Dread filling her heart, her breath held fast in her chest, Charlotte turned and faced Gerard.

The Duke took her hand. He deftly turned it over, his lips brushing the pulse point at her wrist as he bowed. Her mind went blank. Fire tingled up her arm. The searing scorch of his warm lips had taken no more than the time required to blink, yet left her trembling.

“Madame Beauchere,” he murmured. “Such a delight to meet you again.” The modulated voice held an underlying warning.

“I—”

“The music starts.” One hand in the small of her back, the other clasping her fingers, he guided her between the guests towards the dance floor. One or two heads turned to look. Her mouth dried. This was a catastrophe.

Her gaze travelled to a pair of mocking blue eyes. “This is a waltz,” she said, frowning. “I don’t waltz. Ever.” It always felt much too personal for her taste.

“Really?” He swirled her into his arms and on to the dance floor. He was taller than she remembered. Broader. A man, no longer a boy, and more handsome than ever.

“Despicable,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” His drawl shimmered and danced over the skin of her shoulders as if he’d stroked her nape, yet all the while his hands remained decorously placed.

She glared up at him. “You did that on purpose. Made it impossible for me to refuse without causing a scene. So I said ‘despicable’.”

His eyes warmed to cerulean and one corner of his mouth kicked up a fraction. Attraction sparked, crackling in the air like unspent lightning bolts. Incendiary. Explosive. She found it hard to draw a breath.

“I suppose I should be honoured,” she said. “Although we lack a formal introduction.”

“We need no introduction, Charlotte,” he said with dispassion. “You knew me the moment you saw me.”

He remembered. Her heart leaped with joy. Expending every ounce of will power she possessed, she kept her expression coolly remote. “I wasn’t sure if my memory was playing tricks, Your Grace. You’ve changed.”

An eyebrow rose. “We both have. You even have a different name.”

“As do you. My condolences on the loss of your father.”

He shrugged carelessly. “My congratulations on your marriage and my commiserations on your husband’s demise.”

Revulsion churned in her stomach. She hated the pretence. But having killed off a non-existent husband for the freedom widowhood gave her, there was little she could do but accept his condolences. “Thank you,” she said, as calmly as her trembling body would allow.

“You are all graciousness,” he said.

“And anger,” she replied, arching a brow. “I never waltz.”

He laughed, the sound deep and dark. It tugged at something low in her stomach. Lower. A place not to be imagined in relation to this man.

“You used to waltz with me,” he said. “Remember?”

She smiled at him sweetly. “Your Grace is incorrigible.”

“And you, Madame Beauchere, are beautiful.”

These words delivered in honeyed tones caressed her ear. A shiver ran down her spine at the promise of remembered pleasure. An offer of delights she had once mourned.

That part of her life was over. She must not let him distract her from her purpose. Father’s life depended on her ability to net a husband with money. Panic tightened her throat. The Duke could easily spike her guns should he choose. He knew too much about her past. Hell. He was her past.

Would he expose her? He’d been fond of her once. Might she convince him to say nothing? Dash it, she’d been prepared for the chance they would meet in the small world of the ton, but she’d prayed it would be later. After she married.

Forcing herself to relax, she let the music and the imperceptible pressure of his guiding hands carry her where they would. In truth, she hadn’t waltzed since she was a young impressionable girl, when the world seemed a much kinder place.

“For a woman who doesn’t waltz, you are very accomplished,” he murmured close to her ear, sparking waves of delicious heat.

With a coolly raised brow, she let him know she was not unaware of his intent to fluster. “You misunderstand, Your Grace. I do not waltz as a preference, not because I cannot.” She easily accomplished the complex turn beneath his arm. When he recaptured her hands, he gazed deep into her eyes. A licking hot blue flame of naked desire, more potent than anything she’d seen in young Graves’ expression, made her gasp.

This man, this duke, had no qualms about letting his intentions be known. Her heart picked up speed. Her pulse fluttered and raced. Her indrawn breaths barely filled her lungs until she felt dizzy.

Damn her for a fool. His gaze plucked another chord. A song of longing. A tune close to her heart.

A heart required too high a price. Her father’s life.

For a second, she entertained the idea of asking Gerard for help. He was rich. He’d easily parted with a few hundred guineas to be rid of her once before. Her and Father.

He would surely not aid a man he’d deliberately set on the path to destruction. Given their past, allowing even a hint of her desperation to come to his ears would be a dreadful mistake.

Whirling in his arms, she pretended not to notice his blatant ardour, while her skin tingled and her blood burned its way through her veins. She lifted her chin and regarded him dispassionately. “Are you enjoying the season, Your Grace? I haven’t seen you at any other ball or rout these past few weeks.”

Amusement quirked his finely drawn lips. “Keeping track of me, Charlotte? I gather you only recently arrived in town yourself.”

