The Duchess' Lover

After more than twenty years, Olivia, Duchess of Brandhurst, is finally free?free from the shackles of a loveless marriage to a cruel, domineering husband. And in one reckless night of passion, she experiences that freedom?in the arms of Will Barnes, a youthful gardener she meets by chance in the moonlight of a garden, a man forbidden to her by the unwritten laws of Victorian society. Once the night is over, Livie returns to her role of grieving widow. But memories of that night haunt Livie?and Will as well. Unable to forget her or the fierce emotions she inspires in him, he returns. With his working-class background and artistic talents, Will is unlike anyone Livie has ever known. Despite the scandal that threatens their love, and the differences between them, she cannot resist him or the beauty he brings to her life. But when Livie’s enemies try to destroy her with vicious accusations about her marriage, Will is determined to save her, even if it means giving her up. Somehow, Livie must prove to him that their passion is worth any sacrifice, and that he is much more than the duchess’ lover?he is her love...

“There is a magical quality to Julie Beard’s writing.” ?Heart to Heart

Titles by Julie Beard

THE DUCHESS‘ LOVER

VERY TRULY YOURS MY FAIR LORD THE MAIDEN’S HEART ROMANCE OF THE ROSE FALCON AND THE SWORD A DANCE IN HEATHER LADY AND THE WOLF THE CHRISTMAS CAT (anthology with Jo Beverley, Barbara Bretton, and Lynn Kurland) CHARMED (anthology with Jayne Ann Krentz writing as Jayne Castle, Lori Foster, and Eileen Wilks)

THE DUCHESS’ LOVER Julie Beard JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK

ISBN: 0-515-13277-2

Since September 11th, I’ve thought a great deal about the people whom readers and writers sometimes take for granted?the dedicated folks who edit and package books. They publish fiction?one of mankind’s most cherished and important creative forms?so that readers the world over can be inspired and entertained. Their jobs became more difficult on that fateful day. To express my gratitude, I dedicate this book, with the greatest admiration, to those in the New York publishing industry.

In particular ... Leslie Gelbman, my longtime publisher and guardian angel

Cindy Hwang, my kind and insightful editor Amy Berkower, my gifted and giving agent

Thanks for your practical dreaming and your tangible contributions to the world.

Acknowledgments

The wonderful thing about writing a book is that it’s a process of discovery. Getting from here to there is always an evolution. And every bit of help along the way is incredibly important to the end result. First and foremost I must acknowledge my dedicated and enthusiastic editor, Cindy Hwang, for having the wisdom to steer me into the delightful Victorian era, after a long stint in the Middle Ages and a brief stopover in the Georgian period. I am always struck by the incredible overview of literature and history possessed by my really-smart-friend Martha Ambrose. I suppose that’s why she’s a literature professor. I’m indebted to her for advice on the Pre-Raphaelites and other Victorian matters. My critique partner, Mary Alice Monroe, always gives the first and last stamp of approval. She helps brainstorm the plot and then makes sure the characters are true to themselves. I’m grateful for all the time she took with this and all my other books. I’m thrilled to be able to acknowledge author Shirl Henke for the first time. She pored over my story as only a patient and selfless writer might, but also shared her amazing understanding of history. Shirl’s wonderful editing skills helped make this book a joy to write. I’d like to acknowledge the inspiration I get from music. I listened to Marc Cohen, for example, when writing Falcon and the Sword. This time around I listened a great deal to Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. Also during this period I enjoyed listening to a great Appalachian-based acoustic duo called Zoe Speaks. Their sensitive and beautiful songs reinforced my own urge to create. Check them out at: www.zoespeaks.com. Thanks to Deb and Tara at www.romancedesigns.com for their wonderful web design and hosting service. Finally, I’d like to acknowledge my readers. You keep me going. Knowing that you’re waiting for the next one inspires me to return to the computer. Drop me a line or sign up for my newsletter at www.juliebeard.com.

Prologue

The Duke was dead. Dead. But what did that word mean? She couldn’t quite grasp it. She saw things now in a scalding light, as if she’d opened her eyes after squeezing them shut for too long. White images moved around her without any shadows to soften them. People without color drowned her with their quiet voices as they entered and exited her drawing room, preparing the ducal seat for the funeral?the house steward, the butler, the housekeeper, the Duke’s nephew, his secretary and her neighbor, Sir Perry. As the sober commotion whirled around her, she sat erect by force of habit, and forced into habit by her long-waisted bodice and corset. Arrayed in her gloomy widow’s weeds, she simply clutched the arms of her pink-floral Prince of Wales chair and listened. “The Prime Minister has met with the Queen, Your Grace,” said Mr. Hildebrand, the Duke’s secretary. “Mr. Disraeli has just wired. He says he will come to the funeral with the Prince of Wales. The Queen, of course, will remain at Osborne House.” “The Earl of Thainwood sends his regrets, Aunt Livie,” said Neville Thorpe, “and he has invited you to come to Brighton if you need a respite. The Marquess of Exeter is traveling and could not be reached.” “I’ve sent word to the Duke’s heir, but he has wired back saying it will take months to conclude his business in America,” Hildebrand said. “Mr. Crumby wants to speak with you about the landscaping at the grave. You know it was the Duke’s wish to be buried in his garden,” Neville added. “Mrs. Jarvis has decided to put the Prince in the Queen Anne room, Your Grace, and Mr. Disraeli will stay in the Blue Room.” “I’ll handle the obituary for the newspapers,” Sir Perry offered. “The Archbishop of York will preside at the service, of course,” Neville continued. “What flowers do you want in the chapel, Your Grace?” The barrage ended with a question. And though it was a simple one, it overwhelmed her. What was the Duke’s favorite flower? She didn’t know. They had been married nearly a quarter of a century and she didn’t even know what, flowers he liked. Without a reply, the Duchess stood with the grace and dignity that had won her much admiration in

Society and walked out of the room. Her flounced train whisked over the Oriental carpet. The heavy black mourning cap, whose streamers masked the sides of her face, made her feel more starched than ever. She walked determinedly, desperate to be free. Only when the footmen in their burgundy and yellow livery shut the mahogany and ivory inlaid doors behind her did she lose her composure. She clutched her forehead with a shaky hand. Quinton Thorpe was dead. She had to see him again to know it was true. That she hadn’t imagined it. She walked faster and faster toward the grand staircase until she was running. She grabbed the ornate newel post and pulled herself up the thick polished bannister, hiking her tie-back skirt with the other hand. When she reached the top, she paused to catch her breath, then hurried past a half dozen liveried servants along the way. The footmen, foot boys, and under-butler in their colorful breeches, and the upper housemaids in their black-and-white uniforms, bowed and curtsied in passing. Good servants were always invisible, and hers were particularly so now. The two-hundred-room mansion had never seemed so endless. It was a prodigy house, built in the late sixteenth century to impress Queen Elizabeth. Since that time various Thorpes had added onto the original structure?a wing here and a wing there. It all added up. And it now took forever to reach the Duke’s private quarters. That pernicious white light blinded her all the while until she reached her husband’s room and the scent of perfumed macassar oil hit her, pricking her emotions as the word dead could not. This was his smell, the oil he lathered on his handsome head of black hair, that his liveried valet slicked over his distinguished wings of gray. She breathed it in, along with a hint of polish and the heavy sweet smell from the hissing gaselier. By the time she exhaled, she could see all too clearly. The forest green damask curtains were drawn. Long shadows mocked the yellow gaslight. In the harsh glow, the fifty-year-old Duke’s gray corpse stretched long and straight on the enormous canopy bed swathed in red Oriental designs. His black mustache was newly trimmed and as stiff as his body. He was dressed in his usual black suit. His devoted valet had refused to wrap him in a winding sheet. The Duke might have been sleeping, but his eyes were sunken and his face sagged as it never had before. He was unquestionably dead. How dare he? How dare he die so unexpectedly, leaving her in such a state of confusion? She went bedside and covered her nose with a handkerchief. Death was not a pretty smell. “Is he looking well, ma’am?” asked Antonio in the faint remains of his Italian accent. The valet had been sitting in the shadows and stood when she arrived. Even he needed reassurance now. “Yes, Tony, he looks well.” He always did. Quinton was a handsome, forceful man. She touched his arm and the cold, lifeless feel of him sent her hand reeling back. Yes, how very dead he was. The images came rushing at her. His body slumped over in the garden. And the blood! Dark red soaking his white shirt. The sticky feel of it on her fingers. The startlingly overwhelming, metallic smell of it. Of course he was dead. She had seen him there. Touched him. She had known, but it seemed unreal. He had, over the course of their twenty-two-year marriage, become her world. She had never imagined he might die first, even though he was ten years her senior. Can the omnipotent cease to exist? And what would happen now? Would the sun even rise were he not here to command its performance?

Was there a world without Quinton Thorpe, the fourth Duke of Brandhurst, the eighth Earl of Caudlon, the second Marquess of Blackwood, and Knight of the Order of the Garter? He was a respected member of the House of Lords and one of the most powerful men in England, a fact so obvious it did not even warrant a reminder to one as inconsequential as her. She was, after all, only his wife. She had never seen him naked. Not even in death. She had only lain with him a few dozen times. That had been more than enough. Those miserable and violent encounters had failed to produce an heir. She had failed him in every way that mattered. Even now she had failed him, for instead of grief, all she felt was a numb relief. The Duke was dead. And she was the only one at Brandhurst Hall who knew it had been murder.

Chapter 1

Willoughby Barnes strode from the servants’ entrance at Brandhurst Hall toward the Duke’s Garden. To reach his destination, he had to pass the stable courtyard and carriage houses, the fish pond and boathouse, as well as the dairy, then traverse dozens of acres of manicured velvet green sod to the lower yard. As he passed through the pleasure gardens, Will felt the exuberance that always struck him in the midst of such well-crafted beauty. With its fifty acres of gardens and four hundred acres of parkland beyond, Brandhurst Hall was arguably one of the most beautiful estates in all of England. A sparrow seemed to agree. It swooped in the clear sky, chirping out excitedly, as if to tell him spring had come. As if its very presence had not already stirred in his soul. Will traipsed over the freshly cut grass in his stained work pants and loose white shirt. Glancing up at the robin’s-egg blue sky, he ran his fingers through his swept-back, sun-bleached chestnut hair, which was cut bluntly at the middle of his neck. The smell of green in the air was perfume, the promise of summer. But he would not let the succulence of the Duke of Brandhurst’s gardens seduce and then throttle him with their beauty. He would do what he had come to do, earn his pittance so he could buy more paints, and then return to the garret for his real work. He would not spend the rest of his life here as a lowly gardener like his father. Will had great things to achieve. Striding onward, Will passed an obelisk surrounded by a woodsy circle of willows and pink chestnut blossoms, then skirted around the mock remains of a Roman temple crawling with ivy and redolent honeysuckle. Finally he reached the Duke’s Garden. It was a charming mishmash of wild and cultivated greenery with a neoclassical orangery at one end and a square lily pond with goldfish on the other and rows of tall hedges bordering the rectangular plot in between. “Will Barnes, be that you?” lilted an all-too-familiar voice. Willoughby looked up from the blossoms at his feet to see the silver-haired head gardener leaning heavily on a shovel. Mr. Crumby was his father’s old boss. He was watching over three under-gardeners digging what looked to be a grave.

“So ye came after all, Barnes.” His rheumy eyes simmered with satisfaction between narrowed lids. “Yes, I came.” Will lifted his chin and thrust his hands into pockets, rocking forward and then back on his long, lean legs. “Well, bless me soul.” The rumpled Crumby whipped off his dusty tweed cap and wiped sweat from his brow. The gloating look of triumph on his sun-beaten face made the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand. “Who died?” Will asked abruptly stepping on a clump of moist black earth until it burst beneath his heel. “The Duke, lad!” the head gardener cried. The digging men looked up disbelievingly from the shadows under their caps. One of them was Crumby’s youngest son, Tom. The twenty-year-old strapping young man always caught Will’s artistic eye because of his extraordinary beauty. He had a thick dark skein of hair, chiseled cheeks, a striking divot in his chin, and turquoise eyes that positively shone beneath long black lashes. His godlike looks always seemed incongruous, for Tom had the brains of a half-wit. “Don’t be telling me, now, ye haven’t heard,” Crumby groused. “His Grace is dead!” “Oh, I hear nothing when I’m flush in oils.” Will gave him a fleeting smile. “Don’t argue with me Pa!” Tom said, struggling with the words. He rammed his shovel into the worm-laden hole and took a threatening step forward. “Not to worry, boy,” Crumby said gently. He patted Tom’s shoulder and turned him back to his digging. “Just keep on workin‘ lad.” Tom sullenly obeyed. Will returned his attention to Crumby. “I was painting in a fever when I received your note. You indicated you needed me. And since you swore you’d burn in hell before you asked for my help again, I came to see what was the bother.” Crumby gave a grimacing smile. “You always had uppity airs, Will Barnes. Not like yer father.” Unlike his father, Willoughby had been educated. At least until he was fourteen, when his father had become such a sot he couldn’t pay to have his eldest schooled anymore. Barnabas Barnes had gone from head gardener to weed picker. And then Will had spent a year being groomed in the home of a rich cousin who wanted to adopt him. But Will’s father had died, and he’d come home to help his mother. He’d been the only one of five siblings who had any schooling. It was Will’s way of speaking properly that bothered his father’s old boss the most. Especially since his own son could scarcely put together more than a few coherent sentences at a time and would never have a mind to match the physical beauty God had given him. “What do you need me to do, Mr. Crumby?” Will asked. “I can spare five days.” “Five days, eh? Well, ain’t the Duchess a lucky one that young Willoughby Barnes can be spared from painting his whores to come and design a nice funeral plot for the Duke! If ye weren’t so bloody good

with yer drawings I’d flatten ye now for yer insolence. Gads, boy, where be you these days past? Everyone has heard. The Prince of Wales hisself is on his way to Brandhurst Hall! The Prime Minister is due tomorrow!” “As I said, I’ve been painting.” “Don’t tell me ye didn’t see the black crepe on the door of the hall! Don’t tell me no one in town was talkin‘.” “I don’t talk to anyone when I’m painting.” Will started walking around the perimeter of the hedged-in garden. Already designs were formulating in his mind. Images bombarded him with a speed that would give anyone else an aching head, but he was used to it. He was used to being wakened in the night by images that demanded to be put on canvas. Not on the morrow, but right then. In such fits of obsession, he could not hear the knell of funeral bells, or the idle gossip on the street below his garret. “Don’t it surprise ye he’s dead?” Crumby said musingly, inviting Will to speculate as the others had. “Strange, ain’t it, that a man so strong and fit like His Grace would fall into a fit of apoplexy? There’s more to it than we heard, I’ll avow.” Will pushed back his hair, only half-listening. “I heard the Duke was a raving rotter.” He held his hands eye level, making a picture frame with his fingers, through which he viewed the orangery at the end of the garden. “That might explain why Her Grace was a bit daft, or a regular saint, depending on who you talked to. Maybe he tasted his comeuppance.” “Sounds like ye did more talkin‘ than ye’ll allow. Ye just remember who paid yer father’s wages, lad. Where would the likes of ye be without the Duke? Ye just remember that without His Grace yer old man would have starved, as would ye. And when ye fall flat on yer nose with yer fancy notions, ye can come crawlin’ back to old Mr. Crumby. I’ll put in a good word with the estate steward for ye, and ye can start like yer pa ended?pickin‘ weeds. Ye’ll be happy for the work then, I’ll avow.” Will briefly shut his eyes and clenched his jaw muscles. Crumby couldn’t let pass any chance to remind him of the old man. When he was alive, there wasn’t a day that Barnabas Barnes hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor and beaten his children. They’d taken turns, offering themselves up like lambs, and Will taking more than his share under the switch to spare the young ones. After the beatings came the lectures about their great lineage. Barnabas’s forebears had designed English knotted gardens for Queen Elizabeth’s court centuries earlier. From landscape designers to weed-pickers. In the end Barnabas’s gin-soaked brain was good for little more than hauling sod. When young Willoughby had defiantly sworn he’d make something of himself by becoming one of England’s great portraitists, Crumby and Barnabas had laughed until they cried. And then Barnabas had beaten him black and blue for his arrogance. No one from the upper crust would ever ask the son of a drunken gardener to paint a portrait, Crumby had warned him, but that didn’t stop Will from painting. He hired prostitutes and made them sit instead of lay for him. Sometimes they would sprawl on his bed, spreading their legs and exposing their breasts as he tweaked and caressed them on the canvas, reproducing female skin with creamy whites and rosy hues. One day Will would be paid to paint, not whores, but aristocrats, politicians, perhaps even kings and queens. All he needed was one good critic who would recognize his true worth and write about him. Then would come showings, and then the penultimate?membership in the Royal Academy. He couldn’t

give up until he’d found a way to make it all happen. Will would make it on his own terms or die trying. He wouldn’t sell himself short like the old man had. In the meantime, to keep body and soul together he would design a garden fit for a duke, and he’d have to do it quickly. The grave had to be ready in three days, Crumby told him. No one had ever kept the Duke waiting while he lived, and they sure as hell would not keep his corpse waiting now.

Two days after the funeral Livie sat on a cool stone bench in the Duke’s Garden and watched the grave by moonlight. The household had gone to bed. She’d slipped out unnoticed, taking the staircase in her husband’s chamber that led to an obscure underground passageway. Only two other people knew about the secret revolving bookcase. One was the Duke’s valet, Antonio Maulderazzi. And since Tony was now attending to Neville, Livie had been able to sneak out in a hooded cloak dressed no better than an upper servant. The duke and duchess bedrooms, which were connected by two large his and her dressing rooms, were blessedly separated from the rest of the wing by a statuary hall. No one saw her leave. Not the Prime Minister, who had been up late in one of the great State Rooms on the east side of the house, talking politics with the Prince of Wales, along with the Duke of Devonshire. And not their wives, who’d earlier been watching Livie for signs of grief as they sipped their after-dinner coffee. The women looked only because they had never known what sort of marriage the Duke and Duchess of Brandhurst had endured. Therefore no one could truly comfort her. The only one who would understand was Sir Perry, and she could not go to him without raising eyebrows. So here she sat without the trappings of her title, adorned with a simple yellow gown. She’d pulled back her hood, revealing golden hair with its soft red tints, drawn up in a simple chignon. She wore no hat, no cosmetics, no corset, no gloves. Not even stockings. It was utterly scandalous. All the more so because her clothing should be black from head to toe, including her undergarments. She had worn heavy serge all day, but rebelled against the constraints once she was in the privacy of her room. God, how could Queen Victoria bear to wear black year after year? As long as Livie returned to her room in secret, no one need ever know that the perfect Duchess of Brandhurst had been scandalously imperfect for a few hours in the garden. Wearing mourning seemed such a hypocrisy. How could she weep for a husband she had never truly loved? How could she mourn a man whose lovemaking had felt like rape, then wondered why her womb would not accept his seed. And here she was, not only childless, but feeling ancient at the age of forty, even though her breasts were still proud and her body unmarred by childbirth. She should be celebrating her new freedom from the Duke’s tyranny, but she wasn’t sure she still knew how to feel. For the only way she knew how to live year in and year out with deliberate cruelty was to numb herself until she could feel neither pain nor, unfortunately, joy. She had succeeded in cutting off all significant emotions so successfully she feared that they were lost forever. She could summon no tears, not even for herself. She felt no guilt. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t even laugh. She felt absolutely nothing. But she desperately wanted to feel something. For years, she had ached for the warmth of another, for the comfort of physical contact, but eventually she had suppressed that need because it was simply too painful to live with. Now when intimacy was finally possible, she wondered if she were even capable of enjoying that part of life.

Would she ever feel again? Or would she simply die never having really lived? She felt as if she were the one who should have climbed into that deep grave, not her husband. Let me feel, Lord, she thought. Let me feel something. Anything. No matter the cost. Just so I know I’m alive. Suddenly she heard a rustle from behind, so unexpected that the rattling branches sounded like crashing trees. She jumped with a gasp and twisted on the bench. A man’s head emerged from the moonlit greenery, then disappeared behind a hedge. “Who goes there?” she rasped. No one answered. She felt like Eve awaiting retribution after she’d sinned in the Garden of Eden. Except Livie had never had the opportunity to sin. She struggled with the folds of her hood, but failed to raise it before a tall, earnest-looking young man finally emerged with an easy stride, then halted abruptly. His head reared back in surprise. “Good evening,” he said. It seemed pointless to raise her hood now and she folded her hands in her lap. Her bare hands. Inwardly, she cringed, but outwardly tipped up her chin. “Who are you?” “Willoughby Barnes.” He didn’t bow, which meant he didn’t recognize her, thank God. She realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out slowly. He obviously wasn’t a funeral guest. His clothes were too simple and worn. He had to be a servant of some sort, but not a regular one, or he would have recognized her immediately. With three hundred dependents employed in sixty different areas at Brandhurst Hall, she could not hope to recognize lesser servants. “Good evening, Mr. Barnes.” The young man tilted his head, peering intently through the shadows. “Are you well, ma’am?” She looked up sharply. How perceptive he was. His gently spoken question was a kiss that tickled her nape. She shivered and shook it off. Though his speech made it clear he’d been educated, he still had a great deal to learn about the rules of etiquette, all of which she knew by heart. “I’m not accustomed to speaking frankly with strangers. Should I know you, sir?” “No, ma’am.” The distance between them closed, though neither moved. “I said, are you well?” He was nothing if not persistent. When was the last time anyone wanted to know how she really felt? “I am very well indeed, Mr. Barnes. It is very kind of you to ask. Do you... do you work for the Duchess?” She looked directly into his eyes and felt a connecting jolt. He nodded. “I designed the beds to surround the grave. But I’ll be gone soon. My work is nearly done.” What a shame, she thought. She looked down at the new flower bed that crowned her husband’s grave like a ducal coronet. She had not noticed how beautiful the arrangement was until now. The young man held a potted plant in one hand and a shovel in the other. It was clear she was keeping him from his finishing touches.