“I am honoured someone of your exalted station noticed someone as lowly as myself.” She couldn’t help the tinge of bitterness in her voice, remembering his cruel words delivered so coldly by his father.

“Rare beauty never escapes my lofty attention.”

The wry note in his voice surprised a chuckle from her lips. At least he was honest.

He smiled, and all at once she saw a glimpse of the boy she remembered from her youth, when he’d been bookish and kind, not the cold, hard man he’d become.

But she’d been different then, too.

Plump and awkward. So innocent in her youthful adoration. Bitterness welled.

The musicians began their final flourish. She glanced around for Graves with her promised refreshment, but found herself on the other side of the dance floor and headed for the balcony doors.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The evening is warm. I thought you might like to take the air for a moment or two.” He snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing footman.

She could insist he return her to her friends. She could play the haughty widow and make a scene, but the French doors were open and other couples meandered outside in the cool air on the well-lit terrace. A moment’s fresh air posed no danger.

The challenge in his gaze gave her pause. Did he mean her harm? She had to know.

Young Lord Graves would wait. She rested her gloved fingertips on the fine wool of his sleeve. “You tempt me, Your Grace.”

“So I hope,” he said softly.

Something inside her fluttered and stirred. Excitement. Passion. He tantalized her senses. Wickedly. More than any man she’d ever met.

But then he always had.

They passed through the balcony doors and into the soft glow of torches. He guided her down a flight of stone steps, along a pathway to a grotto lit by a single lantern on a stone frieze of nymphs by water. A fountain sparkled and glittered beside a stone bench. They were alone.

“Your Grace,” she protested.

“Call me Gerard,” he demanded. “It will be like old times.”

Remember, her heart whispered.

“A time of youthful folly,” she scoffed lightly, aware of his size, his hard male form in the softly shadowed small space. She glanced around. “How did you find this place?” She laughed. “Of course, you have been here before.”

He didn’t deny her accusation, but handed her a glass of champagne. His fingers, long and strong and warm, closed around hers as she grasped the stem. An intimate gesture of possession she tried to ignore.

“To us,” he said softly and guided the rim to her lips. He held it there for a heartbeat, then let her go.

Absurdly, she missed his touch. She forced a sultry smile. “To you, Your Grace,” and tossed the liquid off, the froth of bubbles cool and tart on her tongue. “Now, if you will excuse me, I promised Lord Graves the next dance.” She made to brush by him.

His arm caught her around the waist, swung her about to face him. “I will ride with you in the morning.”

She gasped. “How did—”

He laughed softly. “I hoped you hadn’t changed that much.” His hands captured one of hers and he lifted it to his mouth. Even through her gloves the heat in his lips scalded her flesh and curled her toes. “Tomorrow, Charlotte.”

The promise held a threat. If she didn’t find a way to stop him, he was going to ruin everything. Heart pounding, she turned and fled.

Gerard trotted his mount back along Hyde Park’s Rotten Row. She wasn’t coming. The disappointment he felt surprised him, but not her absence. Cowardly wench.

He’d thought he’d forgotten her, but the scent of her fragrance — not the perfume she wore, but her own personal essence — had been as familiar in his nostrils as his own shaving soap, and far more intense.

He patted his gelding’s high-arching neck. “We ’ll find a way to bring her to heel, old fellow.” The sound of wild galloping brought him up. A grin broke out on his face as he recognized the rider. Late then, but here. And alone. Now that was a surprise.

Perhaps not such a coward, after all.

He rode to meet her. They drew up side by side.

“The dawn is all the brighter for your presence,” he said, bowing over her outstretched hand encased in York tan.

She flicked her whip. “Flirt. Don’t hand me false coins, Gerard.”

The sound of his name in her sweet low tones aroused his lust.

She was lucky she’d fled the grotto so swiftly the previous evening or he might have convinced her to let him engage in more than mere banter. The attraction between them had sparked and flashed like a mighty storm striving for freedom.

“A race,” she said and was off, strands of her chestnut hair flying in the wind, along with the ribbons of her fetching bonnet.

He kneed his mount and gave chase. The bigger horse gained ground and he soon overtook her. He slowed to let her catch up.

Laughing, she joined him. “He’s a fine animal.” She ran a glance over the gelding. “Will you sell him?”

“Not for any amount of money.” But there was a price he’d let her pay.

She pouted a little and he laughed. “Walk with me while the horses cool,” he said and dismounted.

He saw the suspicion in her eyes, but grasped her around the waist and lifted her clear of her mount. He held her as a groom would, calmly, impersonal. He did not want her to startle like her skittish little mare.

He gathered the reins of both blown horses in one hand and walked by her side across the sward.

“I rarely find anyone willing to proceed at more than a trot,” she said, her eyes twinkling, her cheeks blooming pink from their mad dash.

She looked lovely. As tempting as hell on a cold winter’s day. He bit back a curse. “I remember the way you rode the fields around Pentridge. I always expected you to break your neck.”

The breeze toyed with the loose strands about her face and she held them back with one hand, her sideways glance full of amusement and perhaps even a little misty. “You were just as bad.”

He put a hand to his heart, but belied the movement with an ironic twist to his lips. “Where you led, I merely followed.”

She laughed as he intended she should, but amid the light tinkling sound he heard a note in a minor key. Sadness? Regret?

Hardly likely.

“How did you know I rode here in the morning?” she asked, gazing out over the Serpentine.

“Common knowledge,” he said. “But where is the trusty O’Mally?”

She shrugged. “He wonders at your reason for singling me out, when it is known you display little interest in gently bred females.”

“Does he now?”

She nodded. A decisive little jerk of her pretty chin.

They walked beneath the bows of an ancient spreading oak. He stopped to look down at her. “Didn’t you tell him we once were friends?”

God, it had been so much more than friendship in the end. Or at least he’d thought so, until she ran off to France with another lover.

She shivered. A small little shudder that barely shook her frame. Her violet eyes darkened, like dusk over heather-clad hills, though her lips remained sweetly curved. “Yes, we were friends when we were young.” She fell silent for a moment, her eyes distant. “Remember when we found the ruined castle in the woods? You were sixteen, about to go off to school?”

“We called it Camelot,” he said, his heart hammering at the recollection. “Romantic nonsense.”

“You rescued me from a dragon.”

She’d clung to him, terrified, when they heard the noises in the bushes.

“It was a cow.”

A smile teased her lips. “And we laughed until we couldn’t stand up.”

“I loosed your hair and kissed you because you looked like Guinevere,” he said, the pain of it stabbing his heart.

They’d made love many times after that day, but that was the first time. The sweetest time of his life. A myth. Just like their castle.

She raised her gaze and there was a hard light in the depths of her eyes. “I think Miles is right. You are a man who does nothing that does not benefit himself.”

A scathing condemnation from one such as her.

He stepped in front of her, the tree at her back, the horses at his heels. He tilted her chin with his free hand. He gazed into her shadowed eyes. She met his searching look without flinching.

“Then we are alike,” he said. Shielded by their horses, he dipped his head to claim her mouth. Slowly, gently, he edged her hard up against the knotted bark of the great tree. He plied her lips gently. She welcomed him in. Her avid response fired his blood. He plundered her sweet depths with his tongue, swallowing her soft cries of approval. He braced to steady her soft, pliant body as she melded against his length.

She’d made him laugh and she’d made him hunger. He would have her again.

He thrust his thigh between hers and she parted her legs. He felt her heat and her desire rise to meet his own. Breathless seconds passed in a feast of the senses.

Then her hands rose to push against his chest, hard enough to let him know she meant it.

Reluctantly, he drew back and gazed down into her slumberous eyes. “I want you,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Her smile hardened. “For you, the price is high.”

“Name it.”

“Marriage.”

The word, spoken with determination and triumph, took him aback. He curled his lip in an amusement he did not feel. He shook his head and chuckled. “Charlotte. Oh, Charlotte. You are a wicked tease.”

Anger flared in her gaze. Her hand lashed out, but he caught her small-boned wrist with ease. “Let me go,” she said on a quick, ragged breath.

He lowered his head and kissed the back of her hand.

She tried to tug it free with a gasp of outrage. “Release me.”

He smiled down at her and she stilled. His gaze searched her face. Was this what they had become? Adversaries in games of the flesh? Apparently so. He prised open her closed fist with care and pressed a kiss to her palm, then nibbled at her bare wrist above the glove.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”

“You used to like my kisses, remember?” he said softly against her milky skin.

She closed her eyes briefly as if he’d somehow caused her pain.

He knew her too well to believe it. “I see you have a new fly in your web. He pants like a cur after a bitch in heat.”

She wrenched her hand free, her colour high. “You know nothing.”

She glanced over his shoulder. Her expression changed, became distant and cool. He felt the loss of her anger as he had felt the loss of her body against him.

“Stand aside, sir,” she said in chilly accents. “Here comes a true friend.”

He glanced back. “Ah, the so trusty O’Mally. Is he your friend? Or another of your lovers?”

She glared at him. “My escort. Sadly, he was a few minutes late or you and I would not be having this conversation.”

He couldn’t prevent the surge of jealousy in her trust of the elderly dandy, but he merely bowed. “Allow me to help you mount.” He brought her horse around and interlocked his fingers. She stepped up, her small hands on his shoulders, a feather-light grip. He tossed her up into the saddle, helping her settle her knee around the pommel. His fingers curled around her slim ankle encased in leather as he slipped her foot into the stirrup. When he glanced up, she was looking bemused.

He returned her gaze and with effort remembered his purpose. “I will see you this evening.”

She twitched her skirts into place and gathered the reins. “No.”

“You and I have unfinished business.” He glanced at the tree trunk where they had just recently been pressed together.