“Go ahead and put your flowers in the earth. You will not disturb me.” He frowned. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I cannot disturb Her Grace’s guests.” With that, he turned to go. She wasn’t used to people leaving without her permission. Irritation blazed through her hazy thoughts. Ah, so she wasn’t entirely numb after all. Her pique turned to dismay, for she’d enjoyed talking to him. Soon she would be alone again. The numbness would return, and she would be cold. Cold as a grave. Before she knew what she was doing, she rose and called, “Wait! Don’t go.” Her voice was unintentionally operatic, full of pathos, and utterly arresting. She covered her mouth with her hands. He turned, and she knew in an instant she’d given too much away. She’d laid her need bare. She felt like a fool. “Yes, ma’am? What do you want?” I want you to stay. Her eyes said it. He shifted his weight. His compassion was almost palpable as it swirled around her entwined in the fresh wind. “Are you sure you’re well, ma’am?” His voice shimmied down her back and her shoulders shook. No, I am not well. I am sick and confused, frightened and desperate. Help me. Please. He came slowly toward her with the quiet stride of a hunter. Did he think she was a deer about to bolt? The world closed in on her with every step he took. He was very close now. His body blocked the wind. Warmth wafted from him, and the faint musky scent of unperfumed male skin. He stood before her fit and strong, lithe and youthful and clearly confused. “What I mean to say is... I insist that you finish with your gardening. You are obviously anxious to be done with it. It is what... His Grace ... would want. He always did expect... perfection.” He knew she was lying, but he was too kind to say it. “Very well, but you must sit. I won’t have you collapsing in the moonlight.” He waited respectfully until she found her place on the bench. Then he went to a bed of flowering quince and rammed his shovel into the earth. His powerful shoulders made easy work of it. Knots of strength bulged under his white shirt with each swooping motion, then melted when he tossed the earth aside. The blade sliced the ground with rhythmic swish sounds that lulled her into a rare sense of peace. She admired his ease and gracefulness. How simple, yet gratifying, his work must be. The rich fragrance of freshly turned earth wafted to her on a surprisingly summerish breeze. She envied him. She’d never been allowed to burrow her hands in the earth before she’d thrown a handful of it on this very grave. As a child, her father, the Earl of Cummings, had forbidden her to do more than play at the piano and work on her samplers. She’d never even been allowed to run on the lawn. And as the Duchess, married to an older man her father had chosen for her, it was unthinkable that she should kneel in the garden like a commoner. And after living with the Duke for a few years, her desire to grow things had withered with every other aspiration she’d ever held dear.

Yet somehow, watching this gardener laboring by moonlight made her think that there might still be some dormant dream waiting to blossom inside her. She felt like the sleeping princess of fairy tales. Was it a kiss she needed to wake her from her deathlike slumber? “You’re very sure of yourself,” she said admiringly as she watched from the bench. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at her almost disbelievingly. He possessed a sensitive and determined focus she’d never seen before in a man. It was as if he were studying her features, memorizing them, unaware and uncaring that in so doing he violated all social rules. “Where did you learn your skills, Mr. Barnes?” He shrugged and turned back to his work. “I come from a family of gardeners. My father worked his whole life for His Grace. This is not my profession, but I know well enough what to do.” “You certainly do.” How old was he? she wondered. Surely he was not even thirty. Far less, she suspected. His face was smooth, untested, yet his chin was strong, his brows were sublimely carved, and his cheeks were dashed angles that sloped down to the shadow of a day’s growth of beard. Life was his oyster, and he had the strong, supple hands needed to crack it open and feast. She sucked in a quivering breath, stunned to realize she found him attractive. How shameful, a proper voice echoed by rote in her mind. How delightful, a quiet new voice whispered rebelliously. “Mr. Barnes, may I ask what is precisely the nature of your real profession?” He finished tamping down the earth around the newly planted shrub with his hands, then dusted them off, wiping them on the earth-stained trousers that hugged his muscular thighs. When he sank back on his heels, there was a new look on his face, a strange blend of defensiveness and hope. “I am an artist.” He paused, almost as if waiting for laughter. “I paint.” “I am quite sure your work is splendid.” He frowned. “You’ve never seen my work.” “I’d like to. What do you paint?” Whores. “People. Portraits.” “But why not take photographs? They are truly marvelous. I’ve heard that many portraitists have abandoned their art in favor of them and are making a fortune at it.” “I’m not in it for the quid,” was his quick and self-righteous reply. When she winced ever so slightly, he shook his head with chagrin. “Sorry. You poked at an old scar.” “Why are you sensitive about that?” she gently prodded. “You believe an artist’s work is superior to a photograph?” “Of course it is.” He swept to a stand in one graceful motion, and she feared he would leave. “Tell me more. I want to

understand.” “Do you really?” The intensity in his eyes heightened a notch. He licked his lips as he gathered his thoughts. “You see, ma’am, a photograph is one dimensional.” His hands brushed the air with invisible colors. “A good painting has so much more depth. An artist sees beyond the surface. For example, look at your hand.” She stiffened, and he knew right away what she was thinking. He shook his head, smiling. “No, no, I mean no harm. I simply want you to see what I see, what drives me over and over again to the canvas. The human form is the most magnificent of all creations. Look at yours. Go on.” She watched with baited breath as he pulled a kerchief from his trousers and wiped the remaining dirt from his graceful fingers. Returning the soiled material to his pocket, he reached out for her hand, as she knew he would. Her hand lifted, seemingly of its own accord. She could no more refuse his request than turn from the Pied Piper. His youthful zeal was infectious. What difference did it make anyway? What was a hand to an artist? Not an object of intimacy. It was mere anatomy. But if that were so, why did she feel like she was reaching out to touch a scorching flame? With tingling fingers, she held out her arm in the moonlight. He stared so intently at it that heat spread like lava up to her shoulder. Suddenly his examination didn’t seem terribly dispassionate. The air between them grew thick. Blood pounded in her temples. He moved forward, stepping between her and the round, blue moon. His shadow darkened her view and forced her other senses to jump to life. His leather boots groaned as he leaned on his toes. He smelled of dusty pollen and rich, wet dirt and a pleasant, spicy scent that made her throat hitch. “I’m standing in your light. Sorry.” He stepped aside, but still remained heart-stoppingly close. Her arm was growing heavy, but she didn’t want to drop it from his reach. “See?” He bent at the waist and pointed to the tendons under her skin. His forefinger skidded from a knuckle to her wrist. He barely touched her, yet the connection sizzled, and she jerked with a full-body shiver. “Are you cold? I’m still worried about you.” “Don’t be.” She shook her head quickly, eyes downcast. He took her fingers in his own, like a gentleman about to kiss a lady in greeting. The smooth under-skin of his palm deftly brushed hers with a feather-light touch. He lowered himself to his knees again, never taking his eyes off her as he studied her speculatively over the top of her knuckles. He gave her a challenging, lopsided grin that revealed a roguish dimple. “See the hills and valleys of your hand?” Their eyes locked. Time seemed to stand still. Blood drubbed in her ears. She felt a tug she didn’t understand. He gave a short laugh, breaking the spell. “You’re supposed to look at your hand, not at me.” When she continued to stare, he winked and said softly, “Are you positively certain you’re well?” “Sorry,” she said with a weak laugh, and focused her eyes where she was supposed to. “See the translucence of your skin? The blue veins beneath?”

Speechless, she nodded. She couldn’t believe she was actually examining her own body in the presence of a man. Touching him, no less. She’d always put skirts around her pianos to hide their legs, and here she was offering up her own limb for a stranger’s perusal. She truly had lost herself. But at least she felt something. Oh, God, did she feel! In the moonlight she not only saw the intriguing network of bones and flesh of her own body, but she felt them. His vibrant touch kindled an energy in her that made her hand long to stretch and tighten, to grip his in kind. In one wondrous moment she began to feel as if she were finally becoming the thing she was meant to be?a full-blooded, breathing, responsive human being. This remarkable young man was right. She’d never realized how fascinating the human form could be. “Yes, I see.” She allowed herself to pressure his fingers with her own. Did he notice? “It’s like a maze.” “Yes, precisely! I knew you would understand the minute I saw you. Now look at the whole.” He had the power of a hypnotist, and her gaze returned to their joined hands. Unconsciously they had leaned closer. When he let out a gust of potent air, its heat tingled her ear. “Look again at your perfect hand. Isn’t it lovely?” Was it? Was anything about her lovely? She couldn’t think. She could only feel his hand gripping hers, burning and strong. He unfurled her fingers and pressed them flat against his palm. Something throbbed between them. “See the veins beneath the surface? I paint them in shades of blue and white.” He traced a vein with his calloused fingertip that sizzled against her skin. “You can’t even see a vein in a photograph. Isn’t that a pity?” It was a tragedy. How sad, she thought, as the dam of her emotions finally broke free. Out they all rushed like storm water into the murky fens of Cambridgeshire. They flowed through those indigo aqueducts just beneath the surface of her skin, engorging in their rush to find release. And in the chaos of liberation, the truly tragic and the inconsequential woes of the world were interchangeable. Tears rose with volcanic force and fell from her eyes as her body began to quake. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, trying to rise. She pulled her hand free and gripped the bench when her knees buckled. “Oh, dear me.” It had been too long since she’d been touched. She couldn’t take it. She was a hothouse orchid suddenly exposed to the scorching sun. Her lungs felt as if they were filling with liquid heat. Her fingers turned numb. She fought for a breath of air as her skin tightened with cold. Perspiration burst out on her forehead. She grew light-headed and began to weave. Her vision dimmed. Lord, she was going to faint! She had to get out of here. She stood abruptly, and the blood plummeted to her toes. She hadn’t taken a single step before all went black.

Chapter 2

The first thing Olivia noticed when she regained consciousness was a gentle rocking motion. For a moment she thought she was on a horse. But it was too soft. Then she realized what it was that held and soothed her?the warm strength of a man’s arms. Her cheek was buried in a shoulder that smelled pleasantly of wood smoke and wind. A roughly woven shirt grated against her skin. When her numb fingers came back to life, she realized that one hand was draped around a man’s neck and the other flapped against the back of his taut legs. She stiffened. Her eyes flew open. She looked up and saw the moonlit silhouette of a man’s jaw and the soft stubble of golden whiskers. Oh, God, it was him. “Where are you taking me?” she mumbled, trying to pull herself up. Her face still tingled from the loss of blood, and she couldn’t quite get her lips to form the words properly. “To Brandhurst Hall. You fainted. You need care. Now just stay put, I have hold of you.” “No!” She dug her fingers in the thick, resilient muscles lining his neck. His young body contained so much elasticity it seemed as if her fingertips would be buried in flesh. It was a bone-melting sensation and she dropped her head back on his chest with a skittering moan of pleasure. How mortifying! “Please don’t take me there,” she whispered, “not like this.” He stopped and looked down with a perplexed frown. “You need to rest.” “Not there. I can’t be seen like this.” She pressed a hand to the back of her head. Her upswept hair had tumbled down. The tight curls above her forehead were beginning to wilt. She must look positively undone. What to do? She looked up into his eyes, reassured by the obvious goodness that winked from them. Somehow she knew she could trust him. Then a notion struck, and she gripped his shirt. “There is a gardener’s cottage nearby.” “I know. I’ve been staying there.” She tightened her fingers on his shoulders, where supple arm muscles wed strong, broad bones. “Take me there until I can stand on my own.” He stood with her featherlike body in his powerful arms, moving neither forward or back, neither right or left. She was not in her right mind. His cottage was the last place he should take her. Whoever she was, she was obviously no demirep, and her reputation, should she be discovered alone with him, would not survive the night. She would be ruined. Never accepted again in polite society. Surely she realized that. “That’s not a good idea.” “Please,” she whispered, tightening her grip. The impassioned plea ripped through him like a spiked dagger, making shards of his better judgment. How could he deny her? He nodded and turned in the opposite direction.

The cottage was off near the woods. She relaxed into his arms. She hadn’t eaten in three days, and she was paying the price. Oh, what a sweet price it was. She was too weak to maintain her usual stiff propriety. Livie found herself nestling against this stranger, and though racked with guilt, it felt so good she couldn’t stop. Of course it was wrong, but Livie needed this. She needed to be held. It was as if she’d given birth to her own squalling needs the day her husband died. And like newborn babes, they would not be quiet until they’d suckled and nourished themselves. The source of the milk did not matter. When was the last time someone had really held her? As a child? She had not been fully embraced since. And certainly never in this fashion, for though Mr. Barnes held himself stiffly, they were colluding in a silent form of intimacy. She was quite certain the only reason he’d been so forward was because he had no idea who she was. Her anonymity was a blessing. She began to wonder?what if she were someone else? What if for one night she was simply Livie, instead of the Duchess? A woman in need. A woman who deserved at least one night of consolation. With one arm wrapped around his waist and the other draped over his shoulder, she let her fingers spread and tightened her grip, marveling at how firm his narrow waist and broad shoulders were, and yet how soft it felt to nestle against his chest. He thought she was slipping, and he hiked her up to get a better grip. Her head fell into the nook of his throat, and instead of pulling away, she burrowed inward. Smooth skin touched her face. Rough whiskers on his chin gently sanded her forehead. Again, it was that contrast between hard and soft that sent a tickle of desire hurtling down her spine and intoxicated her senses. She inhaled the heady scent of male skin. He looked down at her, eyes smoldering and a dash bemused, then looked up quickly. She was shocking him. The perfect Duchess of Brandhurst was scandalizing one of her own servants. But since he did not know her, and she scarcely knew herself, what did it matter if the comfort she sought violated every rule by which a lady lived her life? Would there even be life after this? What if someone found out her husband had been murdered? Would she hang for it? The question weighed on her chest like a pressing stone, cutting off air. She wanted to breathe, to seize life while she could. She had to act now. She heard Mr. Barnes’s boots scuff over the flagstone walkway to the cottage and gently kick open the wooden door. Warmth enveloped them, floating from across the room where sleepy flames crackled and yawned in the gray stone hearth, where wood smoke that had permeated his clothing rose out of the flue. “Here we are. I’ll lay you on the bed so you can rest.” When he started to lower her to the quilt, she felt as if she were falling into an abyss. She would not go alone. She made her decision. When he gently sprawled her on the bed, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung tight. He tried to straighten, but was trapped. She leaned up and pressed her cheek to his and held very still. He immediately responded, pressuring back and rocking his head in little circles. He sank down beside her, and they stared a moment at one another, eyes fiercely focused and searching. There was no distance between them. His lips were an inch away. She could breathe him in, felt the heat rising in her chest. Her instincts finally awakened. Risking all, she pressed her lips to his. His firm, beautiful mouth did not move. He was clearly stunned. She leaned forward and whispered provocatively in his ear, “Please don’t go.”

The entreaty curled inside him, and every muscle went taut, from his powerful thighs and the knotted sinews in his calves to his strained brow and his sculpted jaws. They pulsed and clamped in restraint. He felt like one of Michelangelo’s sketches of the human anatomy, a dissectional, muscles in motion, except he had to hold himself very still. If he didn’t, he would crash over her and take her in one impulsive instant. And that couldn’t happen. He wanted nothing more than to accept what she generously offered, but she was obviously a lady, and he was common. If she didn’t know her place, if she had lost herself in a fit of madness or weakness, he still knew his place. He felt guilty just touching her. He drew back a fraction and shook his head, using every ounce of self-control in his possession. “I can’t. It’s not right.” “Don’t say that.” She looked as if she’d crumble. Her eyes begged him. “Stay.” She slid into his lap, unknowingly brushing against his groin. He bit his lower lip and frowned as she put her arms around him, ridiculously pinning his arms to his side. He might have laughed, but her eyes searched his desperately for mercy. In the light of the dying fire, her eyes were a tigerish hue, golden confections. Her cheeks were well-defined, her chin heart-shaped, her face a mask of grace and mature femininity. She was so bloody earnest. Of course he could easily break free, but this elegant, innocent and oh so sensual woman deserved better. She oozed Quality. Her skin smelled as if she’d just bathed in rose water, and her gown had been hung with potpourri. She was a living garden, and one desperate to bloom. He allowed her to pull him down into the bed and pretended she’d bested him. He wanted to see what she would do next, for though she was clearly his senior by a number of years, she had the air of a vestal virgin about her. She leaned on one elbow and draped the other arm over his chest, looking down at him as if he were a rare specimen she desperately needed to comprehend. A sense of kinship stirred between them in that silent moment. He liked curious, honest women. She must have felt his acceptance, for she sighed and smiled as if he’d just promised to forever be her true love. “I’m alive,” she whispered with so much amazement his heart melted to the point of no return. “Yes, you are.” He reached up and nudged back her silky hair, which had fallen about her shoulders, and blinked at the miraculous vision before him. “Lord, you’re lovely. You’re like the perfect painting I’ve been trying to achieve all my life.” Her velvet brows puckered. “Do you really mean that?” He nodded. Her lips began to tremble. She cast her eyes about, then closed them tightly. She pressed a fist to her heart. Her throat bobbed as her chest heaved, and soon tears trickled down her cheeks. “Don’t cry,” she admonished herself. “Do cry,” he countered. “Something tells me you need to.” She strained and fought, but the sobs refused to be quelled. At the sound of her wrenching sorrow, he pushed up from the bed and took her in his arms, cradling her with the strangest concoction of

compassion and lust he’d ever known. He was hard as a rock, but all he could do was plant kisses on her large-lidded eyes, drink salty tear’s from her velvet cheeks, nuzzle her satin bow-shaped lips, listen to her sudden intake of breath, and murmur sweet nothings in her rosebud ear. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. You’re not alone.” When he had her crooning and melting under his tender onslaught, he cradled her fully in his arms like fragile crystal. His strength undid her again. He held her tighter. “You can tell me. What is wrong?” “I’ve wanted to be held just like this for so long,” she said, smiling up at him through her blur of tears. She laughed in woozy wonder, then wept to her heart’s content. Having someone to hear it, to take the tears into his shirt, made her cry all the harder. Some time later, when she was spent and lolled in complete contentment in his arms, she realized there was no more to hide from this tender young man. He had seen the worst in her and had not turned away in disgust or indifference. Her gratitude was profound. She sank onto the bed and stroked his cheek, trying to understand his ability to comfort her. There was a poetic lilt to his brow, a precision to his features that spoke of grace and beauty, yet a simplicity, an earthy softness that made him the perfect person to absorb her grief. She would be eternally grateful. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you ever so much for your kindness.” It was gratitude that finally gave her the excuse she’d been waiting for. She arched up like a dancer and pressed her mouth to his. It was all right, she told herself. She just wanted to thank him. To give him a bit of the tenderness he’d shown her. She would just brush her lips ever so softly against his. “Thank you,” she whispered at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.” He held back as long as he could, then his resistance went up in flames. He covered her soft mouth with a burning kiss that deepened in a heartbeat. Her lips parted easily and he plundered for hidden gold. They fused together, breasts to chest, legs entwined like threads of yarn, as if they’d been planning this meeting for a lifetime. She was like no other woman he’d ever held. She gave her soul in a single kiss, offered up her body without a thought to anything but the truth that trembled inside her. And he knew what that meant. His own need for some sort of greater union roared impatiently to life. He had no fear, only an unquenchable desire to see God on earth. Would it be in her arms? he wondered. He swooped over her, all hardness and hot desire. When she fell back, he saw a glint of fear briefly shadow her creamy, cameo face. The log between his thighs burrowed hard between hers. He was sure that’s what had frightened her, and for a moment he wondered if he’d mistaken her intentions. God, he felt like a cad. What was he doing? He suddenly felt like he was taking a virgin’s maidenhead. But that was impossible. She was a mature woman. He was the one being seduced here. She was using all her wiles?her grace, her dignity, her innocence. She was incredible. A treasure. He kissed her hard on the mouth, and she rose to meet him, the fear gone. His tongue plunged inside, and he bathed in her wet brilliance. He kissed his way to her ear. “Who are you?” “It doesn’t matter.” “You’re a lady. That much is obvious. And I’m?”