She flushed. “Our business was finished years ago.”

“I find myself unconvinced,” he said, raising a brow.

She flicked her horse with her reins and left at a canter.

Gerard watched her slight figure greet O’Mally.

“Tonight, Charlotte,” he promised softly to himself. “And we will both be satisfied.”

His body hardened at the thought. But another sensation invaded his chest. One he’d not felt for a very long time.

An ache.

Almost midnight and still no sign of Hawkworth. She should be glad. She was glad. Desperately relieved. He would have spoiled everything and the end was almost in sight. Lord Graves was a hair’s breadth from an offer.

“You waltzed with Hawkworth yesterday,” Graves whined.

She resisted the urge to bat him away like an annoying gnat on a summer’s eve. Shocked at the disloyal thought, she smiled at him and replied in soft tones. “His Grace did not take account of my wishes.”

The young man stiffened. “If he offered you some insult—”

“Not at all.” She lightly touched his arm with her fan. “It was more a misunderstanding. Tonight, I have danced three dances with you, more than with any other gentleman. To dance again would not be seemly.” Unless they were married. She let the unspoken words hang in the air.

He wooed her against his family’s objections and she would not provide them with the ammunition of scandalous behaviour. Meeting the Duke in the park could have been a disaster. She’d thought to talk to him as a friend, beg him to leave her in peace, until he’d shown his true colours. Lust, not friendship, drove their relationship.

And her taunt about marriage had stabbed at the heart of matters between them. A duke could not marry the daughter of a debt-ridden sot, any more than the ducal heir could have. The old duke had been brutally frank. His heir would be more than pleased to set her up as his mistress, but never as a wife. Nothing had altered in the intervening years.

Gerard was no knight on a white charger arriving to save her from her dragons.

“You will let me take you to supper,” Lord Graves said, his jaw jutting. “You promised.”

More whining. She contained a sigh of impatience and nodded gravely. “I am looking forward to it.” It would be different when they were married. He’d be less inclined to remain underfoot. “If you will excuse me, for a moment, I have a torn flounce that needs pinning.” And a headache brewing.

The darling boy looked anxious. “Hurry back. I will fetch you some champagne.”

Oh how she longed for respite from his constant youthful chatter and jealous eye. Feeling as if she might at any moment die of suffocation, Charlotte fled the ballroom.

It would be fine after they wed, her mind repeated like a mantra as she hurried along the hallway to the ladies’ withdrawing room. She would make him a good wife. They would retire to the country. Breed lots of children she could love. And Father would be saved.

An arm shot out from a doorway, curling around her waist and dragging her into a darkened room.

Her stomach jolted. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out when a warm finger pressed against her lips and a familiar voice said, “Hush.”

The scent of his bay cologne swirled around her. “Your Grace?”

“Charlotte.”

He spoke her name in his deep voice. He cupped her face in his hands. “Have you forgotten my name so soon, sweet?”

The endearment tore at her heart, ripped open the wounds she thought long since healed.

She jerked her head away to no avail. “Let me go.”

He sighed. “I wish I could. Say my name.”

“Gerard,” she spat at him, desperate for release in case she committed the error of this morning. “Let me go, before someone sees us.”

He released her. Her cheeks felt suddenly chill. She stared at a face shadowed from her gaze, the shadow of her girlish dreams and the shadow of her lonely nights. “Why are you doing this?”

“This?”

“Plaguing me? Following me?” When you never followed when I most needed you, the broken voice whispered in her head. The voice she usually ignored. She turned away, strode to peer through the gloom at a portrait above the mantel. “Why did you drag me in here?”

The striking of a tinderbox sounded behind her. Candles flared to life, the room, a library, took shape around her as he lit the scattering of candelabra and the sconce between the bow windows.

She swung around. “Why, Gerard?”

He blew out the taper and tossed it in the empty hearth. A wicked smile touched his lips. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

She tossed her head. “You and a hundred others.”

“You’ve grown cruel, Charlotte. The adulation of striplings has gone to your head.”

The words were spoken lightly but they lashed like a whip. “You were the same kind of stripling once,” she replied, wielding her own lash.

In three strides, he came to stand before her, his body no longer that of a boy but of a powerful male. Large and full of arrogant confidence. He gripped her shoulders, his gaze searching her face, his lips thin, his eyes hard enough to break her. “That boy is gone,” he said softly and his mouth descended on hers. Ravishing. Punishing. Blissfully hot. The kiss of a bold, hungry man.

How she longed to yield, to feel again the joy, to relive their passion. Her body trembled with eagerness. Pride came to her rescue. She stiffened against his onslaught, fought for command of her traitorous body and heart.

He lifted his mouth, but didn’t release her. “Why?” he murmured against her lips. “Why, Charlotte?”

She shrugged free from the circle of his arms, strode with short impatient steps to the window and shifted the edge of the drape. Outside, street lamps wavered in the mist, blurring her vision. An image of her father languishing in a French debtors’ prison hardened her resolve and her voice. “Why what?”

He came up behind her. “Why did you leave?”

She spun around. Incredulous. “Why would I stay?”

His jaw flickered. “And so here you are back again, married, widowed and once more plying your wiles on a green youth.”

Pain like a clenched fist in her stomach almost doubled her over. “He is a fine young man.”

“And wealthy.”

Heat rose to her hairline. He made it sound so sordid. She paced away from him, her silk skirts catching at her legs, her heart beating a retreat. She clenched her fists against the fear. A terrible fear she could deny him nothing. “What makes you think you can once more interfere in my affairs?”

“Affairs? A good choice of words.” He gave a hard laugh. “Have you forgotten what we had together?”

An ache carved a swathe through bone and muscle all the way to her soul. “We had nothing,” she cried. “And you know it.” She eyed the distance to the door. If she ran …

He cut off her retreat with one smooth step, held her upper arms. Fury blazed in his eyes along with the hotter fire of possession.

“We had this,” he growled and claimed her mouth with a plundering kiss.

Even as she began to fight, he softened his mouth, wooed her with his sensual lips, planted small kisses to the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her closed eyelids.

Every inch of her face garnered his attention and her heart opened like a parched rose in the desert to a gentle rain.

Yielding, she sighed and twined her arms about his neck as her body remembered the sensations of his touch. He nuzzled her throat, kissed the pulse beneath her ear, and murmured, “I missed you.”

“Oh, Gerard.”

More kisses rained on her face and lips, tastes and licks remembered and yearned for over long tearful nights.

One step at a time he eased her into the window embrasure. Under the spell of his delicious mouth, she startled when the window frame touched her back. He pressed into her, his thigh parting her legs, his hands cradling her face. “Remember?” he asked.

She laughed, a poor broken sound

He closed the curtain around them. Their own private world. As if they were young and innocent again. And deeply in love.

His mouth found hers. Thought slipped away as their tongues tangled and danced to the music one heart played to the other, until dizzy and breathless she broke free. “How could I forget? It was a conservatory then, though, not a library. And your father almost caught us.”

He kissed her jaw, her ear, nibbled the lobe, tasted her throat when she arched back against the wooden frame to give him access.

Her insides ran hot, like melted honey, warm and golden and sweet. His scalding breath shivered across sensitive skin, his lips teased the rise of her breast.

She ran her hands through the silk of his hair, across the breadth of shoulders more manly, stronger than she remembered.

He licked the hollow between her breasts, his long clever fingers working free the tapes of her stays at the neckline of her gown. He tugged the confining fabric down and found her nipples beaded and aching.

He suckled.

She moaned at the surge of desire. She clenched her fists in his thick wavy hair and her body tightened, remembering the bliss. Yearning.

Gently his hand trailed down her hip, caressed her thigh, and inched her skirts upwards. He stroked the bare flesh above her stockings.

“Gerard,” she warned half-heartedly.

“Hush, sweet,” he whispered and flicked her nipple with his tongue.

She melted.

He pushed against her with his knee and the sweet pressure made her squirm. So delectable. But not nearly enough.

“Put your leg up on the seat,” he said softly. “Remember how you liked it like this?”

“Gerard, we can’t. We mustn’t.”

He chuckled, deep and low. “Say no then, love. Say it now.”

Love. Her heart stilled. How many times had he called her his love? Remember? How could she ever forget? Free will seemed to flee. She could not deny him, for to do so would be to deny all the years she’d been so alone. And lonely.

Dear sweet heaven, she’d missed him.

One large warm hand raised her thigh and she rested her foot on the window seat. One hand drew her gown languorously to her waist and cupped her buttock, steadying her, the other roved ever higher.

He took her mouth as he caressed and teased her body, until she could do no more than moan her pleasure.

“You are ready, sweet,” he said. “Let me in.”

She gasped her assent and raked her hands through his hair, kissing his mouth as he unbuttoned his falls. He cupped both hands beneath her and easily lifted her up. She brought her legs around his waist and clung to him. A moment later, his hard flesh sought entrance to her body.

She lowered herself on to him, with a sigh.

He groaned against her neck. “My Charlotte,” he said. “Mine.”

Pleasure cast her on to tossing seas where tempests raged. He held her in arms of steel, driving her, deep and hard, her spine protected from the harsh wood at her back by his hand. She was transported to another realm, a place of naught but pleasure. A place where she gave as much as she took and the bright light of completion beckoned.

A place where love reigned supreme.

His ragged breaths rasped in her ear. “Now,” he demanded. “Now, darling.”

She ground against him, seeking to break the bonds of earth.

He thrust into her, his hips sensually twisting.

She shattered. He came with her.

Together they drifted on the warm current of hard-breathing bliss. His forehead dropped against her shoulder. “Dear God,” he muttered.