“Shhhh.” She pulled his head down into the marble hollow of her neck. He let go of his weight and sank into the fullness of her. “Don’t say I’m a lady. Don’t condemn me for that. It has been my curse. I need you.” As if someone else had taken over her body, as if her mind were far, far away, she began to tug at his shirt, guided by instinctive hunger. “I want to touch you” came her shaky whisper. When her fingers successfully made contact with his supple back, curving over the round muscles that lined his spine, she arched against him, pulling him close. Closer. She didn’t know what she wanted from him, for it had never been this way, but she knew that she was building to some incredible explosion that she’d been waiting a lifetime to experience. “Touch me,” she hissed as she pressed her hands to his cheek and raised his head up. This was a direct order. “Touch me everywhere. Now.” He impatiently unfastened her cloak and pulled the collar away from her neck, exposing her low-cut gown. He stared at her, breathing hard, and licked his lips. He watched as his fingers slowly crawled from her neck to the lacy neckline of her gown. With a single finger he tugged down and one breast broke free. The cool air kissed it like a lover. Her senses reeled. She gripped his arms. Pushing and pulling at the same time. Goose bumps spread over her skin. Her dusky nipple stood at attention. She couldn’t see. Could only feel. And when he shocked her by covering the bud with his hot mouth, she cried out and wrenched in his arms, bucking against him with unleashed passion. Emboldened, he drew back and urgently pulled the edge of the gown down and under, exposing her other pearly breast. He let out a gasp of incredulity. They were perfect? feminine, just full enough, and oh-so-tender looking. These smooth breasts had never suckled a babe. He reached out with restrained ferocity and palmed them gently, moving up sinuously as she writhed against him. “What are you doing to me?” she cried between gasps for air. She responded so incredibly to his every touch that he could scarcely wait to enter her. The time had nearly come for that. He reached down under her gown and found her knee-length drawers, which were conveniently split open from bow to stern, as was the fashion. With easy access, he delightfully prepared the way. She was no virgin, but it obviously had been a long, long time for her. He took his time, lulling her into a trance as he probed and caressed. She clearly had never made love to any man who knew how to please a woman. Already he knew that much about her. By courageously spreading her legs, she had served to reveal her very soul to him. She was incapable of giving less. The very thought of that humbled him. Touched him deeply. When he deemed her ready, when she could do no more than dreamily gaze at him with gratitude and wonder, he shirked his trousers and filled her to overflowing. Together they moved in perfect sync, minds shut, spirits rising. They spoke to each other wordlessly on the most fundamental level possible, one that requires perfect trust. The soothing dance was so sweet that tears trickled down Livie’s temples, even as strange sounds stirred in her throat. At last she was living. She truly was alive. She could not fathom how such a base act could bring her so close to heaven. The indescribable pleasure that she felt at the hands of this skillful young lover sent her spiraling to an ultimate release that she had not even known was possible.

He had never heard a woman spend herself in quite this way. Her cries of pleasure were so intense they sounded like cries of pain, and they were mingled with wide-eyed astonishment, even a brief glimmer of fear. She surrendered in exhaustion long before he was through, for he was young and hot-blooded, and tonight he had met his muse. He collapsed on top of her, only to realize a short time later that she’d fallen asleep. Poor lamb, she was exhausted. She was still unwell. He held her tenderly, kissing every nook and cranny he could find, hoping she could feel it through her slumber and perhaps wake knowing her worth. By the time his breathing had returned to normal, he realized he’d never made love to a woman with this kind of intensity before. Was it because she was older, he wondered as his hand roved down to the creamy swell of her hips. He gently smoothed over the ridge of bone. His fingertips lightly brushed the titian nest of hair they’d earlier plundered. No, he thought, sinking back on the pillow and propping his hands under his head. There was some other reason. Was it because she was, incredibly, still inexperienced? No, that wasn’t it. But what? He had the ominous feeling that understanding would come when he least expected. At length he rose, carefully tucking a sheet around her, and pulled on his trousers, going to the window and looking out at the moon. He lost track of time, for his body was still in a netherworld of pleasure. His body, as well as his mind, had been driven to new heights this night. Outside the stars gloriously glittered like a merchant’s display of fine jewels. He returned to gaze at his own rare gem when he heard her stirring. She sat up in bed, pushing back her hair and straightening her gown. He expected her to look up sheepishly, but she still regarded him with that exquisite combination of gratitude and amazement that had graced her perspiration-slick face during their lovemaking. “Who are you?” He didn’t really expect an answer, but hoped for one. He had no right to ask, for a man always took more than he gave in these situations. Society never punished a man for satisfying himself. It was the woman who always paid. The very least he could give her in return was her anonymity. She stood, brushed her gown, straightened her hair, and asked softly, “Who do you think I am?” He looked at the wooden floor, trying to put it all together. “I think you’re a funeral guest.” Her elegant lips curled. “Then that is who I am.” He frowned, feeling a stab of betrayal. She was humoring him. She came forward and kissed him tenderly on the mouth in silent apology. He inhaled his own musky scent on her skin, and felt that vivid connection one last time. Then she walked out into the night, taking half his soul with her.

From behind a row of overgrown lilac trees, Antonio Maulderazzi watched the Duchess depart from the gardener’s cottage. The Duke’s valet had followed her here after seeing her, quite by chance, collapse into the gardener’s arms at the graveside. Now Antonio had everything he needed to secure his future. A future that had become uncertain the moment His Grace had died. Antonio had known that the Duchess killed her husband. He just hadn’t known why. Why had she

snapped after enduring twenty-two years of hell? Now everything had become clear. She had a lover. He couldn’t really blame her. He would keep the Duchess’s secret safe. On one condition?that he retain his important post as the Duke of Brandhurst’s valet, serving whomever the next duke might be. If she would protect him, he would protect her. If not, then she would hang.

Chapter 3

Will watched the sunrise through a drizzle of rain that fell outside his garret in the East Midlands town of Stowfield. The quaint town was a two-hour walk from Brandhurst Hall and a day’s train ride from London. The historic medieval burgh boasted a few fashionable dress shops and a tailor, some fine pubs patronized by the gentry and a teahouse that the Duchess herself had visited on occasion. There were no such pleasantries for Will. He lived in a third-floor attic down the hill in lower Stowfield, where low-class commoners?The Many?labored for little; where the match and textile factories belched noxious black and yellow fumes. Unnatural shades of smog rose from tall smokestacks silhouetted against the sooty horizon. The sun struggled to rise above it all. Another dawn. Another day of frustration. Will rubbed the back of his strained neck, reluctant to turn and see his latest portrait in the light of day. He’d painted through the night. He’d been painting all week, but he was no closer to capturing the essence of the woman he’d made love to in the gardener’s cottage at Brandhurst Hall. Will had made dozens of sketches and was working on his third canvas. He was running out of paint, and he’d spent as much money from the Brandhurst job on oils as he could afford and still pay rent. He couldn’t go on striving for the perfection he craved, but neither could he stop. For if he didn’t capture her likeness, she would never be his. The sense of anticipated loss twisted his chest. His longing for her had become a physical pain. Will had been obsessed with his muse ever since that night a week ago. He’d almost grown superstitious, subconsciously thinking that if he could capture her on canvas, then God or the Fates or the devil himself would see fit to let them meet again. And if not, then at least he would be able to gaze on her likeness during sleepless nights. His obsession had exhausted him. He’d been painting twenty hours a day, scarcely stopping to eat a crust of bread. His eyes were blurry and felt like sandpaper beneath his drooping lids. Still, he forced himself to return to the two-foot-square canvas and lift his aching arm one more time, dashing his last brush strokes for posterity. Then he took a deep breath, put down his pallet and brush, and stepped back to cast his verdict. “Shit.” He had almost done it. He could see the evidence of his lovely phantom?the soft bow lips, the creamy oval face, the sensuous half-lidded eyes, and that wounded look of expectancy. But it wasn’t quite right.

“Hell!” How could he possibly translate her incredible vulnerability and strength? How could he infuse her Mona Lisa smile with the explosive passion he’d felt in her arms? It was impossible, for he sensed in an almost palpable way that whoever she was had changed in his very arms. Their union had altered them both. Forever. Or was he flattering himself? “Damn!” He raked his hands through his chestnut hair. “Who is she? Where can I find her? I have to see her again.” Lord knew he’d tried. He’d returned to the garden several nights in a row, waiting for her like a pathetic mooncalf, until Crumby had spotted him. Will had escaped before the head gardener could recognize and confront him. It wasn’t his own pride that Will wanted to protect. Her reputation was foremost in his mind. If Crumby guessed her identity before Will did, her reputation would be destroyed forever. And so he gave up his search to avoid rousing suspicion. She was doubtless long gone by now. She couldn’t have been a member of the Duke’s family, or she would have been wearing black. So who the devil was she? He sank into a chair and buried his face in his paint-stained hands. It was hopeless. His muse was lost to him forever. Usually when he made love with women, the act quantified them. He understood them and moved on. But she was a delicious enigma. Making love to her had raised more questions than it had answered. Curiosity was eating him alive. He sensed he could paint her exquisitely if she would sit for him. In every great artist’s life, there is some object or subject that, once brilliantly captured, transforms one from a mere journeyman into a true artist. Will knew she could have been that turning point for him. And knowing it frustrated the hell out of him. Suddenly the door opened with a bang. Musty air from the suffocating stairwell billowed in, mingled with the pungent scent of gin. “ ‘elloo, luv,” said Maggie Tulliver. She entered without invitation, swaggering in her dirty skirt, her laced ankle boots clicking loudly on the unfinished wooden floor. She went to the rough-hewn table and turned down the oil lamp. “Don’t tell me ye’ve been paintin’ all bloody night.” She kicked the door shut and repinned her disheveled curls of brassy red hair. Then she helped herself to a shot of gin from Will’s cupboard, pitching it back in one gusty swill. She exhaled like a smith’s billows and smiled contentedly. “Lor‘, I ’ad fun.” “Who’d you tup this time, Maggie?” Will asked in a monotone as he raised his head and let it fall against the back of the chair. Her green eyes flashed with anger, then she smiled coyly and flopped down in his lap with a pout. “Who do ye think ye are? A bleedin‘ Scotland Yard detective? I can drink wit’ whoever I wants after work, can’t I?” He looked down at her abundant cleavage and yawned. “But it’s always more than a drink, isn’t it, Maggie?”

Will leaned his head against his raised fist and studied her face dispassionately. They’d known each other since they were children. She was the daughter of a rag picker, and Will had almost married her until he realized he didn’t love her, that he’d only lusted after her. He still would have married her for honor’s sake, but she grew bored with him. Will had pretended to be heartbroken, but in truth he was relieved. Maggie had great plans. She moved out of her family’s hovel, found a job in a cotton factory, and took a room of her own. She claimed she was being courted by the factory owner, and that she was going to live in a fancy house in London soon. Will didn’t believe a word of it, but he liked to hear Maggie talk. She was as good at creating imaginary worlds as he was. And he liked to paint her. She was a bit brassy for the ethereal Pre-Raphaelite style so popular today, but she had wonderfully high cheekbones. “What’s the matter, sweetling?” she said. Her breath so reeked of liquor he nearly coughed. Her lip rouge was smudged, and Will could well guess how she’d spent her evening. She met his surly gaze with a frown and plunked her hand on her hips. “I said what’s botherin‘ ye?” He rubbed his brow with two fingers, his thumb poised on his temple. “I can’t get it right.” She let loose a burst of incredulous giggles. “I’ve been tellin‘ ye that for years, mate. What’s the problem this time?” He pointed to his canvases. “I met someone and I can’t quite capture her essence.” “Ha!” Maggie laughed again, rising. “ ‘Er essence, eh? Ye need more than ’er essence to relieve yer frustrations, if ye ask me.” She swaggered over to the paintings and studied them with proprietary interest. When she saw how beautiful the woman was, her haughty airs wilted and her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Willie me boy, ye ain’t in love with ‘er, now are ye?” Will took in a slow, pained breath. He wished it were that simple, but he still hadn’t figured out just what sort of bond he’d formed with his mystery lover. It was unlike anything he’d even imagined. “She’s looks like someone I seen ‘afore.” Maggie walked back and forth with her lean hips jutting from side to side. Suddenly she stopped cold. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she hissed, skittering back as if she’d seen a snake. Will sat up. “What? What is it?” “I don’t friggin‘ believe it!” “What? Do you recognize her?” He shot to his feet. “Do I recognize ‘er? Yer damned right I do!” She spun around and looked at him with such fire and mirth and astonishment that his mouth went dry.

“Who is it, Maggie? Enough with the histrionics. Tell me!” She strutted to him, planted her feet wide, then reached around and grabbed his derriere with both hands. She was so close her freckles looked like pennies. “I might tell ye if ye give me a little sugar, luv.” “Damn it, Maggie.” He grabbed her upper arms and pushed her away. “Stop playing with me, girl, and tell me. Who is she?” Maggie’s coy petulance turned into a smirk of superiority. “Wouldn’t ye like to know?” “Tell me! Please.” “Ow, all right, luv!” She brushed an imaginary bit of flint from her tight sleeve, then said nonchalantly, “She’s none other than the bleedin‘ Duchess of Brandhurst, that’s who.” Will’s jaw dropped and he let out an explosive gust of air. “What the??” He staggered back. His entire body went numb. “The Duchess! God almighty, heaven and hell, it can’t be. No!” He scowled. “You’re lying!” Maggie snorted and shook her head. “Nay, I’m not. I can’t believe what a bloody dunce ye are. Ain’t ye never seen the Duchess, ye fool?” “No! Only the Duke. And only once. What?how can this be?” He looked hard at his portraits. The woman he’d painted wore no rouge, no crown of diamonds, no fancy ermine stole. She was simply a country lady. A woman of the gentry, or even an upper servant. But not a duchess. He turned on Maggie and raised a threatening finger. “Maggie, if you’re lying to me, so help me God, I’ll turn you out and never speak to you again.” She thrust out her chin and puckered her painted red lips. “Why would I lie? Me cousin Mary worked in the scullery a few years back. I was invited to the butler’s banquet and I saw ‘er Grace enterin’ a carriage. She looked just like that. So ‘elp me God.” Will covered his face in his hands. Only for the briefest moment was he struck with the wonder of it all?a poor lad like him had made love to one of the greatest ladies in all of England. A duchess ranked just below royalty. But his false pride washed away like so much flotsam in the wake of a horrible realization. She could never acknowledge him. He would never see his muse again. A duchess and a gardener? It could never be.

Chapter 4

One Year Later

A year and a day. That was all that Society required for deep mourning, and Olivia had been counting the days. Tomorrow she would be able to doff her heavy widow’s weeds and put on something lighter, though it would still have to be gray, a black stripe, or lavender. But no more heavy serge. She could again let her skin breathe in linen and silk. She could also make a few discreet social calls, though fortunately she still had an excuse to avoid the London Season. She could remain comfortably ensconced in her country estate. All her previous social contacts had been dictated by her domineering husband, and her lofty position. Every year since Quinton’s death she’d dutifully hosted a charity ball, the event had secured her favor among the locals and had satisfied the expectations of philanthropic Society dames. But now her focus ran in a different vein. She fancied that pleasure, not expectation, might dictate some of her choices. Pleasure and, perhaps, even meaning. The Duchess of Brandhurst, was forty, and in ten years she might well be dead like her husband. She wanted to do something with what remained of her life. She wanted to know more about life as it really was. She was a changed woman, that much was certain. Her husband’s death had altered everything. Then she had nearly passed away herself. She had been so weak throughout the funeral that a rash sojourn in the garden one night had stricken her with a virulent fever. She’d been delirious for weeks. The doctor said it was a miracle she’d recovered. Olivia remembered nothing of that dreadful time. She knew only what her maid, Neville, and Mr. Hildebrande had recounted to her, and what she’d read in the newspaper. Ironically, she wanted to recall the details of that week in particular. Not that she possessed any sentimental notions of feeling for her late husband, nor pride in his spectacular farewell. It was simply that she had the vague feeling that something transforming had happened. Something wholly unexpected. And wrong. Immediately after her recovery, she’d stirred restlessly in her bed many a night, dreaming of the gardener’s cottage. Each time she would awake in an unladylike sweat, and the remarkably detailed images conjured by her imagination came rushing back?the smell of the fireplace in that enclosed place, the sound of the cottage floorboards under her feet. And the beamed ceiling. Why on earth would she imagine that? Curiosity dogged her so that she’d actually visited the cottage one day. When she found it empty, she was somehow disappointed, even surprised. She’d expected someone to be there. But who? Fearful she was suffering from some female nervous disorder, she’d told no one about her dreams. And eventually they’d faded. Now new possibilities yawned before her. And old responsibilities. The rigid rules that had guided her life showed no evidence of decay. If anything, her position required even more of her, since she was now in charge of Brandhurst Hall, at least until the new duke, Andrew Thorpe, arrived. At times she wished she could speak to Sir Perry about the challenges she faced, but her neighbor had not been to visit since the funeral. And rightly so. People would talk if she received a gentleman during her period of mourning. She would have to face the coming days all on her own. Everyone in the house had become increasingly anxious over Andrew’s imminent arrival, and how it would affect the hierarchy in this carefully ordered world. Particularly Neville.

Neville’s late father, John Thorpe, was brother to the late Duke of Brandhurst, uncle to the new duke, and had himself been an earl, as well as a bishop in the Church of England. But the Very Reverend the Earl of Dalling had disclaimed his earthly title in a fit of sanctimonious piety, devoting himself exclusively to God. The loss of the title had been a slap in the face for Neville. And since Neville didn’t believe in God, he wasn’t about to turn the other cheek. He hated his father for such a selfish act. While Neville was second in line to the dukedom, he could not claim that penultimate title unless his cousin Andrew perished. It was a terrible irony. While a servant might inherit a position that had been in his family for four generations, Neville had no permanent place or purpose. Therefore, he’d determinedly made himself useful to his aunt Olivia over the last year. He was stunned when a letter arrived saying that Andrew had, at long last, left America and would arrive soon after conducting business in London. In the face of anticipated change, Neville became more determined than ever to make himself indispensable, which for Livie was both a blessing and a curse. Though he had unquestionably been of great assistance to her, he unfortunately had a tendency to be as patronizing as his uncle. “Aunt Livie,” he said, breezing into her sitting room in his sleek black frock coat. He adjusted his white puff ascot with one hand while he waved a letter in the other. “I’ve received a missive from Mr. Disraeli. He says your country needs you.” “What now?” she asked with a weary sigh. She let her embroidery fall in her lap. “If I interpret this letter correctly, the Prime Minister plans to see you married by the end of the year.” “Heaven forebear!” She glanced up irritatedly. Why must Neville introduce such unwelcome news in her private sitting room? This was her haven from the world. She had designed the decor herself. She had chosen the elegant Roman frieze over the marble fireplace, the cream-colored ivy leaf pattern on the cornices and the matching dado, as well as the feminine pink and green floral wallpaper pattern that also covered the plush overstuffed furniture. The room was lush and feminine and cozy. She returned her focus to her embroidering. “I thought I’d already done my duty to the country by being the Duke’s wife.” Neville shot her an assessing look from beneath arched black brows. Then he lifted them with ennui and carefully folded the letter. “I should think it would be wise, ma’am, to settle the matter before Andrew arrives. I’ve heard he’s a manipulative despot.” “I’m sure that’s not true.” Livie regarded him with tolerant affection. Neville was one of those particular and lean, very English-looking men who possessed a sharp profile, a small, pretty mouth, and an exaggerated sense of self-importance. “Besides, my status is settled. I am a widow.” “But one needn’t remain a widow forever.” “The Queen will never remarry. Why should I?” He barked out a laugh. “That’s altogether different! Victoria rules the world. You have but a small empire, your home. And when Andrew arrives, you must abdicate your authority to him. Unlike many other women of the ton, you don’t presume to dabble in politics. You’re a biddable woman, Duchess, and it’s a role you must continue to play.” “Says who?” asked his cousin Todd in a boisterous and good-natured challenge.

He strode confidently into the room, fresh from a ride through the estate, with an easy smile aimed at his aunt Livie smiled back warmly. Todd was the son of her late husband’s sister and the renowned barrister, Sir Henry Leach. Todd showed every promise of establishing a great reputation at the Inns of Court. He would soon be called to the bar, though he had a tendency to get distracted by his passion for hunting. He wore sporty checkered knickers and a riding jacket that smelled pleasantly of saddle leather and horse hair, she noticed as he sat next to her on the sofa. He was handsome with rounded features and a slightly overweight figure and always ready with a warm laugh. “Don’t listen to a word Neville says, Auntie,” Todd said as he kissed her hand. “He has absolutely no imagination.” “The prime minister says he wants you to marry Lord Skelton,” Neville said, pointedly ignoring his cousin as he scanned the letter. “Lord Skelton!” Olivia had begun to pour the tea that had been steeping on the round table next to her, but she stopped midstream to look up in shock. “You can’t be serious.” Todd patted her knee. “Never you fear, Duchess. I’ll fend him off for you. Skelton is a bloated toad. You’re much too fine for the likes of him. I don’t care if his estate is worth a million pounds.” Olivia smiled blithely as she handed him a cup with a delicate blue china pattern. “Thank you, Toddy, for defending my honor.” Todd lifted his blond brows with a charming quirk. “Who cares about honor? I’m trying to secure your well-earned freedom. Everyone knows what a bastard Uncle Quinton was. You’ve paid your marital dues.” Neville cast him a withering glare. “Do not speak poorly of the dead, Toddy.” “Oh, stuff it, Nev. The only reason you put up with him is because you were hoping our sickly cousin in America would die and the title would fall to you. But it’s too late now. Your brief reign of power is about to end.” Olivia smothered a smile by sipping her tea. Todd’s honesty was one of the things she liked best about him, though she did feel sorry for Neville. She was about to diplomatically change the subject when the mahogany doors opened with a quiet groan that ran the scale. Cool air rushed in from the hallway. Livie looked up and found Mr. Jarvis, the gray-haired butler, bowing with his usual stiff formality. “Excuse me, ma’am, but you have a visitor. A Miss Clara Peabody.” “She’s not home,” Neville declared and came to the tea table, taking the cup Olivia had poured for him. “Send her away.” “I do not believe I am acquainted with a Miss Peabody,” she said, looking questioningly at Toddy. He shrugged. “Whoever she is, she’s apparently aware that full mourning has ended.” “You don’t need to waste your time with a nobody, Your Grace,” Neville declared. “Imagine the effrontery of calling on you at this hour without an invitation. Does she think she’s in America? I’m sure if Andrew has anything to say about it, such rude behavior will soon be de rigeur. Jarvis, do not bother to announce anyone who is not clearly a Lady. I won’t throw open the doors to the riffraff until Andrew

demands such base democracy of me.” Livie frowned. “I don’t believe you need to concern yourself with this matter, Neville. Andrew hasn’t arrived yet, and I’m fully in charge of my own affairs.” Neville let out a soft snort of surprise, which Livie chose to ignore. “She says she’s here to talk about the factory girls, ma’am,” Jarvis added. Though he spoke in his most nasal tones of indifference, his refusal to be dismissed caught Neville’s ire, and Livie decided to interfere before the loyal servant received a reprimand. The Duke surely would have forced the faithful butler to retire this year, for he was well past his prime and his memory had been deteriorating rapidly. But Livie could not bring herself to let Jarvis go until death or infirmity claimed him. And the ever-efficient house steward was only too happy to take on the butler’s duties as well as his own. Mr. Hammond didn’t trust the under-butler to meet his standards of perfection, and he liked to keep a tight rein on the entire household staff. Olivia smiled patiently at the aging butler. “You seem to have an opinion on this matter, Jarvis. Is Miss Peabody of special interest to you?” He slanted a cautious look at Neville. “Forgive my impertinence, ma’am, but I have a friend whose daughter is employed in a match factory. The conditions in which she works are beyond deplorable.” Neville waved a hand in dismissal. “They’re a troublesome lot, these factory girls. The Duchess of Brandhurst will not sully her impeccable reputation associating with women of that ilk.” “Those poor girls have a rather rough lot,” Todd commented suddenly. His sympathy intrigued Olivia, and she was stabbed with enlivening curiosity. “Send her in, Jarvis.” Neville looked flummoxed, and sighed dramatically. Livie knew a moment of exultation. Before her husband’s death, she would have reversed course in the face of such a reaction, without realizing why she was doing so. What a difference a year could make. “I’m sorry my decision distresses you, Neville, but I am curious about what this visitor has to say about the factory girls. I’ve never met one, and I’d like to know more about them. I see nothing wrong with that.” She turned to Todd. “Do you, Toddy?” “Good heavens, no!” “But to invite her into your personal sitting room!” Neville persisted. “Really, Duchess, think of your reputation, not to mention your Japanese porcelain. You’d best count the pieces before she leaves.” He indicated a whatnot in the corner adorned with row after row of priceless objets d’art. Livie sighed. “Very well, Neville. I see no harm in taking precautions, especially since I am not accustomed to welcoming strangers into my sanctum sanctorum. Jarvis, escort Miss Peabody to the Golden Parlour.” The butler bowed silently and backed out of the room. Livie and her nephews finished their tea, then she donned a wrap over her shoulders and led the way.