Suddenly aware of her surroundings, of what they had done, thoughts rolled around in her head, while her body stretched like a luxuriating cat’s. She shifted in his arms and he carefully lowered her to her feet. He fixed his clothing, then helped her with hers, tying her tapes, hiding her bosom, rosy with his kisses.

He drew open the curtain.

The library door swung back. She couldn’t see the intruder as Gerard moved in front of her, protecting her from view.

“Your Grace?” Graves’ voice.

Charlotte shrank into the shadows.

“My cousin said you wanted to see me? Am I interrupting some …”

Gerard moved, shifting as if to shield her, but somehow failing.

“Charlotte?” Graves choked out.

Her face flamed as she met his distraught gaze. All her hopes crumbled.

“Pardon my intrusion,” the young lord said, all stiff and hurt.

The library door slammed shut.

Fool. Such a fool. She’d let the memory of pleasure forgone destroy her life.

Gerard turned to face her, regret in his eyes.

“He was looking for you,” she whispered. “How did he know to find you here?”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded guilty.

She frowned. “How could he possibly know?”

He shrugged.

She had to find Graves. Find some way to explain. She ran to the mirror, saw what he had seen — her hair in disarray, her face flushed. What had she done?

She turned to leave.

The door opened to admit a thin pale gentleman. “It worked,” he crowed. He halted as he realized she was still there. Lord Graves’ cousin, Brian Devlin, winced. “Madame Bouchere.”

She looked over at Gerard, who was frowning at him. Everything tumbled horridly into place. A pain seared her heart. “You planned this. How could you, Hawkworth? You deliberately ruined my life once, you and your father. How could I not have guessed you would do it again?”

She rushed for the door.

“Charlotte,” Gerard said. “Wait.”

Hand on the door handle, she paused, staring at the ornate panelling. She could not bear to turn and see the triumph in his eyes. “If you ever come near me again, I’ll have O’Mally run you through.”

She escaped out of the door. Something hot and wet rolled down her face. Tears. She dashed them away. It was the pain in her heart she couldn’t bear. The well-remembered pain of betrayal.

Damn. Bugger. He’d made her cry. He’d hurt her. The expression on her face when she saw Graves in the doorway had been like a kick to his chest by a metal-shod carthorse.

Bloody hell. He’d been so sure she didn’t care tuppence for the fellow; sure he’d be able to woo her back into his life with the one thing they’d had that was perfect. Where had he gone wrong? Doubt niggled in the pit of his stomach. What had she meant about his father? He had the unusual feeling he’d made a terrible mistake.

Dev rubbed his hands together and Gerard wanted to hit him.

“That’s it, then,” Dev said. “I had the hell of a time convincing him not to call you out, but he finally agreed that she wasn’t protesting, and therefore she must have been willing.”

Gerard shot him a glare. “What do you mean, bursting in here like that! Listen to me well. Say one word about this, you or your idiot cousin, and I’ll cut out your tongues and feed them to the lions at the Tower.”

“What do you take me for? The lad is hurt and a little bitter, but he’ll do as he’s told. Now perhaps he’ll find a girl of suitable station.”

Red blazed behind Gerard’s eyes.

“Not that she isn’t …” Dev began. He stared down at Gerard’s fist bunching his coat. “Oh hell. What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

His friend’s eyes widened. He groaned. “Not you too. Is the wench some sort of witch?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Gerard strode for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Gerard thought for a moment. A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Heaven or hell. But first I need to find my carriage.”

“Will you not tell me what happened, dear heart?” Miles O’Mally followed Charlotte from the clothes press to the trunk she was filling. She turned and glared. “His Grace the Duke of Hawkworth happened.” She dropped the armful of clothing into the trunk.

“What did he do?”

“She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “You will find out soon enough. It will be all over London tomorrow, if it isn’t already.”

“Young Graves didn’t come up to scratch?”

“No. And he won’t. He caught me in a compromising position with the Duke.”

“I’ll kill him,” O’Mally said. “Hang him up by his thumbs. Damn! I’ll make him marry you.”

“I wouldn’t marry him if he was the only man in London.” Not that he’d ever make her an offer. He considered her nothing but a soiled dove. “Get out of my room. I’m packing.” She marched back to the clothes press.

“Where are we going?”

She stopped and took a deep breath. “Damn it, Miles. I don’t know.” She dropped her head and covered her eyes with her hands. She choked on a lump in her throat that refused to be swallowed. She took a few deep breaths. “There’s no help for it. I’ll have to accept Count Vandome’s offer.”

“You will not.” The shock in his voice made not the slightest impression on her flayed nerves. “The man is a pervert. Old enough to be your grandfather.”

“I have no choice. He’ll be generous. I’m ruined here and he promised to pay Papa’s debts.”

“Ah, damnation.” The Irishman’s voice was thick with tears. Miles cried easily. Unlike her. Until last night, when the tears hadn’t ceased for hours. That was yesterday. Today, she was wrung out. Dry as death.

All the starch seemed to go out of the old man, he sagged on to the edge of the bed. “Don’t do it, girl. I love your father like a brother, but he’s not worth a life of misery. You know he will succumb again. He can’t help himself. One roll of the dice and he’s lost to reason. I should never have encouraged him to go to France.”

“I thought if we came back to England and lived in the country. Away from temptation …” But there was no hope of that now.

“Your pa doesn’t deserve the sacrifice. Walk away while ye can.”

“I can’t.” Father needed her help.

A knock sounded below.

Miles cocked a brow.

“It’s probably the carter for the trunks. Go away and let me pack.”

A deep voice drifted up from the hallway.

“Doesn’t sound like a carter. Sounds more like an argument.”

Her heart sank. The only person she could think it might be was her erstwhile suitor. She’d wounded him dreadfully. He no doubt wanted an explanation. She’d have to face him. She straightened her shoulders. “It must be Graves. I’ll go down.”

“I’ll come with you. Make sure the young hothead does nothing rash.”

She worked her way around the trunks piled up on the landing. Miles followed her down the stairs.

The gentleman at the bottom of the stairs was facing away from her, but he looked too big to be Graves, too broad.

“Hawkworth.” Her hands clenched into fists.

He turned. “We need to talk.”

“Let me at him,” Miles said. “You’ll talk to the point of my sword, Duke. Or better yet, speak with the mouth of my pistol.”

Hawkworth would hurt him. “No, Miles. He’s done quite enough damage.” She stared at Gerard’s hard angular face, the bleak eyes that only seemed to warm when they rested on her. Her heart quivered. No. No, she would not let him do this to her again. “Please leave, Your Grace. You are not welcome here.”

He glanced up at the baggage. “You are leaving, then.”

“Of course I’m leaving. You made sure I couldn’t stay. I’m going back to France. Now, go away.”

“Not until you hear me out. You owe me that much.”

“You dog,” Miles roared.

Charlotte put out an arm to hold him back. “I owe you nothing.”

“Then do it for old times’ sake, love.”

She froze. “Don’t call me that.”

“Damn it, Charlotte.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her down the last couple of steps and pushed her into the drawing room.

“Blackguard,” Miles yelled, hurrying after them.

Gerard closed and locked the door in the Irishman’s reddened face. “You will listen,” Gerard said, glaring at her.

She looked down her nose at him, then sank on to the sofa. “Very well. Speak your piece.”

Gerard visibly swallowed. She’d never seen him so nervous. Not since the first time they’d … Heat flushed up from her belly. Oh why did she have to think of that now?

Gerard stared from her squared shoulders to her clenched jaw. The look in her eyes did not bode well for his mission. Anger rolled off her in waves. While he had scripted this play to save his friend’s cousin, he no longer knew the ending.

She gazed up at him. “The great Hawkworth, having once more altered the course of my life, is now here for what purpose? To gloat?” She lowered her gaze to her hands resting in her lap and bit her lip. “I would have been a good wife to Graves. I always wanted children.”

His legs felt weak. “Then why not have children with me?”

Her lips parted in shock. “With you? Never.”

The old anger rose to claim him. The deep bitterness of loss. “Don’t tell me you loved Graves. You don’t know what love is.” He couldn’t restrain his bitter laugh. “And neither do I.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” she spat. “I know.”

“You must have thought a great deal of this Beauchere fellow to leave me for him.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced away. “There is no Beauchere. There never was. I could hardly come back claiming to be a maid.” She shot him a look that held more than mere loathing, it held heartbreak.

He recoiled. “Are you telling me you never married?”

“How could I marry? After we …” She made a small hopeless gesture with one hand. “Father is ill. He needs medical attention. Relief from his debts.” The stiffness in her back flowed away. She hunched her shoulders and turned her lovely face to gaze into the empty hearth. “Gerard, why are you here? You’ve won. Just like before.”

The defeat in the slump of her shoulders jangled every nerve in his body. Her words rang bells of alarm.

A cold feeling spread in the pit of his stomach. “What do you mean, ‘just like before’?”

She looked up, her eyes hopeless. “It is over with, Gerard. Let it lie.” She forced a smile. The pain in her lovely eyes knifed through the wall he’d built around his heart when she left. He wanted to gather her close, kiss away the crease in her brow, promise her the world. But he didn’t dare trust her. She’d lied about loving him. He was no longer a besotted youth and he wanted the truth from her lips. “What about before?”

A horrified expression crossed her face followed by a look of pained disbelief. “You must know. You sent your father to negotiate the terms of our alliance, a carte blanche as your mistress because marriage was out of the question. When he saw Father’s shock and horror, he apologised for what you’d done and offered help. He agreed to pay all of my father’s debts and give him enough money to take me abroad. To hide my shame. He knew about us. What we’d done. Only you could have told him.”