It was a fifteen-minute walk from her drawing room to the opposite wing. They traveled through marble-floored halls, wooden galleries, and Elizabethan antechambers, all windingly connected by unheated corridors, faintly illuminated by gas wall sconces. Their voices echoed off the high ceilings as the conversation continued. “Tell me all you can about the factory girls, Toddy,” the Duchess said, hooking her arm through his. Neville followed a pace behind. “I want to know everything.” “Well, Aunt Livie, these young women work the factories twelve hours a day, six days a week. They have no time to better themselves, and as a result they speak worse than fishmongers. The obscenities that spew from their mouths would singe your hair.” “Does the Duchess really have to hear this?” Neville sniffed. “They work such long hours that they can’t find husbands, and their only free time is late at night, and so they get into trouble with men. They make good wages and some never marry at all. But many die young because of the brutality of their working conditions. Laws have been passed that protect textile workers, and a new one is pending, but it won’t protect the match factory girls. They inhale dangerous phosphorous, which is what they use to coat the ignitable end of the matchsticks. It also coats their lungs, and their faces glow in the dark. Eventually they suffer from phossy jaw. It’s a debilitating and gruesome disease that literally rots the jaw.” They’d reached the portrait gallery. Neville had stepped ahead by now, and stopped, whirling around abruptly. “Really, Todd! I’m quite sure Aunt Olivia doesn’t have the fortitude for this!” Todd humored him with a patronizing smile, then deftly forced him aside simply by proceeding. Neville fell in behind them again. No one paid heed to the familiar phalanx of painted ancestors frowning down at them from every square inch of the walnut paneled walls. “The only way to cure phossy jaw is to surgically remove the jaw itself,” Todd continued, “a painful and disfiguring process.” “Dear God!” Livie murmured as a chill crept over her skin. “The only way to escape the dangers for many is to go into domestic service, but no respectable household would hire a factory girl, because of their lack of morals.” “How dreadful,” Livie said in a shocked whisper. “I had no idea life was so difficult for them.” “Nor should you know it, Duchess,” Neville cut in. “There are some things women of your station are simply not strong enough to comprehend, and the details of the lives of factory girls fits in that category.” “You’re underestimating the Duchess, Nev, mark my words.” At last they had reached the Golden Parlour. Jarvis was waiting for them and opened the double doors as they approached. An inviting fire crackled in the hearth beneath a lovely ocher-colored wooden mantel carved with a leaf motif. The floor was tiled, adorned with area rugs, and a spectacular gold and crystal chandelier dominated the center of the light-filled room. The ceiling was handsomely plastered with ornate diamond-shaped carvings. They drew the eyes upward, and emphasized the height of the parlour, which seemed rather greater than its width. The total effect left one with the sense of intimate

elegance. “Shall I bring in tea, ma’am?” Jarvis inquired. “Yes, that would be splendid.” Olivia entered with some anticipation. She spotted a young woman seated at the edge of a gold satin Rococo Revival style chair. Even from behind, Livie could tell that the ornate piece of furniture and the opulent surroundings made the visitor uncomfortable. “Miss Peabody?” The younger woman nearly jumped to her feet. She whirled around and looked momentarily at a loss for words. Her expression seemed to be teetering between a pose of indifference and outright terror. She swallowed thickly. “Your Grace?” “Yes,” Livie said warmly, assessing her guest as she moved toward her. Clara Peabody wore a subdued beige walking gown with a tight-fitting bodice that buttoned from her neck to her waist. A fashionable bouquet of wispy auburn curls framed her forehead, but they were covered by a modestly brimmed bonnet that was definitely the worse for wear. Her grim accoutrements could not hide her natural beauty, however. Her face was a comely pale oval, and her crystal-blue eyes bespoke intelligence which, in a woman, was unfashionable in any season. Fashionable or not, Livie admired her pluck, and wanted to know more about her. Clara Peabody was either too poor to dress fancifully, or she was disdainful of material wealth. Either way she could have pinched her cheeks for color, but hadn’t. The duchess was captivated by the notion that there were women in the world who didn’t care what anyone thought of them, not even men. She offered the girl her hand. “Welcome to Brandhurst Hall, Miss Peabody.” “It is a great honor, Your Grace,” Clara said, touching the tips of Livie’s fingers and curtsying deeply. “Good God,” Neville whispered to Toddy too loudly, “she looks like an Evangelical. I hope she’s not going to preach a sermon.” “May I introduce my nephews. This is Mr. Neville Thorpe.” Neville sketched a short bow. “I handle all the Duchess’s business.” When Livie tipped up her chin at him, he cleared his throat and said, “Until the new duke arrives. What is it that you want from Her Grace? Something about the factory girls? I’m sure I can be of assistance.” Clara opened her mouth to answer, but the duchess interrupted. “As you can see, Mr. Thorpe is most considerate in his attentions to me. This is his cousin, Mr. Todd Leach.” Todd made much more of his bow. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” “If you are here for charity,” Neville said, “I can take you to the house steward.” “I am not here for charity, sir, thank you,” she crisply replied, turning back to Olivia. “I’m here to see the Duchess.”

Livie felt a surge of excitement. Here was a young woman who insisted on playing by her own rules, even in the presence of the aristocracy, a group to which she clearly did not belong. What splendid courage she possessed. “Won’t you join us for tea, Miss Peabody?” Just then the doors opened and two footmen brought in the tea service, placing it on a small table in front of the yellow Sheraton sofa. “Perfect timing. Sit here, my dear. Won’t you join us, Toddy?” “I’d be delighted.” He sat in a nearby chair as his aunt prepared the tea. “More tea, Neville?” “No, thank you,” was his sour reply. He went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel. Livie offered a cup to her guest. Clara seemed relieved to have something to do with her hands. “Thank you, Your Grace.” “Toddy, will you pass around the cakes? Bentley left them on the sideboard.” “Of course.” The solicitor jumped to his feet to do his aunt’s bidding. His charming humility caught Clara’s attention. She momentarily pinned her sparkling blue eyes on him, then averted her gaze when he returned the blatant stare. He held the tray before her. “Would you like some crumpets or scones, Miss Peabody?” “No, thank you, sir.” Not in the least disheartened by her reserve, Todd persisted. “Are you quite certain? Please, help me or I shall consume the entire array myself, and my favorite hunter is about to go bow-legged under my weight.” Clara’s smooth, thin brown eyebrows puckered in momentary confusion, then melted with understanding, but she did not acknowledge the jest. Instead, she surveyed the gleaming glazed delicacies with a revealing look of longing, then pressed her lips into a thin line. “Were you aware, Your Grace, that match dippers never eat crumpets?” Todd silently placed the tray on the table and resumed his seat, ignoring Neville’s “I told you so” waggle of the eyebrows. “They do not have the privilege of being invited to the finest homes for tea and trivialities. They are condemned by others because they must work in crude circumstances to put food on the table. If they had the time and opportunity to educate themselves, they might choose a better life. But they have neither the time nor the means.” Olivia frowned in empathy. “So Toddy has been telling me. What is it you want from me, my dear?” Clara immediately put down her teacup. Her former hesitancy was replaced by steely determination. “I have been sent here on a mission by the Ladies’ National Association. As I’m sure you know, that wonderful organization is led by the remarkable Josephine Butler. She asked me to learn all I can about the match factory here in Stowfield, and to speak with you, of course. You see, there is a match factory bill languishing in the Commons. It desperately needs your support.”

Livie frowned. “My support? Why ever? I have no influence, my dear. I am a mere woman.” Clara’s pale cheeks flushed pink. “As long as England’s most esteemed women take such an attitude, ma’am, we will never make progress for the needy.” “Here, here, Miss Peabody,” Todd interjected. Nonplussed, she stared at him momentarily, then recovered her composure and continued. “Your Grace, there are many women who now involve themselves in politics. But most of the women on the board of directors of the Ladies’ National Association are the wives and daughters of industrialists and merchants. Very few are aristocrats. I believe Mrs. Butler was hoping you might apply your influence in the House of Lords. Historically speaking, there have always been a few great noblewomen who have affected the course of the country, if only by influencing their husbands. But now it is possible for women to involve themselves directly in politics.” “A lamentable development,” Neville opined. He slouched down in the comfortable chair. Livie paid him no need. “I am aware that some ladies are keen on politics, but I have never given it much thought myself.” Hearing her own hollow explanation, Livie frowned. What an idiot she must seem to this educated, bold young woman. How could she explain that she might have been more aware of the world around her if her husband’s cruelty hadn’t addled her mind? But there would be no excuses acceptable to one so obviously idealistic as Miss Peabody. For not only was she a woman on a mission, she was young. And the young always judged the compromises of their world-weary elders with nothing short of disdain. “I wish I could say I knew more about the goings-on of this world, Miss Peabody, but I must admit I did not know of the plight of these factory girls until today. I still do not know how I can be of assistance to you.” Clara shook her head, her eyes flashing. “Do you truly not know your own power, ma’am?” Stung, Livie gave a darting glance to her younger companions. “I am afraid I do not.” “Few women who speak out on this subject have your stature in Society. If you were to argue on behalf of the girls, people would listen. Simply expressing your concern would be a tremendous benefit to these needy girls.” “They’re hardly needy,” Neville argued. “The factory girls make very good wages.” “And they die in the process, Mr. Thorpe!” Her passionate reply sent a tremor down Olivia’s spine. She practically gaped at her visitor. Did women truly speak so boldly to men? If this young woman, who was clearly from the middle class, could speak so frankly to her social superiors and suffer no ill consequence, why couldn’t Olivia? After all, she had good birth and breeding on her side. “Miss Peabody,” she said quietly, “I’m not sure?” “If they’re dying,” Neville cut her off, having recovered from his own astonishment, “then they should

give up their good wages and take respectable work in domestic service.” “How can they? No one will hire a factory girl. It’s simply ”not fair.“” Clara took a steadying breath and turned her attention to Olivia. “If someone with your impeccable reputation came to the defense of these poor young women who cannot find husbands and must work to survive in the most horrid circumstances, then those stubborn mules in Parliament just might be moved to do the right thing.” Todd barked out a delighted laugh. “You’ll have to light a fire under their bellies first. I say, Miss Peabody, I admire your pluck enormously. Are you always so bold?” The young woman blinked and looked defensively at the others. “I speak my mind when it is necessary, sir. I assure you I do not pleasure in going against the grain. It is simply that so many are suffering. Won’t you please help, Your Grace?” Olivia studied the way the sunlight shone on her blue cup. The light made her thin fingers seem almost translucent. She saw the trace of a blue vein beneath the surface. Her bones nudged the skin. Her mind wandered. Back to the funeral. Back to the cottage. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She’d always thought of herself as physically weak, and yet her spirit had been strong enough to survive her marriage with her sanity intact, her husband’s horrible death, and a life-threatening fever. Even a delicate hand, guided by wisdom, might hold the world in its palm. And she desperately wanted to do something with her life. She opened her eyes and fixed them carefully on her guest, whose features somehow managed to be both stoic and impassioned at once. “I am not sure I could ever be as bold as you, Miss Peabody.” Clara’s stunningly clear blue eyes glittered. “Oh, but I’m sure you could, ma’am. I see such strength in you.” Olivia’s frown melted. Her chest expanded with a warm, deep breath. “What a lovely thing to say. But how can I try to persuade the learned and powerful men who so ably run our country?” “You are a widow, ma’am,” the young woman said in surprise. “You can do and speak as you please. You have rights that any other woman would envy. Many of those involved with the Ladies’ National Association are widows, elsewise they would be too busy with their families to fight their valiant causes. And you are a duchess! Why, even the Prime Minister would listen to you.” Olivia stared hard at her. This remarkable young woman was saying all the things she needed to hear. Based on the evidence of Clara’s clean, but hardly fashionable gown, it was obvious she enjoyed none of the advantages Livie had, and yet she had the world by the tail. And how exciting it was to hear that there was a formal association of women who were determined to change the world for the better. “Where do you live, Miss Peabody?” Clara looked down at her hands with a frown. She was slow to answer, then looked up and said in a tight voice, “I live in the Wilshire Arms.” Neville gave a soft, derisive snort. Olivia turned just in time to see a smug look ripple across his hawkish face. She knew exactly what he was thinking. Sir Perry had told her about the Wilshire Arms. It was a building that contained small apartments for unmarried women, old maids mostly. And a few who enjoyed perverse pleasures. This last comment Perry had added with irony. This young woman clearly

had seen a great deal more of the world than Livie had. She would be an excellent tutor in the school of life. “I recently moved there and have scarcely unpacked my bags.” “Would you consent to be my guest for a few days, Miss Peabody? I want to hear all about your efforts to help these poor creatures.” A fierce light of hope blazed in answer in the young woman’s eyes. Olivia smiled jubilantly, then pressed her hand. “I see my request pleases you.” Clara quickly withdrew her hand. Her stiff reserve returned. Glancing at the crumpets, she stood. “I... I’m not sure if I could accept such luxurious hospitality.” “Of course you could. It would mean a great deal to me to have your company.” Olivia smiled graciously, then added with calculated doubt, “I do wonder if I could accomplish anything for the match girls without your guidance.” It was the winning argument. “Very well.” Clara’s velvety dark lashes fluttered, then she nodded and smiled. “If you put it that way. I am grateful, ma’am. I will go now and prepare for the visit.” “Come tomorrow with your possessions, Miss Peabody, and we shall have long talks.” “I’m afraid I have some commitments. Will Thursday do?” “Splendid.” “I wouldn’t be so hasty to make any further plans, Your Grace,” the dismayed Neville said. “There is much to do with the estate before Andrew arrives.” “I’m sure you’re quite capable of handling it all, as you frequently point out,” Livie said, rising and taking Clara’s arm. “Come along, my dear, I’ll show you where your room will be.” “I can’t manage everything, Aunt Livie,” Neville protested, following as she swept the girl toward the door. He called out in vain, “I’ve hired a designer to come in and redesign the Duchess’s Garden. He’s a talented fellow. The son of a former gardener. He’ll want to hear your opinions. And don’t forget Lady Pittiwell’s visit. If you ...” His voice trailed off as the women departed and the footmen closed the doors. Neville thrust his hands in his pocket and pivoted neatly, giving his cousin a chagrined smile. “She didn’t hear a word I said. It’s as if suddenly I don’t matter anymore. And she’s depended on me to the point of strangulation for an entire year. There’s something odd about her, Toddy. I’m not sure what, but something is very wrong.” “Yes,” Todd said, grabbing up a crumpet as he strode from the room. “She’s developing a spine. Bloody inconvenient, isn’t it?” he said with a wink as he let himself out of the drawing room.

Chapter 5

Willoughby Barnes felt very small standing at the gilded front doors to Brandhurst Hall. The iron grates arched above him as if they’d been made for a giant three times his size. His heart galloped against his ribs like a mad horse. He could hardly breathe. He raised a hand to ring the bell, then lowered it as he broke out in a cold sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. What in the bloody hell was he doing here? You were invited, he told himself. You have every right to be here. But at the front door? a skeptical voice screamed inside his head. You’ve never entered through the front door before. Yes, the Duchess had invited him. Her Grace the Duchess of Brandhurst requests your presence at one o’clock Wednesday. There is work for you. He had the letter in his pocket. It was signed by Mr. Neville Thorpe. It pressed against his thudding heart. He’d nearly keeled over with apoplexy when the letter had arrived last week. It came just days after Will had put his portraits of the Duchess in the closet. There were eighteen of them. He’d painted them during the six-month period that followed their night in the cottage. Finally he’d concluded that he had to get on with his life and would not let himself make another attempt to capture her on canvas. She could never be his. But then the dreams started. At night he would relive their incredible coupling. He would always awaken in a sweat with a melancholy sense of loss. It was physically painful, and just last week he’d decided to put away the portraits that hung on his walls, hoping that if he didn’t see her resemblance, he could sleep peacefully at last. He’d felt guilty doing it. After all, his brush with the Duchess?his muse?had inspired a year of torrential creativity. He’d stockpiled paintings that would put some in the Royal Academy to shame. Now all he had to do was convince the art establishment of his worth, a seemingly impossible task. He’d been plotting a way to break into that rarefied world when the letter from Brandhurst Hall came. Why? he’d wondered with anguish after his initial shock had faded. Why had she sent for him now when he’d just resolved to forget her? Of course he’d give anything to see her again, but what good would it do? In the throes of passion, they had been equals, but in the light of day she was still an aristocrat of the highest order. He pondered the timing of her letter, and realized her deep mourning had come to an end. But what did that signify? He couldn’t presume she wanted any sort of relationship. That , would be utterly impossible, even after her period of half mourning. Though he had enough stubborn pride to think he was predestined for greatness, he was no better than a servant in the eyes of the world. Then an incredible notion struck him. She wanted to sit for him! She wanted him to paint her portrait. That’s why she had sent the note! When that realization dawned, it sparked a fire that roared with hope. A good portrait of a duchess would make his career. And if anyone could paint Olivia Bradhurst, it was Willoughby Barnes. The idea was so breathtaking and exhilarating he refused to even think about it for a few days. Then new dreams

came to him at night. He dreamt of fantastic colors never before blended, of a rendering so deep it possessed three dimensions, of an artistic interpretation so insightful that even she could at last see her own potential. He didn’t know how or why, but he sensed that he alone had seen the Duchess’s true depth, as only a lover can. He still couldn’t fathom how one so highly placed could doubt her own worth. What kind of hellish marriage had she endured? The thought that he might open her eyes to her own beauty made him turn cold with excitement and a sense of unimaginable power. The prospect of painting the Duchess was so thrilling his nighttime dreams began to haunt his daylight hours. If this truly came to pass, before long younger artists would be reverently uttering his name along with the great artists of his day. He had to prepare for such success. It was a heavy responsibility. Olivia Brandhurst couldn’t make him great. She could only give him her blessing and offer herself up as the most exquisite vehicle in all of England. Did he believe in himself enough to do this? He thought so. He prayed so. And he couldn’t shake the presumptuous feeling that she needed this portrait as much as he did. The first inklings of doubt came in the face of a reality that was all too familiar. When he walked through the enormous stone gates guarding the long drive to Brandhurst Hall a little before his appointed time, he almost headed straight to the servants’ entrance. He had to forcibly raise his head high and steer his feet away from the familiar path and head down the main drive. When he’d passed by two young gardeners trimming the rows of forest-green box hedges that lined the inner drive, he touched his woolen cap in greeting and nearly stopped to help. He would feel far more comfortable chatting with those blokes than with the butler or the steward or the housekeeper. But Will would not allow himself to be intimidated out of this chance of a lifetime. So after hesitating at the front door, he rang quickly before he completely lost his nerve. As he waited, he thought his head would explode from his pounding pulse. A very long minute later the door opened at the hands of a resplendent footman who wore yellow breeches, maroon tails, and a powdered wig. Absolutely expressionless, he looked as if he’d stepped out of a different century. It was like a caricature in Punch. “Good afternoon, sir.” “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Her Grace the Duchess of Brandhurst.” When the footman merely stared, Will cleared his throat and tried to smile. “Very good, sir,” the servant said after a pause just long enough to make Will feel like an imposturous knave. When the footmen finally moved back to let him in, Will stepped into the cavernous entry hall, and had only briefly glimpsed the gorgeous blue and gold fresco adorning the domed ceiling overhead when an officious upper servant marched forward, stopping just inches from Will’s face. He had a red, bulbous nose, thick brown muttonchops, and quick discerning eyes. “Good afternoon. I’m Mr. Hammond, the house steward,” he said crisply, then paused to let the import of his title sink in. Will was not particularly impressed, but he was captivated by the man’s right eyelid, which twitched nervously as his boot tapped on the marble floor like a metronome. “The butler is indisposed. May I be of assistance, sir?” The word sir was said in a decidedly doubtful tone.

Will cleared his throat, noticing in the space of a few seconds the difference in their attire. Mr. Hammond wore a single-breasted thigh-length black frock coat, buttoned just once beneath his narrow black tie and white starched choke collar. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen, except on his furrowed brow. His brown hair was plastered straight back with considerable care and the muttonchop whiskers covering his formidable square jaw appeared to have been combed. In contrast, Will’s tweed cap sat on his barely tamed hair. He wore a loose brown cape, which he’d thought fashionable when donning it in his garret, but in the light of day he realized it was classic Bohemian. And though he’d worn his best white shirt, he just now noticed it was threadbare at the cuffs. He put his hands behind his back. “I am here to see the Duchess.” In an effort to sound confident, he spoke too loudly, and his words echoed off the giant dome ceiling for all to hear. “The Duchess!” Hammond’s eyes widened in disbelief, then taking a closer look, they narrowed in recognition. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” “I have a letter?” Will started to reach into his pocket. “Ah, yes!” Hammond’s voice slid down the musical scale. “You’re the gardener. Barnabas Barnes’s boy. Now I understand. I thought you looked a little rough around the edges.” His mirthless smile revealed a row of yellow bottom teeth. The corners of his mouth remained upturned as he whispered, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Barnes. I don’t ever want to see your presence shadowing the steps of the front door again. Is that clear? I should have thought your father would have done a better job teaching you your place.” “But the Duchess invited?” “You presume entirely too much, sir. Go around to the servants’ entrance. Cook will give you a bowl of hot soup and then you can get to work.” He motioned to the footman, who opened one of the great iron doors. “That will be all, Mr. Barnes. Thank you very much.” When Will didn’t move, the steward clutched his upper arm, still smiling. Will yanked free of the tight grip and plucked the letter from his inside pocket. “But I have an invitation, if you’d just look at the bloody thing!” he nearly shouted, thrusting it beneath the steward’s nose. Hammond’s cheeks mottled, though Will couldn’t tell whether it was because of his impertinence or the fact that he might really have been invited here. Hammond plucked it gingerly from Will’s white-knuckled grip. He opened it, and as he read the note his corneas shrank to the size of black pinheads in his sharp gray eyes. He put the letter back in the envelope, handed it to Will, and smiled grimly. “We’ll see about this. Wait here.” Hammond disappeared down a hall, leaving Will to cool his heels on the fine marble floor. He swallowed his indignation. Nothing would keep him from seeing the Duchess now. Not even a cock-of-the-walk stuffed-shirt servant like Mr. Hammond.

“And so, Your Grace,” said Lady Pittiwell, “we thought it best to inform you of Lady Blackwell’s indiscretions so that you might act accordingly.” “Of course,” Olivia said without conviction. She sat with the Widow Pittiwell and her flighty niece, Miss Cromwell, at a game table in the billiards parlour. Livie dealt the cards for a game of whist. “I fear I am quite out of touch and have been since the death of my husband.” Like the Queen, Lady Pittiwell dressed in black, in mourning for a husband who had died years ago. In comparison, Livie felt almost frivolous in her gray striped morning gown. The elderly woman smiled with the assumed wisdom of her years and nodded sagely as best she could in her widow’s cap. “I understand perfectly, ma’am. I have experienced similar grief.” Here her sober eyes began to flame with intrigue. “Nevertheless, you must be careful of your reputation. It would be unforgivable of Lady Blackwell to take advantage of a young woman such as yourself who is just coming out of full mourning.” “I am not so very young, and I assure you I won’t allow myself to be abused. You are the first guest I’ve received in over a year.” She did not add that she wouldn’t have received her current company if Neville hadn’t presumptuously invited the women from London. “May I let it be known in Town that the esteemed Duchess of Brandhurst has eliminated Lady Blackwell from her guest list?” Olivia compressed her lips and shot a glance at Miss Cromwell, who seemed unaware just how overbearing one might find her aunt. “I would hardly call Lady Blackwell an intimate acquaintance under any circumstances. You are free to tell that to anyone you wish. I scarcely know her.” Though now a friendship would be most intriguing. The thought surprised Livie. She’d always been as impeccably moral as anyone in her class. For some reason, she felt as if she’d lost that superiority over the last year. Who was she to judge others? Lady Blackwell’s scandalous behavior seemed courageous. Livie had met her husband and couldn’t blame her one bit for leaving him. “Can you imagine Lady Blackwell absconding with some rapscallion count from Italy, leaving her poor husband all alone to fend for himself without even bothering to wait for a divorce?” Lady Pittiwell chattered away as she considered her hand. “It’s simply scandalous. She will never be accepted by Society again, I can assure you. They’ll have to leave the country. There is no other way. Don’t you agree, ma’am?” Livie sighed, buying time. And it was just long enough for her guest’s mind to wander to another potential gold mine of gossip. “And what of this young lady we met yesterday in the entrance hall? I believe her name was Miss Clara Nobody.” Livie looked up sharply. “Peabody.” The widow quickly masked her cunning smile. “Of course, I am jesting, Your Grace, though it was more

than obvious the girl isn’t Quality. Is she a new charity case you’ve taken on in lieu of your splendid fete? I can assure you Society eagerly awaits the return of the Brandhurst Ball. It is so much better to have a party for the poor than to involve oneself in their messy lives, don’t you agree?” Livie bit back a scathing reply. “As a matter of fact, Miss Peabody is not a charity case. She is very knowledgeable about politics. I’ve invited her to visit with me and educate me on certain matters.” “Is that so?” Lady Pittiwell leaned forward. “This is fascinating. Wait until everyone hears! What cause do you expect to champion, Your Grace?” “I’m concerned about the match fact?” Just then the butler entered, and not a moment too soon. When he discreetly cleared his throat, Livie looked at him eagerly. “Yes, Jarvis?” “Mr. Thorpe requests your presence in the blue drawing room, ma’am, whenever it is convenient.” She forced a frown. “What a pity. We were just starting our game. Ladies, please proceed without me. I won’t be gone a moment longer the necessary.”

“Your timing was perfect, Jarvis,” she said as the butler escorted her to the blue drawing room. “I wasn’t quite up to a game of cards today, but I could hardly expect Lady Pittiwell and her niece to entertain themselves all week long.” “Yes, ma’am,” the butler dryly intoned. “Do you know what my nephew wants to discuss?” “He wants you to meet the new gardener, ma’am.” “It’s not like him to discuss such mundane details with me. Has he consulted with the groundsman?” “He wants your opinion, ma’am. I rather think Mr. Thorpe has great plans for the Duchess’s Garden, and he’s most intent on having it done before the new duke arrives.” “I see.” That wasn’t Neville’s only motive, she thought. Doubtless, he wanted to distract her from any political activism Clara might inspire, and the garden was a safe place to busy herself. There were few acceptable occupations for a lady of good breeding, and strolling in and sketching gardens was one of them. “Did my nephew mention the name of the man he’s hired?” “His name is Mr. Barnes. Mr. Willoughby Barnes.” Livie stopped abruptly, nearly stumbling when the pointed toes of her laced ankle boots dug into the carpet. She steadied herself, then tried to swallow an odd sense of queasiness. “Mr. Barnes? Do I know him?”

“No, ma’am.” Jarvis pursed his dry gray lips. “Are you sure? Mr. Barnes,” she repeated, frowning as she tried to draw some image from the murky depths of her mind. For some reason she thought of the cottage. Why did her thoughts always return to that empty place? In addition to stealing her real memories, the fever had apparently created new ones. She shook off her sense of uneasiness. “Well, then, I shouldn’t keep them waiting.” “Shall I announce you, ma’am?” “Yes... er, no.” She realized that for some reason she wanted to see this Mr. Barnes before he saw her. “No, thank you, Jarvis, that will be all.” She waited until he respectfully inclined his head and departed, then she slipped in quietly and closed the door behind her. Across the room Neville pontificated in a thin, arch voice. Sunlight flooded through large mullioned windows, catching an azure haze as it passed through blue fleur-de-lis curtains, ornately swathed and tasseled. A soft glow of sunshine enveloped Neville’s guest, blurring his features. But there was something familiar about him. Something she found utterly arresting. She hugged the doorframe, hoping to make herself invisible until she could make the connection. “I’m sorry about the confusion at the front door, Barnes,” Neville said as he poured himself a glass of brandy. “Care for a nip?” “No, thank you, sir.” “Jarvis knew you were coming, but he was unavailable. Hammond is a tad blunt at times. But now you’re here. You can understand the steward’s confusion. Normally we wouldn’t take care of this business in the Duke’s private quarters, but this is a special case. The new duke is to arrive soon and everything must be perfect. The garden obviously belongs to the Duchess, and I want her to be intimately involved in the plans, for reasons that don’t concern you.” “The garden?” Will shifted his weight. “Just beyond there, young man,” Neville said, though he was scarcely older than Willoughby Barnes himself. He pointed out the window. “You’ll see a large stone wall. It entirely surrounds the Duchess’ Garden. It is the most private and spectacular of all the greenery on the estate, and Her Grace wants you to redesign it before the new duke arrives.” “But I came ... I came to paint,” Will replied. Livie tightened her grip on the white door frame. He was a painter. Warm, chaotic feelings jostled inside her. Connections were snapping into place. “You came to paint? I see.” Neville rubbed his narrow chin. “I suppose that could be arranged as well. The orangery is peeling. It could use another coat of paint. I’ll talk to the estate steward about it. But of course our first priority is the gar?” “No, you don’t understand?” “I’m quite sure I understand everything that needs to be understood,” Neville snapped. When he was

angry, he smiled. He was smiling now, a small mirthless grin, and he pinned his unwavering focus on the gardener. “I don’t think you understand the tenuousness of your position here, Barnes. You’re a... an undergardener. I’m treating you with far more respect than you deserve. I’m inviting you to contribute the garden design. How can you possibly quibble with that?” “Easily,” Will returned with quiet dignity, blue eyes blazing. “I’m not just a gardener. I’m an artist. I came to paint the Duchess’s portrait.” Neville’s meticulously combed black eyebrows rose in unison. Then he threw back his head and barked with a supercilious laughter. “Oh, that is extraordinary.” Chuckling, he ran a forefinger under his choke collar, then straightened his thin black tie, shaking his head incredulously. “I say, sir, you are presumptuous. What on earth ever gave you the idea the Duchess would hire you when she could hire the likes of John Everett Millais?” The young man’s entire body stiffened. “I see you’re speechless,” Neville said drolly. “You amuse me, dear boy.” “I didn’t come to amuse you.” Will’s eyes flashed a steely gray. “How do you expect me to react when you come here dressed as some ruffian proletariat and tell me you’re going to paint the Duchess?” “I wasn’t aware that artists were expected to dress like the Prince of Wales. She asked me to come,” Will said through clenched teeth. “No, I invited you. The letter was signed by me.” Will raked a hand through his hair. “You said she has work for me.” “And why would the Duchess even assume you were capable of painting a portrait? She knows nothing about you, does she?” Neville cocked his head sideway. “Well, does she?” Livie’s hands gripped the doorway so hard her knuckles turned white, then marbled with red. She held her breath as the young man opened his mouth with a rebuttal, but clamped it shut again. His hands clenched at his thighs. What did he want to say? What was he holding back? Then he stepped out from the glare of the sun and Livie saw his face clearly for the first time, and she remembered. Everything. “Oh, dear God.” It all roared back into her consciousness, nearly bowling her over. Her grip on the door wasn’t enough to keep her up. Her knees started to buckle. The images pounded in her head, the dreams?and the reality?she could never quite remember?the sensual kisses, abandoned cries of passion, the cottage. In her feverish delirium, she had submerged these unacceptable memories just as she had taught herself to forget most of her husband’s abuses. Had she been so cowardly, or had she simply been ill? She was going to be ill now. She used all her remaining equilibrium to straighten and covered her mouth with both hands. By now the men were staring at her. Will’s intense focus narrowed the distance first. She winced as their gazes collided. She managed to recover her usual composure, but she could not turn away from him. She

was riveted to the spot. “Your Grace!” Neville said, “I didn’t know you had arrived.” “What is this all about, Neville?” Her voice came out strained and high. She pretended to clear her throat of some impediment. “I hired Mr. Willoughby Barnes here to redesign your garden, and he has taken exception to my generous offer of employment,” he sniffed. “I think I should speak with him alone,” she said, forcing her eyes to fix solely on her nephew. She had to get him out of here. “I’m sure he will be willing to advise me on the garden. Won’t you, Mr. Barnes?” She turned her pleading gaze his way, steeling herself against the pain that hardened his face. She remembered even more. He was the young man who knew nothing about proper roles. Oh, Lord, what was her role in this untenable situation? And was this really happening? “Well, Mr. Barnes?” Neville prompted. “Are you willing to at least discuss the garden with Her Grace?” “Yes,” he said, nodding. “How generous of you,” Neville replied acidly. “I had hoped this would be a good occupation for you, Aunt Livie, but I fear I may have hired the wrong man.” “I’ll take care of it,” she said firmly. “I have a vision I should very much like to discuss with Mr. Barnes. The garden is, after all, my only legacy. It may take some time, and I don’t want to bore you.” Neville came to her and kissed her cheek. His teeth had been tinged by tobacco, which she smelled on his breath. “I so enjoy it when you’re like this, Auntie?willing to cooperate in the areas in which you’re needed the most.” She dismissed his obvious attempts to patronize and manipulate her, but smiled sweetly. “You’re right, Neville, I should attend to the garden. Now please let us get on with business.” “Very well.” He proffered a languid nod as he departed, then closed the door, taking the footman with him. The silence in the wake of his incessant chatter was glaring. Livie shook violently from head to toe with a sudden cascade of chills. She covered her face with her hands, trying to make sense of it all. There was no point trying to keep up pretenses. This was the young man who had held her, who had entered her, for God’s sake, who had brought her to the heights of ecstasy many times over. He was real. He was here. And she could not fathom it. What in God’s name was she to do? She gripped the folds of her gray satin gown, staring unseeing at the blue-and-red Turkey carpet. Her heart pounded in her chest, choking off virtually all air. The time of reckoning had come. Drawing on a lifetime of social grace, she raised her head, took a deep breath, and managed a thin smile. “So. You are here. And all this time I thought you were a dream.” “That’s understandable ... Your Grace.” He smiled awkwardly, somehow frowning at the same time. He was a young man of many moods. She remembered that about him. He defied categorization.

“Sit down, Mr. Barnes.” She indicated a gilded settee, lushly upholstered with a rich blue damask. He looked at it hesitatingly, then came forward with stiff steps, as if he feared he might dirty the furniture or break a Ming vase on his way. She suddenly felt sorry for him. He didn’t belong here. He sat nonetheless, and she joined him at the other end. They gazed at their hands in awkward silence. Visions of their night together whirled through her mind, and she flushed with heat. This man had made her feel joy as she’d never known before. He had made her feel the pleasures, and none of the pains, of womanhood. She reached out and impulsively gripped his hand, squeezing hard with gratitude. He squeezed back. The sweetness was still there. The fire they’d sparked flared in the palms of their hands. God, what was she doing? She pulled her hand away and stood, pacing to the window and back. Finally she looked at him assessingly. “Mr. Barnes, I don’t know what to say. I am completely ill-prepared for this moment. And you probably are wondering why on earth you are here after ... after...” She brushed the back of her hand against her brow. “Yes.” He shifted to the edge of his seat, watching her carefully. “And perhaps you’re wondering why I didn’t send for you sooner.” He said nothing. Lord, he was patient. She raised her hands helplessly. “I have no answers.” “Ma’am, I came to paint.” She frowned. “Yes, I heard you discussing that with my nephew. You want to paint my portrait. That isn’t necessary, you know.” “Oh, but it is!” At his pure tone of certainty, she blinked and focused on him anew. “Why do you say that?” He rose, wishing they were back in the garden, with just the two of them. And the truth. No roles. No titles. No rules. Dare she remember what it was like? “Don’t you remember?” he whispered, closing the distance. He stopped an arm’s length away, breaching all acceptable boundaries. She trembled, but after a long moment, her wary eyes began to smoulder. Her chest rose and fell in short, quick bursts. Yes, he thought, smiling for the first time, she remembered. He thought for a moment she might impetuously kiss him as she had that night. But no, she was the Duchess. Close up he could see how indelibly her title had marked her body, her life. Her hair was neatly pinned up beneath a stylish cap, and onyx earrings dangled from her lily-white earlobes. Her face was lightly powdered, and her complexion?a delicate porcelain dusted with pink?looked even more perfect than it had that night in the moonlight. Here was the woman he would have painted if he could have, the fine aristocrat with the little girl inside her, winking from beneath a thick row of sultry lashes the color of sunshine, defying all sensibilities with one

frank stare. “I see you, Your Grace, as I daresay no one has before.” It was obvious what he meant. I made love to you. The hidden message scalded her insides. She held her hands over her abdomen, and he started forward as if to embrace her, but she stepped back, terrified of being too close. “I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries,” he said, stopping suddenly. He dropped his hands and shot out a sigh. “All I mean to say is that I know I am capable of doing justice to your portrait.” When she merely blinked, fully in the grips of indecision, he turned away and shook his head, rubbing his forehead with the palm of one hand. “God, I’ve thought of nothing else but you for a year. I’ve tried and tried again to capture you on a canvas. Do you have any earthly idea how much you’ve inspired me?” He whirled on her, his face bright with a glint of the divine inspiration she imagined gripped artists in moments of brilliance. “Do you know I’ve been painting like a madman for the past twelve months? I could never capture you before, and I thought it was only because I couldn’t remember, but it was more than that.” He approached her again, holding out his hands as he were trying to frame her. She took a step back. “Mr. Barnes, I can’t bear this.” “No, hear me out! You need to see this portrait. You need to see it as it can be, and will be. You need to see yourself as I see you.” “No.” “Look, you have the world in your hands.” He motioned impatiently at her luxurious furniture and the priceless objets d’art scattered about?the antique crystal snuff bottles, the George III clock on the mantel, the chinoiserie porcelain. “But the one thing you don’t have is a sense of... of what you deserve.” “Stop! This instant.” “You don’t even have the faintest notion of how beautiful you are.” She slapped her hands over her ears. She couldn’t take it. A burning, terrifying column of unchecked emotions swirled inside her, shattering her facade. It cut deep. It hurt so good. Who was this man who wanted to show her the part of her the world condemned? Who was this gorgeous, vibrant young creature who had crawled into her, unleashed unearthly passions, and made it impossible for her to continue her miserable charade? Even the progressive-minded Clara Peabody would be scandalized. Livie couldn’t even imagine the reaction from someone like Lady Pittiwell. She was thoroughly on her own now. She lowered her hands, and although it took all her will she gazed at him steadily. In spite of his age and his lack of social status, he was a man to be reckoned with. “Please understand. I cannot hire you to paint my portrait, Mr. Barnes. The Duke had me sit for Leighton last year, just before my husband’s ... death. It would raise questions. Besides, you are not known. Do not misunderstand. I’m sure you are a great painter.”

“No, you’re not sure,” he shot back, the quintessential angry young man. “If you really knew, you wouldn’t be in a dither. You’d hire me on the spot.” She sucked in a breath as if she’d been slapped. No servant dared to speak to her this way. Ah, but he was her lover, she remembered, and cringed with the awkwardness of it all. “I’ll be going now,” he said, tugging his cap smartly on his head. “I should have known when Mr. Hammond tried to send me to the servants’ entrance that there was a misunderstanding. When I received the note from Mr. Thorpe, I thought you had come to some profound decision. What a fool I was.” He laughed derisively, then turned and started toward the door. She took a step after him. “No! There is no misunderstanding. Where are you going?” “Home.” “And where is that?” “Stowfield.” “But you’ve just arrived. Won’t you take tea to revive yourself?” “It’s only a two-hour walk.” He turned back with hurt pride etched on his golden face. “I came to your aid when His Grace died. You can find another gardener now.” When his hand hit the door, a fierce word roared up her throat, defying all her better judgment. “Wait!” He stopped and turned slowly. Their eyes locked. The connection flared. “I will pay you to paint the house. A landscape,” she hastened to add when anger twisted his lips. “But I also want you to redesign my garden. It is the only way. You must think of my reputation.” “I’ve thought of nothing else for the last year.” “You do not have to do the work yourself, simply redesign it,” she said in a shaking voice. “Neville will be satisfied and no one will ask questions. I will personally hire you to paint the landscape of the house.” His loaded gaze met hers. Silent understanding passed. And somewhere, somehow we can sort out the rest. What more could he want? A duchess was practically begging him to stay. He would be no whore for her. Not like his father, who’d sold his career, and his soul, for a bottle of booze. Will would be somebody. And she was asking him to paint a landscape that might hang in the hallowed gallery of Brandhurst Hall. He nodded and swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth. It was pride going down hard. The sour taste of quashed hope. And the sickly sweet residue of unrequited passion. “Of course, Your Grace.” The title sounded ironic now. He would try to be bold with her, to counteract the differences in their stations. She could never know he’d do anything to be in her presence. Anything

at all. “So that arrangement meets with your satisfaction, Mr. Barnes?” “Yes.” “Very good. We’ll talk about the specifics tomorrow. You will be using ... the gardener’s cottage?” Her cheeks flamed and she turned to the window so he would not see. “Yes,” he croaked. “Good day, Mr. Barnes.” She waited until she heard the door close behind him, then she collapsed into a nearby chair, burying her face in her hands. What in God’s name had she done? More important, what was she to do now?