Bile rose in his throat. “I did not. I swear it.” He put out a hand.

She waved him off. “O’Mally had brought back tales of great riches to be had in the new gambling hells in France. The money was too great a temptation to my father, even though I begged him to refuse. What influence I had no longer counted. In his eyes, I was a fallen woman. And now he is ruined and near death. You knew it would happen.”

The nausea in his gut turned to icy anger. Cold fury against his autocratic father. He clenched his fists. “How could you believe I’d abandon you?”

“I didn’t at first. I sent you a note, begging to see you.” She got up and went to the bureau and pulled a folded paper from its depths. “You seem to have forgotten your reply.”

Gerard unfolded the note and read the contents. “The choice is yours.” His seal, cracked and flaking, clung to the bottom.

“Brief and to the point,” she said in brittle tones.

“I did not write this. The only note I received from you spoke of joining a lover in France.”

Her eyes widened.

He recalled his father’s glee at the news of Charlotte’s departure. Followed by a litany of suitable brides. But Gerard could never bring himself up to scratch. Could never quite put on the shackles of a loveless marriage.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I cannot stay. I am ruined.”

The pain in her voice, the humiliation, battered his conscience. He felt physically ill. She was right. He had toyed with her, his pain making him angry, when all the time she was innocent.

His was to blame. The realization stole his breath. He should have gone looking for her instead of retreating into icy pride.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “Is it too late? For us? Is it possible to start anew? Marry me, Charlotte?” He held his breath as if the weight of the air in his lungs could tip the scales against him.

Charlotte stared into his beloved face. He looked different today, younger, a little less sure of himself. Less like the hard-edged nobleman she’d seen these past few days and more like the youth she’d loved.

She’d let him kiss her and make love to her, because she couldn’t help the way he made her feel. But his father had taken her aside five years ago. He’d explained just what Gerard owed to his family name. The duty. The honour.

Nothing had changed. She couldn’t speak for the burn in her throat and the tears behind her eyes, so she gave him a watery smile and shook her head.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice thick and strange.

“A duke cannot marry the daughter of a drink-sodden gambler who can’t pay his debts. A criminal. He is in prison, Gerard.”

“Your name is as good as mine. Goes back further if I’m not mistaken.”

“And you are seventeenth in line to the throne.”

“Nineteenth, now. Believe me, it is not a consideration in my life.”

Misery rose up to claim her, leaving her numb. “It still wouldn’t be right. I’m a fallen woman in the eyes of society. Your duchess must have an impeccable reputation.” Another thing his father had said. “It is better if I leave. Lord Graves is a kind and generous young man. I thought I would make him a good wife and, somehow, with O’Mally’s help, manage to keep Father from being too much of a burden.”

“And now?”

“Graves deserves more.”

“And me?”

Tears blurred her vision. “You deserve more also.”

He looked at her with a gentle smile. “Dearest Charlotte, are you really going to decide what is right for everyone else — for me, for your father — and sacrifice your own happiness? Think about what you want for a change. Because I damned well want you. I’ll take your father, and Miles O’Mally to boot, as long as I can have you at my side. But only if you want me, too.”

It tempted unbearably. The thought of never seeing him again, never holding him, was tearing her apart. “You still want me as your mistress?”

Anger flared in his eyes. “No, damn it. I never wanted you as a mistress. I want you as my wife. Just as we planned. Do you think I didn’t know then what your father was like? My father had lectured me to death on the matter. I didn’t care then and I don’t care now. It’s you I want. At any price.”

“Oh, Gerard.” Hot tears flowed down her face. “We can’t.”

“My love,” he said. He gathered her into his arms, drew her against his chest. “My little love.”

She dissolved against him, feeling wanted, beloved and terribly weak.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “I had no idea what my father had done. If he wasn’t already in his grave, I think I’d murder him.”

She gave a little sobbing laugh, joy and heartbreak warring for ascendency.

“Charlotte, marry me. Please.”

She sniffed. “After what happened in the library, they’ll all think I trapped you.”

He handed her his handkerchief. “They won’t. There are some privileges among the burdens of a dukedom. We will be married in St George’s, the Prince will attend, and no one will dare say a word. Now, I want your answer. And it better be ‘yes’. We have wasted too much time.”

So much time. Her heart swelled with the knowledge there was only one answer she could possibly give. “Yes. Oh, yes. Gerard, I won’t let Father—”

He silenced her words with a kiss. “Hush. You and I will deal with your father together. We will have the rest of our lives to solve his problems, and wealth beyond reason.”

She laughed through her tears. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“But you will. I want the children you promised me. A boy who looks like you and a girl who looks like me. Remember?”

“Oh, yes, darling Gerard, I remember. Yes, please, I would like that very much.”

He claimed her mouth. In the heat of passion, she forgot everything but him.