Chapter 6

Neville lounged in a cushy, buttoned leather armchair in the smoking room, nursing a solitary brandy. An unseasonably cool wind had been whistling down the tomblike hearth, and so he’d asked the boy to light a small fire. The room wasn’t heated, and winter’s chill was loathe to depart, though it was nigh on summer. Neville watched the hypnotic flames through a bluish cloud he had produced all by himself. He’d loosened his tie and now savored the hot burn of smoke in his lungs, letting out each breath with a reluctant hiss through the side of his mouth. Smoking calmed him, and God knew he needed calming. Unfortunately, what little tranquility he possessed shattered when Todd burst in. “Hello, Nev,” the golden-boy lawyer said with his usual irritating good humor. “Thought I’d find you in here, old man.” Neville grunted but did not look up. Todd splashed amber brandy into a heavy, cut-glass snifter and sank into the winged grandfather chair beside his cousin, looking him up and down with a frown. “Why is your fur flying? I could see you were in a foul mood at dinner.” “She has commissioned a landscape from him,” Neville said, his thin, facile lips precisely forming each word. He rubbed his aching temple with the two fingers holding his cigarette. “She told me just before we went into the dining room. She said it as casually as if she’d announced it was going to rain.” “He? Who?” “The gardener, you idiot,” Neville snapped, dragging on his heavenly hand-rolled Turkish cigarette. He’d have to buy more at the Phillip Morris shop next time he was in London. He’d been smoking a great deal

lately. “I thought I’d lured the falcon back into her mews, but she’s gone feral on me. I hired this Barnes fellow for a bit of gardening?he designed the Duke’s plot?and she has him painting a landscape of the house. Can you imagine? It’s an embarrassment. I would have hired Leader if I’d known she wanted another useless landscape.” “And you would have done it before Andrew arrives,” Todd added wryly, “before he peruses the ledgers.” Neville pinched his brows together and exhaled a plume of smoke into his snifter, drinking from the murky, alcohol-and-tobacco-scented mist. “You can make fun if you want, but there is something very peculiar about the Duchess. A year ago she would never have even noticed this Clara Peabody. It appears they’re going to be bosom friends. The girl is not even Quality. She’ll only cause trouble. Miss Peabody doesn’t know her place. And Olivia is forgetting hers as well.” “Yes? Well, she’s beginning to come into her own. She’s no longer under Uncle’s thumb. I think she’s actually beginning to enjoy life. God bless her, I say.” “God damn her, I say.” He rubbed the middle of his breastbone, where it burned the most. Acid rose to the back of his tongue, and he tried in vain to swallow it. “What the devil? What’s come over you?” “She owes me her loyalty. Instead, she’s going to take it from me, Todd.” “What?” “The title, you obtuse fool!” Todd spurted a snort of his easy laughter. “It was never yours to have, Nev. Don’t forget you’re second in line. Andrew is the heir and you’re the spare. Good God, don’t tell me you’re still nurturing hopes beyond your reach.” Neville gave him a crafty look from the corner of his eyes. “Did you know that our cousin from America may not truly be a blood relative?” “Surely you don’t believe those rumors!” “I do. And so does the Prime Minister, I assure you.” “Well, I wonder why. I don’t suppose you’ve been planting notions in his head.” “The P.M. will be very unhappy if Parliament extends the ducal honors to a bastard.” “Come now, Neville, you won’t get the title simply by casting doubt on Andrew’s legitimacy.” “His mother was unfaithful.” “You don’t know that! Besides, it’s too late. Andrew’s father accepted his legitimacy at birth. That’s the end of it.” “Is it?”

Neville sank back into the cool leather chair and stubbed out his cigarette. It would not be wise to reveal his hand to someone as inconsequential as Todd. It was obvious he’d get no help from his cousin. The time had come to rely on the Duke’s Machiavellian valet, Antonio. Antonio had been serving Neville for the last year, with some obvious reluctance. It was a damnable thing when a servant didn’t even consider one important enough for service. But he would change his tune when Neville became duke. To that end, he would send Antonio in search of the proof he knew existed somewhere in this damned house. “What are you conspiring about now?” Todd inquired dubiously. Neville shrugged. “Oh, nothing. I suppose it doesn’t matter now. As you say, Andrew will be here soon. Meanwhile, let us just hope Aunt Livie doesn’t go thoroughly dotty on us.” Todd gave him a sharp, sideways glance. “If you do anything to make life difficult for Aunt Livie, I’ll have your hide tanned.” “I’m going to keep my eye on her. She can’t do without a man running her life. She’s completely incapable of making the most minuscule of decisions.” “I don’t agree.” “There are ways to keep a woman in her place. A woman who has lost her good judgment.” “You mean a woman who won’t back your dubious claim to the title?” Todd said, swilling the last of his brandy. He stood and tugged indignantly on his coat sleeves. “I suppose you want to send her off to some asylum for nervous women? Watch yourself, Neville. Your perceived power is going to your head. Andrew will be here soon, thank God. So mind your manners until then. Don’t forget you’re a guest here. Until Andrew arrives, Aunt Livie is in charge.” “That’s precisely the problem.” “No,” Todd said forcefully. “You’re the problem. Loosen your desperate grasp, Neville. I’m warning you.” It was a warning Neville could not heed. For all that he had ever wanted would soon slip from his fingers. He had nothing to lose but what he’d lost already, the only thing he’d ever wanted?the title. The damned, bloody title.

The next day the sun blazed down in all its glory as if it were already summer. Livie dressed in a tight-fitting bodice and skirt of black satin with a matching parasol and a pillbox hat that tilted forward. She strolled toward the Duchess’ Garden, motivated in part by her desire to avoid Lady Pittiwell and her niece. She refused to acknowledge, even to herself, the more important reason for her sojourn. She wanted to see Willoughby Barnes again. This time she had an excuse. She could say she was there to approve of his progress in her garden. Her hopes of seeing him in private were dashed when she heard the clamor of men at work within the

eight-foot-high stone walls that surrounded the five-acre garden. She heard in the distance the sound of Will giving orders, a pickax pounding stone, a wheelbarrow squeaking, and wood splintering. They came and went on the wind. The garden’s arched wooden door was ajar. She pushed the ivy-covered oak aside and stepped in unnoticed. The workers were at the far end of her tranquil garden. She looked around with a critical eye. Will had already made progress trimming the overgrown box hedges that bordered a square herb garden immediately to her left, restoring its original Elizabethan sense of order. Soon the weeded and trimmed square knots would be bursting with gray-green clusters of Santolina and taller clumps of aromatic lavender. Her eyes wandered on, and she was most surprised by what she didn’t see. Will had torn down an overgrown row of pleached lime trees that had created a dark and mystical natural arbor. It had been lovely, but half the trees had died and needed replacement. He’d also apparently ordered his under-gardeners to clear wild clumps of ivy that had spread along the sides of the main path that led past the follies and the fern beds. The earth had also been turned and prepared for what would undoubtedly become a fashionable border of bright towering flowers and lush green foliage lining the main stone path. She thrilled at the improvements. Time always seemed to stand still in her private haven, but perhaps even nature could recreate itself in a new image. She followed the path through the spacious front of the garden until she passed a folly of mock Roman ruins and entered a woodsy mulched path dotted with shade trees and occasional birdbaths. A puff of air rife with spring flowers sweetened her nose, thanks to daffodils scattered throughout the rustic garden. Their yellow heads bobbed innocently in the breeze, near the unwavering hyacinths that sprouted like waxy, purple harbingers of spring, all nestled in various clusters of ferns and wild grass. She continued on a lazy and circuitous route, past murky ponds of water lilies, a mounted sundial, and a row of tall box hedges cut in the shape of obelisks. Finally she reached the rear of the garden, where the men worked. She heard their voices behind a screen of ivy-covered lattice. Should she greet them? No. In her presence the men would merely shuffle their feet and knit their caps in their hands, waiting for her to depart. She didn’t want to interfere with progress. So she sidestepped into a hidden area behind a birch tree, where she could watch unobserved through the diamond-shaped wooden lattice fence. She wanted to see how Will behaved when she wasn’t around and how others perceived him. The men were digging a hole, apparently for a new fish pond. Two gardeners were knee deep in the trench with mounds of displaced dirt nearby. Will supervised from above. He wore no shirt. His bare chest gleamed like polished bronze. His strong shoulders connected to a lean torso that narrowed to his waist, forming a muscular inverted triangle. A fine coat of sweat glistened on his thick biceps. They were taut from recent use. Tawny hair on his chest and elegant forearms shone in the sun. He’d propped one of his arms on the shoulder of an older man Livie didn’t recognize. Will and the old man apparently knew each other, for they spoke casually, and Will tossed back his head, letting out a peal of raucous laughter. Livie smiled. She’d never seen him like this. He might have been in a pub, throwing back a pint or two with his friends. He was at ease here. When he let loose with his smile, his face was transformed. His

cheeks dimpled and his teeth flashed, catching the light. And all the while his sharp blue eyes took in everything?the humor, the camaraderie, but always the goal. For though he laughed easily, a moment later his body tensed and he pointed down at the men, who were scratching their heads over a problem. “Let me try.” His voice carried on the wind. She watched admiringly as he jumped into the pit and dirtied his hands. It was clear these men respected him. And she could understand why. They debated what to do with a large boulder too heavy for the younger men. In the end, Will decided on a different strategy. He didn’t want to wait for more help. He joined in, and under his steady command, they managed to hoist the stone up at the count of three. As they struggled to keep it aloft, the muscles in Will’s back bunched and strained in an amazing web of sinews. She remembered what he’d said a year ago about the magnificence of the human body. His shoulder blades winged outward under the strain. The ridges of his spine protruded like stepping stones in a pond. Running down either side, thick muscles coated with smooth, golden skin stretched from his neck to below the narrow waist of his trousers. Desire knotted in her throat. She parted dry lips. She wanted to reach out and touch as they had that first night. She swallowed hard and shut her eyes. A pure, fierce, and unstoppable hunger reawakened in that moment. What more could Willoughby Barnes teach her about the majesty of the human form? How far was she willing to go to be his pupil? The men grunted, snapped out cues to each other, started to shout when momentum swung against them, then finally converged as a team and foisted the rock over the edge of the trench. When she opened her eyes to witness their triumph, Will was gone. She tensed and looked around. Just then he came striding down the path. She tried to flatten herself against the tree, but he saw the motion and stopped. He’d found her, then glanced through the greenery to make sure no one else had. Pleasure gleamed like sapphires in his eyes, then he blinked and frowned, glancing quickly down at his state of dishabille. “Pardon me, ma’am.” “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, Mr. Barnes.” It seemed the right thing to say, but she didn’t mean a word of it. She was glad to see him like this. He was still panting from the hard work. He wiped his forearm over his sweating brow. Their gazes locked. Nothing, and everything, was said in the silence that followed. “Eh, Barnes, ye want me to come wit ye?” one of the men in the trench called out. “No, I’ll be back soon!” he shouted, then turned back to her with a shrug. Not this time, his slow half smile seemed to say. With obvious regret, he turned toward his men. “Keep working there. I’ll get Crumby.” With that, he turned and headed for the exit. Her heart leaped as she watched him go. And she felt an emotion that took a full minute for her to recognize. It was pride. She loved seeing him glory in his position of creative command, humble though it was. She decided to wait a few discreet moments before she departed, but then she heard a moan that wrenched her heart. Someone was crying. She followed the distraught sound, and after ducking through a portico of honeysuckle, she found Thomas Crumby sitting on a log at the other side of the garden. His elbows rested on his knees, and his handsome face was buried in his dirty upraised hands. He wept

bitterly. The tears mingled with dirt and muddied his cheeks. He was clearly trying to stifle his moans of despair, but wasn’t very successful. “Tom,” Livie said gently, “what is wrong?” He looked up as he took in a lurching breath. His reddened eyes pooled again and he choked out a heart-wrenching sob. His head bobbed with the force of it. “I-I-I’m sorry.” “What for?” He looked up guiltily. “I shouldn’t have done it.” “What?” She moved to his side and looked down patiently. “I-I-I cursed that new man. Willoughby Barnes. I shouted at ‘im, and Pa said I was wrong. That I’d get meself put out by Your Grace for doin’ it.” “You had an argument with Mr. Barnes?” He gave her a tortured look of admission and nodded quickly. “ ‘e took me place,” Tom blurted out. “This garden was mine. I-I weeded it every day. I did it special like just for ye, ma’am, ’cause ye’re so kind, givin‘ me sweet cakes and tarts all the time. And now ’e ‘as taken over.” “Only for a little while, Tom.” She sat next to him and patted his shoulder. “There, there, everything will work out. When Mr. Barnes has finished redesigning the garden, you will be in charge again. And I expect you to make sure every weed is picked clear for the new duke. Can you manage, Tom? I would be ever so grateful.” He looked up soberly, messily wiping his tears with the heels of his hands. “Oh, aye, Your Grace. I can. I can do that real good.” The tears came again. “I always tried to do good for ‘is Grace when ’e was alive.” Tom’s father came stomping through the portico. A sour look twisted Crumby’s weathered features. “There you are, lad! I’ve been lookin‘ all over for ye.” He started forward, then noticed Livie. “Oh, Your Grace!” He bowed, then frowned at his feet. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, that ye ’ad to see me boy blubberin‘ like a girl.” “There is no harm done, Mr. Crumby. Tom and I had a nice little chat.” When Tom blinked up at her with relief, she smiled encouragingly. “There’s a good lad. Why don’t you go to the kitchen now? I’ll warrant Cook has baked some fresh tarts. Tell her I sent you.” Tom grinned from ear to ear. He could never resist a freshly baked tart. They watched in silence as the tall, magnificently built young man loped off like a ten-year-old. Crumby shook his head. “Ye spoil him, Your Grace.” “Not at all. We have a special friendship.” “Don’t know why ye even bother talking to the lad. It’s a sorrowful sight, ain’t it, Your Grace? Such a

‘andsome boy with such a puny pea for a brain. God must ’ave ‘ad some good reason to punish me an’ the missus.” “Tom has always worked hard, Mr. Crumby. I appreciate that. You needn’t fear for his future here.” The old man scratched the back of his neck. “He’s gotten worse this last year. Ever since the Duke died, he ain’t been the same.” “Everything changed when the Duke died,” Livie replied in a distant voice. The sun slid behind a storm cloud, a thick blue-gray pillow of cotton that cast a leaden pall over the garden. She rued the loss of warmth and the unfortunate turn of her thoughts. She hadn’t really thought about Quinton since his burial. Now a spring wind was blowing the dust off of vague memories in the attic of her mind, and they were uncomfortably clear. It was truly amazing. Just as the fever had seemed to obliterate memories of her lovemaking with Will, she had forgotten the details of her husband’s death for an entire year. She had somehow managed to convince herself that the doctor’s report of apoplexy had been true. Olivia knew better. And she knew with ominous certainty that she could not recall pleasant memories with Willoughby Barnes without being haunted by disturbing memories of Quinton Thorpe’s last night on earth.

She slept fitfully that night, dreaming again, and she knew that this time she would remember the images whether she wanted to or not. In her dream state she raced through her garden as she had the night of Quinton’s murder. But nothing was quite right. The sundial had fallen from its stone mount and landed facedown. The dial’s gnomon, which usually cast its shadow on the proper hour, uselessly spiked the ground. The full moon was blood red. Her dainty white dress was on backward. Everything was out of place, as they often are in dreams. With the prescience of an oft-repeated nightmare, she knew what would happen next, but she had to go through it anyway. Quinton was chasing her. He was going to kill her. It felt as if her legs were pushing through gelatin. She couldn’t run fast enough. A vicious rain slowed her further, pushing her back with each slashing drop. Lightning crashed nearby and she screamed, or tried to. No sound would come. Then she stumbled. He was upon her. One hand went around her neck. She couldn’t breathe. Blood throbbed in her throat. Just as he raised a cane to strike her, he let go. He staggered, then slumped, collapsing to the ground. His blood soaked the earth. The vines drank and grew before her eyes. Without remorse, she walked away, leaving a trail of condemning blood.

Livie bolted upright in bed with a shuddering gasp. Moisture beaded on her brow and trickled between her breasts. A chill that not even her nightdress could thwart shimmied over her arms. Terror gripped her. She had to physically shake off the lingering images of the nightmare. I must remember that Quinton is dead and buried, she thought. She was alive. She had survived. Thank God she had survived. And no one had been accused of murder. That was the end of it. It was all

behind her. So why did she feel so out of sorts? And why did she have to remember in such detail after all this time? She covered her throat with her hands as she searched her mind for answers. It had something to do with Will’s arrival, she was sure of it. She’d first met Will at her husband’s grave site. Was that the reason she was thinking about Quinton? Or was she simply out of sorts because of the new duke’s expected arrival? She had no answers. How she wished she could talk it over with Sir Perry. He was always so sensible. And yet she sensed that she had come to the point in her life when she was the only one who could solve her own problems. She had to be the mistress of her own fate. But what was her fate? She had not mistaken the attraction that Will Barnes still felt for her. She saw it in the garden. But what could he possibly see in her? She was so bloody old, so withered and ... lifeless. Quinton had pointed that out often enough. He was right. Wasn’t he? She threw back her covers, lit an oil lamp, and carried it to her long beveled mirror. She blinked at her own image, not sure of what she saw. She was so used to seeing herself as emotionally compromised, as a lady in waiting, as it were, that she could scarcely interpret her own image. She held the flickering light closer to the silver mirror. To her surprise, the woman she saw boldly staring back at her wasn’t old at all. She was ... mature and wise, but not withered, no, certainly not that. In fact, she saw the contented look of a supple survivor. With Quinton, it was as if she had not existed, but this woman staring back at her was very much alive. In fact, almost... vibrant. Seeing wasn’t enough. Livie placed the lamp on the floor beside her, then went closer. She reached out and touched her reflection. There weren’t too many wrinkles on her face. Hardly any at all. She might even be called lovely. She pushed her hair away from her forehead and noticed that her cheeks were quite dramatic. She touched her mouth, and remembered Will’s lips there. She swallowed hard and let her hands wander down to her breasts. What were these strange swellings? They’d been useless for so long. And yet Will had worshiped them that night in the cottage. She remembered that distinctly. In her own hands, her breasts were full and firm and strangely susceptible to touch, even her own. She let her hands rove down to her narrow waist and hips. She hoped she wasn’t too frail. She certainly wasn’t too plump. She stepped back and smiled at the woman who regarded her quizzically. Whoever she was, she liked her. She liked her very much. And she felt like crying for all the years she’d ignored her. This woman was silently telling Livie that it was time to live. Her destiny awaited her. And it would all begin tonight.

A half hour later, after quickly dressing in a loose dressing-gown and hooded cape, Livie made the long walk from Brandhurst Hall to the gardener’s cottage. The path of escape from the house was so conveniently hidden by overgrown shrubs that she suspected several generations of dukes had used them to hide their own midnight assignations. Fortuitously, Olivia had given her maid the evening off. Only now would she admit to herself that she had done so in the hopes that her desire for Will would overcome her better judgment. With her maid gone,

Livie’s escape and return through the secret passageway could be downright clumsy and still go unnoticed by the rest of the staff. The air was cool and prickled her skin with goose bumps. A sliver of a moon gave little light, but she knew the path well. Her feet moved instinctively past the stable yards, the dovecote, the mews, and finally the south rose garden, which led down to the lower yard and pleasure gardens. All the while her mind whirled like a spindle, collecting the threads of her life’s tapestry. Now she understood so much more about the last year? why she was unwilling to condemn the immorality of others, why she had been churning like a restless butterfly in its chrysalis, waiting for the chance to fly. A voracious and willful carnality had dawned inside her, so bright it had blinded her for the last year. It had taken that long to sort delirium from reality, to finally accept the unacceptable. She was a woman with desperate needs that could no longer be ignored. Needs that whores, not wives, possessed. But she was neither whore nor wife. And halfway to the cottage, thoughts of the past vanished, replaced by heart-pounding anticipation of the immediate future. Could she feel the same unearthly passion again as she had that night so long ago? Was it possible? Or had she imagined the fierce pleasure Will Barnes had given her? Had that been part of her fever? By the time she reached the flagstone path to the cottage, she was breathless. He was inside. She stopped at the door. The wooden archway was carved into eight panels depicting scenes from The Canterbury Tales?the Knight, the Prioress, the Wife of Bath, all dressed in medieval garb astride their horses. Suddenly she was overcome by a sense of history. Images of valorous knights fighting and dying for honor and love. A breathtaking jab of emotion spiked her heart. Why was life so bloody short? Like a pure white snowflake it would melt in the briefest of moments. She would dissolve into the great gaping earth, heard and felt no more. This was her moment to sparkle in the sunshine before she vanished. She knocked. I’m a fool. An old fool. He’ll think I’m mad. Turn. Run. Before it’s too late. The door opened. He stood there in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows and baggy trousers. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He’d been waiting for her. Relief washed over her. And intimacy. This was a forbidden rendezvous, complete with requisite smoldering glances, baited breath, pounding hearts, and a fight to the death between guilt and reckless desire. No words were needed. He stepped back and held a graceful arm aloft, inviting entry. His ease dripped over her like a coat of warm honey. She could be herself with him?the self she’d never known. Her true self. She let a breath escape and stepped inside. When he shut the door behind her, the smell of burning wood infused her nose. There was the bed against the wall. The bed. Remembered pleasure jagged through her. She turned, piercing him with a tortured look. Their masks slipped. She could see his urgent need in every tensed muscle, in his turbulent gaze. No words. Not necessary. Inadequate. Touch. Yes, touch me. She reached out and he closed the distance, taking her in his arms so firmly it stopped her breath. She hugged his neck and laughed in his ear.

“You’re strangling me.” He let out a hissing noise?laughter? Choked sorrow?? and nestled her cheek with his whiskery jaw. “Oh, Your Grace?” “Livie.” She kissed his cheek, awash in a delirious sea of senses. “Call me Livie.” He never did. Not then at any rate. He reached down and gave her a penetrating kiss, and their souls clashed like swords. She didn’t know who was the first to grab at clothing, but theirs was a mad tumble toward the bed as garments fell like gauntlets at their feet. The cool night air caressed their skin, but only until the touch of skin on skin ignited a fire that raged for hours to come. Their lovemaking was more intense this time, sometimes slow and steady, sometimes fiercely athletic. Will never grew winded, never softened, until the end. By then she was in a kind of primal trance, sated but always turning to him for more, wishing that the night could last forever.

He lay on top of her, skin slick between them, panting as the last spasms of his climax undulated through his body. Silent reverberations faded to a stillness that was profound in contrast. Sweat coated his chest. A bead of moisture dropped from his chin to her neck. He licked it, then kissed her ear. She murmured contentedly, offering it to him. She turned her head, and her white skin contrasted sharply with her reddish gold hair. It was splayed against the pillow in a marvelously haphazard way. “God Almighty, you’re beautiful,” he rasped. She smiled deeply, her eyes closed, and it made him feel like the most powerful man in the world. He had made her happy. His words. His lovemaking. She wanted it all. He finally grew soft, but he did not leave her. He propped himself on his elbows and caressed her forehead, trying to peruse each faint freckle, each crease, as if by examining her body he could understand her soul. She was more beautiful to him than any younger woman he’d ever known. Her features were exquisitely defined, as if carved by a great artist. She was no promise of womanhood?she defined it. She was the personification of selfless grace, combined with a hidden hunger for life. Oh, how he wanted to see this rose blossom. He wanted to understand where he fit in. I certainly fit in her, he thought wryly. Already he was growing hard again. He started to pull back, then pushed in again in a slow, delicious motion that made no promises. They’d made love for hours. He wasn’t sure he had anything left to give. But his hunger for her would not be sated until he’d pierced Livie’s heart. Livie. He couldn’t believe he was on such intimate terms with the Duchess of Brandhurst. Couldn’t believe he was making love to her. Her face was distinctive in a way that was thoroughly English. Her body had lost whatever girlish roundness it might have once possessed and was now starkly beautiful. Her skin didn’t ooze like cream, like the skin of a young girl too foolish to appreciate it, but she was still indescribably tender, as smooth as a favorite pair of gloves. And her face was artfully oval, her eyes larger than most, their color a sultry topaz in the firelight. In other words, she was a portraitist’s dream?feminine, aristocratic, modest. He couldn’t believe she’d given herself to him. Why? He wanted to ask, but dared not, for fear she would

realize her mistake. As he grew harder still, she wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles like a bawd. It made his heart swell. She held nothing back from him. At least not in bed. “Why did you keep your identity from me that night we met in the garden?” he whispered. She smiled enigmatically, occasionally shutting her eyes and biting her lower lip when he moved just the right way. “I could not. Oooh, yes, that feels so good.” “Surely you knew that I would realize who you were at some point.” “I didn’t dissemble only for my own sake.” He kissed her lips, inhaling her intoxicating, sweet breath. Their eyes, only inches apart, met. “You did it for me?” She stroked his face with her careful, lovely fingers. “If you had known who I was, you would not have made love to me.” He stilled his hips to ponder this. “What do you mean?” “Your pride would have kept you from succumbing.” He drew his head back and frowned. “How did you know that about me?” She stroked the cool perspiration that had suddenly broken out on his nape. She smiled with the kind of crinkling compassion that only an older woman could possess, and heal as she bestowed it. “Perhaps I didn’t know that about you then,” she replied. “But I do now. I was very distraught that night. The next day I fell into a fever and nearly died.” “Ah. That explains it. I came looking for you, but you’d disappeared.” “I remember very little of that time. Though I remember every way and every place in which you touched me.” “Oh, Livie.” He stroked her face and shook his head. “I never thought I’d feel like this. I want all of you. All.” He drove hard into her, grateful and amazed that someone else knew him as well as, or better than, he knew himself. He came in a sudden explosion and collapsed on her breasts. He laughed in woozy surrender. “You’re an amazing woman, Olivia.” He rolled off her and they faced each other, arms tucked under their heads as they gazed in wonder. “I’m glad you think so,” she said with a contented smile. “I know so.” He cast an appreciative glance down her lovely body, then frowned. “Livie, that first night...” He stopped, unable to find the right words.

“Go on.” He propped himself on an elbow and stroked her arm. “It’s about your husband ... I need to know.” “My husband?” she echoed in a thin voice. She rolled on her back and rested a forearm over her forehead. The light in her eyes dimmed and she looked off into the unpleasant past for the second time that night. “We were husband and wife in name only. The Duke never wanted me.” “But surely he wanted an heir.” “He did. He tried. Brutally. But he gave up when all his efforts failed. He blamed me, called me barren. It never occurred to him that my very womb recoiled from him for all his cruelty.” He swooped down and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. He stroked her hair, overwhelmed by the power of his own caring. He never wanted her to suffer again. He never wanted her to feel another ounce of pain so long as he could help it. “The man had to be daft,” he muttered into her hair. “How could anyone do anything but worship you?” She hugged him hard, then relaxed her hold and tilted her head back, gratefully absorbing his frown of incredulity. “Listen to me, Livie,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand. “Listen very carefully. It was not your fault. A woman isn’t a baking oven, for God’s sake, to pop out children like pastries at her husband’s will. Do you understand that? You were not a failure, and I know that’s what you think. Isn’t it?” She clamped her eyes closed and tears bubbled behind her eyelids. “You were not a failure. Do you believe me? I want to hear you say yes.” “Yes,” she whispered. “No! You must mean it.” “Yes.” He saw the risk, the pain, and the wonder in her guileless eyes. He pulled her toward him, kissed her forehead, and hugged her to his chest. A ripple of cold washed over him as he realized he loved this woman. How and when had that happened? She was much more than his muse. She was his destiny. He smothered her face with tender kisses and went rock hard again. Soaring on feelings he never expected, he rolled on his back and pulled her on top of him. “Sit up,” he ordered. Livie’s head spun as she sat astride him and tried to gain her balance. He steadied her with his hands and forced her to remain erect. She felt horribly exposed. The burning candle on his table cast dancing shadows on her naked body. “What are you doing to me?” she asked with an uncertain laugh.

“What should have been done a long time ago.” Her long hair hung over her breasts. The nipples protruded through silky strands. “You look like a goddess. Better yet, Godiva.” His compliments brought the sting of sweet sadness and gratitude to her eyes. She had been right to come here tonight. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She hugged herself, still uncomfortable being so exposed. It was one thing to look at herself in a mirror, clothed and by herself. It was another thing altogether to expose her naked form. Her body had been a secret for so long she could not reveal it without shame. He was making her show herself. No hiding in the sheets. Was she really as beautiful as a goddess? If so, why had she hidden herself all her life? Who had made that rule? Why had she been forced to hide her God-given body behind stiff corsets and layers of suffocating cloth? If God did not want women to make love, why had he given them organs capable of pleasure? “You’re frowning. You still don’t believe me.” He gave her a little shake, his eyes teasing. “Accept it, Livie. You are an incredible woman.” He pulled her arms away from her chest and brushed back her hair until her lovely ivory torso and firm breasts were utterly exposed. “Open your eyes, Duchess. Open them.” She slowly raised her eyelids and locked gazes with him. His eyes almost glowed, he was so intent. That was the artist in him. Though he was young, some ancient and wise craftsman in him saw beyond the ordinary. If anyone knew beauty, it would be him. “Do you remember what I said about the human form?” She nodded and brushed a stray hair from the corner of her lip. He reached out and pulled an oval mirror from the bedside table. He held it up to her face. “Now take a good look. Do you see goodness in this face?” She nodded reluctantly. “And beauty?” She shrugged. “Very well,” he said wryly, “you don’t see yourself from my point of view. But you’d bloody well better not see yourself through his eyes, either.” She smiled at his impertinence. He lowered the mirror to her breasts. She pushed his hand aside. “Enough, Will!” “No, not enough! Look at the skin, the translucence, the perfection.” He lowered it farther still. “Do you see how the ribs just touch the surface, how your delicious waist narrows to the top of your hips? The bone juts out just so.” By now he had reached the end. The mirror, which she could no longer see, reflected their point of union. She tossed back her head and laughed with abandon. “Very well! I surrender. I accept my own beauty. I swear I’ll never be modest again. Now are you happy?”

He grinned engagingly as he set aside the mirror. “You’re very charming when you make fun of me, Livie, did you know that?” She let her head drop forward, and her hair dangled in his face. She felt exotic. Decadent. And appreciated, for the first time in her life. Then, incredibly, she felt him harden again. “I can’t get enough of you. You are so extraordinary.” He arched, and the depth sent her once again into that other world of no-thought. Like a circus performer, he rolled over, spun her around, and entered from behind, raising her up on her knees. There was no deeper way. In that moment she surrendered everything?modesty, inferiority, reluctance, her fragile distance. This was as low and high as she could go. She was fully human now. When it was over, and he died his little death behind her, collapsing on her, and she turned in his arms, kissing his love-softened cheeks as he fell into sleep, she knew that no one would ever know her more thoroughly or better than Willoughby Barnes.

On Thursday Clara moved into one of the great house’s twenty-five bedrooms as planned. She stared with determined poise out the first-floor window, pretending to be fascinated by the landscaping down below at the ground floor. Her cheeks still burned with embarrassment over her inauspicious arrival at the front door. She’d just paid the coachman of a hansom cab her last farthing for the trip from town when the house steward greeted her on the drive. One look at her single, tattered black bag and a look of pity washed over his face. She’d felt hideously small. As a governess, she’d had her fill of being resented by the staff, being looked down upon by the family, and being bullied by her charge. She’d sworn that she would never again put herself in that position. That’s why accepting the Duchess’s hospitality had been so difficult. She wasn’t an employee, but nor was she an equal. Clara had to remember that she was here to advocate for the Ladies’ National Association. Though as a single woman she had no acceptable role in Society, she at least had a purpose. She tapped her fan lightly in one palm while the housemaid unpacked the bag behind her. Clara waited with appropriate decorum, smelling roses, though she could not see where they were, resisting the urge to do the maid’s work herself. She watched the lawn keepers push cast-iron mowers over the turf. What a waste of time. Didn’t they know it would simply grow back again? Didn’t they know people were suffering while they toiled over the lawns of the rich? “I’ll put yer shoes in ‘ere, in the bureau, Miss Peabody,” said the doe-eyed girl. “Of course.” The maid brushed her black skirt and smoothed over her white apron and glanced around with satisfaction. “That’s it then, miss. Shall I wait for the other bags to arrive?” “No. There are no other bags.” Another wiff of roses hit her nose, and she looked around irritably. Where were those blasted flowers?

“Very good, miss. If that ‘ill be all, I’ll let Mrs. Jarvis know yer settled.” “Mrs. Jarvis?” “Yes, miss. The housekeeper.” “Yes, of course.” The gray-haired housekeeper, a formidable large-boned woman with a perfunctory smile, had greeted her at the top of the stairs, but Clara had been overcome with so many bad memories from her last situation she’d scarcely digested the name. “Thank you for your help.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and departed. Clara would worry later about how she would find the money to tip the servants at the end of her visit. When the door clicked shut, she let out a shuddering breath and collapsed into a ruby velvet armchair. She clinched her trembling fingers and wondered what was wrong with her. She had not expected this reaction. She’d thought she was prepared to enter the lion’s den again. But not enough time had passed. She had to collect herself immediately. This was Brandhurst Hall, not Timothea House. The Duchess was no virago as Lady Timothea had been. And Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Leach would not try to compromise her. She would never allow that to happen again. She would never again let any man close enough to try. A knock jolted her from her vertigo. “Yes?” The door opened and a square, beaming face appeared. “Halloo, dear! I heard you had arrived.” “Lady Pittiwell, are you still here?” she said in a fog, then blushed over her rude question. What business was it of hers if the Duchess’s guest had overstayed her invitation? Clara had spoken only briefly to Lady Pittiwell during her first visit, but it had been long enough for her to hope the imposing widow would be gone by the time Clara arrived with her things. “Yes, of course I’m still here, my dear,” the gossip sing-songed, throwing open the door. She wore an old-fashioned crinoline covered with black taffeta and a white widow’s cap. Her petticoats were so broad she had to squeeze through the doorway. “Trouble with my carriage, it seems.” She waddled around the room like a procuress preparing to fix a price for a special girl. “Lovely. Lovely indeed. And such lovely roses.” Clara followed her gaze to a sideboard in the corner. A bouquet was nestled behind the curtains. So there they were! “Are you going down to join the Duchess for a game of droughts?” “Not just yet, my lady. I fear the move has tired me.” The matron’s sharp eyes pinned her like a butterfly to a hobby board. “Oh? When are your belongings arriving?” Clara folded her hands together. “They’re here.” Lady Pittiwell glanced around. The room appeared unchanged. “I see.” She walked from the cherry wood dressing table to the brass half canopy bed, her eyes dreamily

scanning the red-and-white apple-blossom wallpaper. Then she smiled at Clara with something less than kindness. “Where did you say you live, my dear? I don’t remember the subject being discussed when we met that first day.” “No, the subject did not come up.” Clara smiled in return. The matron wandered to the sideboard and plucked one of the offending roses from its pink enamel vase. She put the velvet blossom to her nose and inhaled. “Such a heady scent.” Cloying, Clara thought. “Heady, yes.” “How is it that a pretty and intelligent girl such as you has escaped the joyful bonds of matrimony? I know there are so many old maids about these days, it’s quite shameful. These women really ought to have husbands. Their purpose is to have children. Can you imagine being forced to live in one of these horrid apartments for women who have no prospects at all? It makes my skin crawl.” Clara’s own skin turned cold. Lady Pittiwell might as well have plunged the knife in her heart, not in her back, as she had just done. “Not every woman can find a husband, my lady. And not every woman wants one.” Lady Pittiwell’s apparent kindness vanished. Her powdered cheeks stiffened, as if she’d just sniffed out a heretic. “I will not even speak of such unnatural aspirations, my dear.” “I was a governess, ma’am. I could not marry.” The widow smiled and sighed. “Oh, that explains it. I thought so. How pleasant for you to have this chance to dine and converse with your superiors as if you were an equal. It won’t last forever, though, my dear. You can’t rely on Her Grace’s charity forever. When you leave Brandhurst Hall, if you are in need of a new situation, please do not hesitate to contact me. I know a number of women looking for good help. And good help is so hard to find. Well, I’ll be on my way. Do join us at droughts when you’ve recovered.” Lady Pittiwell turned and bustled out of the room, leaving Clara even more weak-kneed than she had been before. Determined to hold her own, she walked to the sideboard, grabbed the bouquet of de-thorned roses, and took the dripping bundle to the window. Throwing it open, she looked down, happy to see a row of hedges and not a servant or groundsman in sight. She dropped the flowers and watched with contentment as they wafted to the ground, hidden between the house and the bushes. “I say, Miss Peabody, remind me never to bring you roses.” She gasped, jerked back, and turned to find Todd Leach leaning an arm casually against her door frame. He wore tight, buff trousers, a smashing red-and-tan checked waistcoat and a luscious chocolate-colored knee-length frock coat. The earthy colors perfectly matched his sandy, wavy hair. Her initial flush of guilt was replaced by a blush of desire. “I’m sorry?” “Don’t be.” “It’s simply that I find roses ... too effusive in their aromatics.”

He grinned, and she found herself smiling in return. “You are an unusual woman.” “I was a governess,” she blurted out, certain that Lady Pittiwell would ensure that everyone knew before the day was out. “But no more?” “No.” “Good. You deserve better.” She frowned. He seemed earnest. And kind. He had put down her former profession without insulting her in the process. Only a lawyer could do that. He just might be useful to her cause. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Leach.” “It was intended as such, dear lady. I have some business to attend, but I wanted to inform you that my aunt would like us to join her for tea this afternoon in the gazebo. I think she wants to foment revolution and plot political subterfuge.” Clara couldn’t help but laugh. “How unexpected and delightful.” He gave her a speculative look that only a thoughtful man might give. “Unexpected? I wonder. Delightful? Quite. At least I was flattered to be included. I plan to keep an eye on you revolutionary ladies. See you at four?” Clara nodded, smiling at the empty place where he had just been. Yes, perhaps things would work out after all. This was not Timothea House. This was, at least temporarily, her new home. And she was beginning to think she rather liked it.

Olivia had arranged to have tea served in the Grecian gazebo, a useless but pretty construction left over from the Georgian era. It was made of granite and had six columns that shouldered an octagonal roof adorned with marble friezes bearing figures such as Aristotle and Socrates. It was a serene place, surrounded by smatterings of lilac and holly bushes. As she waited for her companions, Livie took the time to really appreciate her surroundings. When Brandhurst was alive, she took everything for granted. The finest day, the most spectacular hour, the most stunning sunset or moving concerto all blended together, melding into inconsequence. Now she saw everything with the sharp clarity of one who had not only discovered passion for the first time, but who had fully learned to trust her own perceptions. Colors around her seemed extraordinarily brilliant. Her entire body tingled at the slightest stimulation?a soft breeze, the lucid, high song of a bird, the throaty wicker of horses in a distant pasture. She heard and thrilled at them all. After making love to Will, she was all senses and wild determination to live life to the fullest. She was giddy over the possibilities. A puff of astonishingly sweet lilacs pulled at her. She leaned back in her chair, taking it in. Birds twittered nearby, bobbing from branch to branch, twisting their heads from side to side, a flutter of wings, a twig in

the mouth. Busy, busy, busy. Busy with life. With the things that counted. She smiled. The wind whirled around her, that magic force that was as powerful as an ocean but so much more ephemeral. She could feel the cool touch of melting snow in it, the last patches of winter’s ice draining into brilliant new grass. Now came the promise of spring. New life. Thank God there was always new life. She looked toward the house, so imposing and dignified in the distance, and saw that Todd and Clara had come. They weren’t walking arm-in-arm, but something about the way their figures moved implied amiability. Or at least friendliness. They were talking, and even more significantly laughing. Livie had never seen Clara laugh. But it should come as no surprise. If anyone could get her to, it would be charming Todd. And the notion struck her that if anyone could get Todd to become more serious about his career, it would be Clara. “Magnificent day, isn’t it, Aunt Livie?” he said when he was in shouting distance. He raised his hand to his mouth so he could be heard above the gusting wind. It blew the straight strands of his hair this way and that. Clara held her bonnet in place with one hand and smiled at Livie with genuine warmth. “You two look like you’re having a jolly time,” she said, motioning to the two empty chairs. She poured the steeping tea as her companions took their place in cast-iron seats. “I can’t remember a lovelier day,” Todd said, smoothing his hair back now that he was protected from the wind by the lilacs. “Indeed,” Livie said warmly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Clara?” “Quite.” Clara’s cool reserve was back in place, but light still warmed her azure eyes as she exchanged a look with Todd. Livie realized something important about her new friend. Her passion, though deeply imbedded, was not wont to display itself obviously. Ebullient Todd would be very good for her indeed. He offered the tray of crumpets to Clara, who demurred, then he snatched up a sugared cake and ate it whole, chewing vigorously. “I told Miss Peabody that you want us to help you foment rebellion and forward revolutionary causes,” he said, licking his fingers and dabbing his lips with a napkin. He grinned engagingly at Livie and winked at Clara. “That is a bit of an exaggeration, I fear,” Livie replied. She added milk and sugar to her cooling tea and stirred, tapping the spoon once on the rim, then placed it carefully on the bone china saucer. She sipped and conspiratorially eyed the younger couple over the rim of her cup. “I do, however, admit to a plan for which I will need your help, Clara.” “How can I be of assistance?” Livie took a deep breath to steady the butterflies?no, the swallows?that had suddenly taken flight in her stomach. “I want to visit a factory.” She paused, then hurried through the silence. “I want to see the conditions that you are concerned about, with my own eyes. I want to see everything.” Clara’s mouth parted and she bit her lower lip. Todd frowned. “Clara, I’d hoped you would jump for joy.”

“Why do you want to do this?” Todd asked. “Why not?” Livie shot back. “I’d discourage you from making such a visit, Aunt Livie, except that I know it will distress Neville enormously. He’ll be concerned about what people will think, and worry that you’ll fall into a fit of vapors.” Todd licked the corner of his mouth nonchalantly, then pinned her with an ironic look. “Therefore, you simply must do it.” Livie reached out and pressed his hand. “Oh, Todd, I knew I could count on you for support. Though I must say you are incorrigible. You’ve agreed for all the wrong reasons.” His full cheeks dimpled with a wicked little grin. “Thank you.” Livie stopped smiling when she realized that Clara had yet to declare her support. She looked at the younger woman with a questioning frown. “Clara?” “It would be difficult, Your Grace,” Clara said at last. “There is no way a factory owner will let you inspect his premises.” “If I can’t manage to see a factory, then let me visit one of the factory girls. Let me see how they live.” “That would be too dangerous,” Todd said. He stared idly at the crumpets, then leaned back in his chair. “You do know, Duchess, that these girls live in the slums. You can’t go there.” “Why not?” “You have no idea what sort of crime and filth you’d be exposed to.” “That’s precisely what I want to see. I want to understand the world as I have never known it.” “It’s simply not done by a lady of your station.” She scoffed at him. “Now you’re sounding like your cousin.” “God forbid,” he shot back with a laugh. It would be easy to let the idea go at this point. To laugh and let the subject drop. But she couldn’t. “Todd, I will go with or without you. I will not be dissuaded. There is so much I don’t know, that I’ve ignored, or never even imagined.” Livie’s resolve sparked a fire in Clara’s cool eyes. “What do you hope to accomplish?” “If you truly want me to aid your cause, I have to see the evidence of suffering with my own eyes.” “Your Grace, Mr. Leach is correct in saying that you will endanger yourself.” “But you have met these women in person. Why can’t I?”

“I can make myself invisible. You can’t.” She leaned an elbow on her chair and tapped her upper lip with a forefinger. “Though, I suppose it could be done if we’re very careful.” “You’re not agreeing to this!” Todd said to Clara. “Your Grace, you can send an emissary. I will go and see these women myself and give you a full report.” “Toddy, dear boy, listen carefully. I may never find happiness, but I refuse to live like a ghost waiting until death overtakes me. I refuse to live like the wife of a Pharaoh who is put to death when her husband dies simply so he isn’t alone in the afterlife. Frankly, I hope never to see Quinton again.” He stifled a smile. Emboldened, Livie continued. “I have never asked for much in this life. Not for affection, or even true respect. But at the very least, I should like to die, many years from now I hope, knowing that my life possessed some meaning.” She sighed in frustration. “Or am I acting like a hysterical female?” “No!” he answered earnestly. “Good heavens, Your Grace, if that is the way you feel about it?” “It is!” she snapped. “Do you have anything more to add?” Todd sank back against his chair. “I suppose not.” “I will help you, Your Grace.” Clara’s voice resonated with that cool, precise strength imbedded in her nature like a diamond set deep in gold. “Thank you.” Livie sipped tea, swallowing it, along with the tender lump in her throat. “I am grateful.” “But I am not sure how to go about this.” Clara gave Todd a searching look. “I’ve only recently moved to town. I have not had a chance to meet any of the factory girls in person. Most of them live, I believe, on Winston Street.” “I know precisely who we can turn to for help,” Livie said evenly, busying herself pouring more tea so as not to betray the slightest blush. “Willoughby Barnes would know where to look, I avow.” “The garden designer?” Livie was grateful that her nephew had not called Will an under-gardener. “Yes, he’s an artist as well. Will you speak with him, Clara?” “Of course. I hope I am not being too presumptuous when I say I am proud of you, ma’am. Somehow you seem like a changed woman.” Livie smiled enigmatically. “That is precisely what I am. In more ways than you could ever imagine.”

Chapter 7

Olivia had not left Brandhurst Hall since the death of her husband, so the next day’s ride into Stowfield was something of a wonder. She and her three companions rode through the winding estate drive in the Duke’s polished maroon carriage, drawn by four well-matched high-steppers. The bays stood sixteen-hands tall and wore silver-plated harnesses that not only forced them to keep their heads high, but jangled with every step of their rumbling hooves. From behind the carriage’s plate-glass windows, perched upright on the leather studded front seat, Livie eyed the budding leaves on the trees that lined the serene thoroughfare. They seemed like so many tiny, pure green miracles. Clara sat next to Livie. Todd and Will sat opposite them with their backs to the horses. The intensity of Livie’s joy at seeing the world again was exceeded only by her amazement that she was riding in the same carriage as Will Barnes. Side by side, these two precious men represented the disparity of her life. One was a man acceptable in her Society in every way. The other was a person that her peers would not even recognize as a man. Todd was well bred, well educated, wealthy, and well connected. Will was beyond the pale?low born, a common laborer, without pedigree or crest. Her nephew looked dapper in his buff-colored frock coat and white ascot. His hands rested elegantly on his diamond-studded walking stick, and he bore an air of wary amusement. Will, on the other hand, kept his calloused hands folded on his simple tan trousers. He wore only a white shirt, which markedly contrasted the tanned skin that tagged him as a laborer. He bore no airs at all. He took the world as it was, without a frown or judgment. He simply observed, letting the truth speak for itself. She watched him furtively from under her lashes. There was something deliciously sinful about acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary when in fact her lover sat across from her. She felt utterly secure in her secret because Todd and Clara could not even conceive of, much less accept, the notion that the Duchess might be intimate with an employee from the lower class. Their prejudice would blind them. She could barely believe it herself. “Where precisely will you take us, Mr. Barnes?” Clara asked when the carriage took a sharp turn outside of the ducal seat’s stone-and-wrought-iron wall. “I will drive you past the factories, Miss Peabody, if that’s what Her Grace wants.” “Yes, I do,” Livie said. Her gaze touched on Will, then moved on to safer territory. “I’ve given your coachman the address of one of the factory girls,” Will added. “I believe you’ll find her circumstances very enlightening.” “Your Grace,” Clara began, “It’s not too late to call off this journey.” “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Livie smiled, then turned to look out the window and ponder the risk she was taking. “Barnes,” Todd said, half turning toward him, “you sound educated. How long have you been a landscaper?” “Not long, sir. Only since Her Grace requested my services. I am, by trade, an artist. A painter.”

“An artist? Oh, how intriguing!” Clara exclaimed. “Just yesterday I suggested to the Duchess that she taking up painting. It would give her such pleasure.” “I would be happy to teach her,” Will replied. Livie smothered a smile. Their gazes locked briefly. How would he teach her? she wondered. Would he have to guide her hand in his along the canvas? Would he teach her how to paint the human form? The male anatomy, perhaps? He had already given her more than enough inspiration. Lord, she could not fathom her wantonness. “Aunt Livie? Auntie?” Todd’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and when she turned her attention to him, she realized he’d been speaking to her for some time. She flushed guiltily. “I am sorry, Toddy. I was thinking about... the factory girls.” “If you want to turn back, it’s not too late. You know the risk you’re taking. A woman who associates with factory girls, and worse, would be considered tainted.” “Yes,” Livie countered, “but there are ladies like Mrs. Butler who helps these poor wretches and is still considered acceptable. She’s a leader of the Ladies’ National Association. Clara told me about her.” “Mrs. Butler’s social acceptability depends on your point of view. I doubt she’s invited to the best functions.” “I doubt she cares,” Clara pointedly replied. “I don’t care if I’m ever invited to another ball, or if I ever visit the Queen’s chambers again,” Livie declared. “I’m sick to death of what others think! This past year has been a blessing in disguise. Removed from Society, I’ve had the opportunity to form my own values. I don’t care a fig about anyone else’s point of view.” A long silence followed this unexpected diatribe. Todd let out a big sigh. “Very well. Then you’re doing the right thing.” “As Mr. Barnes has said, this will be ... enlightening.” She looked to him for affirmation, but he was frowning out the window. Was he worried as well? Why? What could possibly happen that would warrant concern? Her unspoken question was answered three quarters of an hour later when their carriage rumbled over the ancient cobblestone main street that wended through upper Stowfield. The coachman guided the horses past the fashionable part of town with the finest shops and the tea shop Livie had visited in the past. But then he continued on down a hill she had never traveled before. The faint stench of coal and phosphorous became noxious as the carriage swooped down into lower Stowfield, the industrial part of town, where black and yellow clouds of fog and soot hung suspended above the rooftops. Livie’s eyes watered and she pressed a kerchief to her nose. Rows of decrepit tenements loomed on either side of them, blocking out what little sunshine the choking fumes had not already swallowed. She’d known this was where the factories produced their wares. She’d smelled the terrible odors from the better part of town. But she had not known just how unpleasant and unsanitary an

environment these bustling factories had created. As if to emphasize the point, a golden arc of urine flew out of an upper-story tenement window and splashed on the muddy street beside the carriage, where the rotting remains of fried herring and boiled potatoes mingled with fresh green steaming piles of horse manure. An oblivious costermonger stepped into the mix and muttered a “Bloody shit!” but kept walking with his handbarrow of fruits slung around his neck. Farther down the narrow street, past the pawnshop and the apothecary, a river of blood spread over the rutted dirt road from a butcher’s shop. No one seemed to mind, not even the patrons of the Crown and Thistle public house. They traipsed through the crimson rivulets as they staggered out of the tavern, drunk and singing a ribald ditty after smoking for hours over pints of pink gin. The carriage came to a stop when they reached a bend in the road which was blocked by a hansom cab. From his dickey above and behind his customers, the driver angrily waved his bowler and shouted at whatever it was around the corner that had blocked his way. While they waited, Livie looked down at a doorstep and watched in fascination as a shabbily dressed man pulled an array of tools from a handbag, carefully polishing each one. Will described them as a wrench, a screwdriver, a saw, an oilcan, and a jemmy. He said the man was a burglar, a cracksman examining the tools of his trade, out in the open for all to see. Yes, she thought, this was a very different world. Olivia gripped her parasol, relaxing a little, and let her other senses take in this foreign land. She felt Will’s eyes on her, observing her in his careful way. Instead of making her feel self-conscious, it soothed her. She was no longer alone. He was just inches away. Their knees almost touched. She was filled with a sense of him, of exploding senses, of excitement mingled with fear, over seeing this disturbing new world that had been just a carriage ride away all these years. “This is the matchstick factory, I believe,” Todd said as they finally crawled around the bend and approached a low brick building that bordered the canal. “Yes,” Will said, dragging his gaze from Livie. “It employs most of the girls in town, except for those working at the pottery and the linen factories.” “What of their health?” Clara asked. “It’s always a roll of the dice, and almost always a losing game. If the young women spend enough time here, they’ll suffer from phossy jaw sooner or later, especially the mixers and dippers.” They rode on past the factory until the coachman squeezed the carriage down a street little wider than an alley. One glance at the rats that scattered out of the way told Livie they’d reached the worst of the verminous slums. The coachman pulled his team to a stop in front of a decaying rookery. “We’ve arrived,” Will said. The horses wickered and clomped their shod hooves on the broken pavement, eyes ablaze, foam flying from their velvet muzzles, as if they took exception to the offensive surroundings. The Duke’s horses were better fed and groomed than most of the residents here. Livie was just beginning to recognize that bitter irony.

As the footman came round to open the door, a small crowd gathered behind him. They gaped in wonder at the Brandhurst golden coat of arms emblazoned on the shiny coach and the footman’s silk stockings and white wig. As Livie gazed into their faces, she glimpsed herself through their eyes?with her pure pampered complexion, her clean, costly dove gray gown and black kid gloves?and felt a stab of guilt. Of course she had seen members of the lower class before, but these people were Will’s neighbors. They were human beings just like her. The people she saw were by and large scarred and dirty. Curious eyes stared out from faces imbedded with soot, coal, mud, and all manner of filth. Their lips were chapped, and their clothes were as dark as their dispositions. She was used to seeing awe in the eyes of servants and tenant farmers, but it hurt to see such reverence in the lowest of low, reverence framed with lice-infested hair, gaping mouths with too few teeth. She could tell most had never seen a carriage this fine before. Its presence was a palpable reminder of their grinding poverty. That might explain the look of sullen hostility she saw simmering in the eyes of some of the men. Todd must have seen it, too, for he frowned as he descended the carriage. He helped Clara out, then gave the crowd his sternest look. “Move back, please, the Duchess of Brandhurst wishes to descend.” “The Duchess!” “Brandhurst did he say?” “Wot’s she doin‘ ’ere?” “Can ye see ‘er? Oh, lor’, she’s as pretty as the Queen!” The crowd pushed forward. Todd and the footman muttered as they tried to hold the line. Livie reached out for Will’s hand. He clutched it behind her skirts. His fingers were tense. What had she gotten them into? “Alms, milady,” an old woman called out. “Alms milady.” “Get back,” Todd said commandingly, scattering the crowd with a few jabs of his walking stick. “Get back in your place. The Duchess wants to descend. Back, I say!” Will leaned forward to peruse the crowd. He spotted someone, then leaned out the door. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Hey, Rotten Jack!” “Will?” a stocky man replied from the back of the crowd. He wore a butcher’s bloody apron. “Is that ye, mate?” “Yes! Help these blokes! We have a real lady here, and I don’t want her pretty dress mucked up from the likes of these.” The butcher and another fellow standing next to him pushed through the crowd and helped Todd rein in the mayhem. There was a tussle, and Will sat back down until things settled. “For the first time, Duchess, I see my people as you must.”

She turned to him and their eyes met. “I suppose we are both seeing the world with new eyes, aren’t we?” “No longer through a glass darkly.” He found her hand again and squeezed hard. “The world awaits you, and all I want to do is hold your hand. Are you really ready for this? Mr. Leach is right. This can’t do your reputation any good.” She wagged a finger at him. “Enough of that. I don’t care?” “Fine!” He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I simply wanted to make sure.” She frowned. “Are you worried?” He thought about it a moment, then quirked his brows. “No, actually, I’m not. You’re stronger than you think.” “Then help me out of this ostentatious contraption. It’s now or never.” “Your Grace,” Todd called as Will descended and stepped aside so the footman could offer her a hand, “If you want to go back?” “No!” She tipped up her chin and assumed a brave smile. “I am ready. Where are we, Mr. Barnes?” “Your Grace, this is one of the worst tenements in town. A friend of mine lives here. Her name is Prissy O’Rourke. We were neighbors when we were young.” Someone tugged at Livie’s sleeve. She looked down and saw a face so wizened it looked like a prune. “Alms, milady,” the old woman said. Livie reached for her reticule, and suddenly there was a surge of bodies. She smelled putrid body odor and breath that reeked of ale, garlic, and rotting teeth. A man with no nose and pussy lesions on his face thrust his head forward. “Bless ye, Yer Grace, bless ye.” He smiled broadly. “Say a prayer fer me, ma’am.” “Of course,” she said breathlessly, trying not to let her face show her revulsion. Dear God, how could a person live with these deformities on top of such obvious poverty? “Let’s get on with it!” Will shouted, shoving himself in front of her. “Follow me.” Todd pulled Clara close. He was shocked to see fear etched in her immutable features. “Come along, Miss Peabody.” He smiled reassuringly. “I need you to protect me.” Todd brought up the rear as Will led the way to the door. Will had to step over a dead cat in order to knock. “Where are the crossing-sweepers when you need them?” he muttered. Livie didn’t see the cat until her foot was nearly upon it. She gasped and jumped back. “Oh, the poor creature!” It had apparently been struck by a carriage wheel, for its head had been flattened. Dried blood matted orange fur, but the body was otherwise intact. Livie pressed a kerchief to her mouth, swallowing a surge of nausea, then skirted around it.

Will knocked briskly and the door creaked open. For a moment Livie couldn’t see who had answered until Will stepped back to let her through. She was surprised to find a waif of a boy, perhaps six years old. He had big brown eyes, sallow cheeks, and a little red button of a mouth. “Oh! Hello,” Livie said, moving into the small foyer as the others crowded in behind her. Todd shut the door, closing out the noise. “How’s little Peter doing today?” Will said, kneeling by the boy. He gave his stomach and back a good rub. “Topping,” the lad said, then looked up fearfully at Livie and whispered, “Is that the Queen?” Will and the others laughed. “No, lad, this is the Duchess of Brandhurst.” Peter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Blimey!” he gasped as he ran out of the room. “I must tell Grandmum!” Will chuckled and stood, smiling warmly at Livie. “He’s a good boy. His mother is upstairs. Prissy O’Rourke. She used to make matchsticks. We can go up and see her, for she’s too weak to come down here.” “Oh, surely not,” Livie said. “I should at least send up my card first. She’s not prepared for?” “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Clara said. “I daresay Prissy has never even seen a calling card, and she won’t be offering you tea and crumpets.” “Oh, bless me, there she is!” A plump woman with gray hair tucked in a mop cap came bustling in behind Peter. “See, Grandmum?” Peter pointed to Livie. “The Duchess! I wasn’t joshing.” “Oh, Your Grace!” Peter’s grandmother said after gaping at Livie. She hurriedly fell into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace,” Will said, “this is Prissy’s mother, Mrs. O’Rourke.” “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. O’Rourke. Please forgive me for visiting unexpectedly.” “It is a right fine honor, ma’am.” She stood, then found the source of that familiar voice. “Willoughby Barnes, I should ‘ave known ye were involved in this!” “Hello, Mrs. O.,” Will said. He kissed her hand and she held his warmly. “The Duchess would like to speak with Prissy about the match factory. May we go up?” Tears filled the woman’s eyes. “Oh, aye. Ye can talk all ye want, but there’s no helping the girl. Soon it’ll be just me and Peter.” She pulled the boy into her skirts, then she wiped her tears with her apron. “Go on up, Will. I’m baking a pie. Will ye stay for some, ma’am?” “Perhaps if there is time,” Livie said. “Thank you.” “Come upstairs, then.” Will motioned for Livie to follow.

“Perhaps she needs to prepare,” Livie added. The lack of decorum was oddly terrifying. “It won’t matter. I wish it would. Come along, ma’am.” Livie didn’t know what he meant, nor did she understand how irrelevant her suggestion was until they ascended a narrow stairway and opened the door at the top. Will entered and she followed close behind, with Todd and Clara lingering a respectful distance in the doorway. The room was too small to accommodate all of them. It was hot and the air was stale. On the bright side, though crumbling, the walls had been freshly painted and dried flowers had been hung with great care. Though worn, the floor was clean, and the curtains covering a shattered window had been prettily stitched. Mrs. O’Rourke had done her best to make her daughter comfortable. Livie took it all in, then found Prissy, a withered heap of skin and bones on the bed against the far wall. “Prissy,” Will called softly. The woman stirred. She covered her eyes, shading them from a ray of light that filtered through the window. “Hmmm?” “Prissy, it’s Will Barnes.” His voice purred with compassion so rich it sent a chill skittering down Livie’s arms. Suddenly she was doing more than seeing how the other half lived. She was feeling it. “Will?” came a weak voice. “Is that Will Barnes?” “Aye, girl, it’s me.” He stepped forward and sat on the edge of her bed and brushed back a damp lock of her hair. She smiled. “That’s nice, Will. Yer always so nice to me.” Her eyes were cloudy gray pools in sockets that looked like graves. Her hair was a stringy yellow mess matted to her skull. Her lips were so parched they looked like strips of sand in her gaunt face. Livie could smell her rancid breath from the distance. “You’re looking better, girl.” “Liar,” she said with a racking laugh. He struck a match and lit a cheap tallow candle on the bedside. No beeswax or gaslights here. The smelly light illuminated Prissy’s face, and Livie was filled with new horror. Her skin looked like it was being eaten away by something. She had only half a jaw. Loose skin fell over a ravine where there should have been a cliff of bone. Will sensed her shock and went to her side, turning his back to Prissy. “She has phossy jaw,” he said in a low voice, but loud enough for the frowning Clara and Todd to hear. Prissy had fallen back into her stupor, unaware of their conversation. “They call it match girls’ leprosy. The bone was eaten away by the phosphorous she worked with in the match factory twelve hours a day. The surgeon had to cut it off.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Livie exhaled. Clara gripped Todd’s arm. “There’s more to it than that,” she whispered. Will nodded. “You’re right, Miss Peabody. She has syphilis. She doesn’t have long to live.” Livie shut her eyes, but opened them when she heard Peter’s little clomping steps in the stairwell. He burst through the door with his gangly limbs moving at top speed. “Mum, did ye see who ‘as arrived? Mummy, wake up.” He raced to the bedside. “Mum, it’s the Duchess. And she’s coom ’ere to see ye.” Prissy slowly focused her bloodshot eyes on Livie. She blinked several times, then wiped away greasy strands of blond hair from her forehead. “What th?? The Duchess?” “Prissy, this is the Duchess of Brandhurst,” Will said. “Lor!” The sickly woman tried to raise herself up on her elbows. “Why didn’t ye tell me, Will?” “You should have told her,” Livie admonished him sotto voce. “This isn’t your Come Out Season, luv,” Will told Prissy gently. “The Duchess wants to talk about your work in the factory.” That subject was enough to throw her back onto her sweat-soaked pillow with a weary groan. “Oh, lor‘, that place.” She stared at Livie without emotion. Remaining conscious was enough of a struggle. Modesty, anger, fear, hope?those feelings were beyond her now. “What do ye want to know?” “Prissy worked at the match factory for ten years,” Will explained. “That place took me jaw,” she said flatly. “I knew it would eventually, but I ‘ad to feed little Peter, ’ere. So I kept workin‘.” The side of her mouth where the jaw had been sawed off drooped, which made her speech slurred. Livie went jelly-soft inside. She wasn’t at all sure she would want to go on living after such a painful experience. But, of course, Prissy had the boy. If Livie had been lucky enough to give birth, would she also have had the courage to sacrifice everything for her child? For the first time, she understood a mother’s love, and she ached for a child of her own. “Go on, Peter,” Prissy said. “Go see if Grandmum ‘as cooked that pie. Tell ’er to get the Duchess some tea.” “Aye, Mum.” The boy pushed his way out the crowded room and clomped downstairs. While Prissy watched him go, Livie glanced quickly at the surroundings. There was a bowl of water on the stand next to the bed, and a very exotic mask of gold with peacock feathers hanging on the wall. It was so colorful and pretty it seemed out of place. “Water, please,” Prissy said. Livie was closest to the water jug. She didn’t hesitate to pour. It was difficult to see someone suffer and be unable to say or do anything that might help. At least she could help quench her thirst. Prissy looked up warily as Livie raised her head and offered the cup. Sadness and shame filled her eyes.

“Please drink, Miss O’Rourke. It’s terrible to be thirsty, isn’t it? I always enjoy a good cool glass of water.” Prissy swallowed her pride, then slurped the water. Her head dropped back to the pillow. When Livie stepped aside, Will sat on the bed and brushed back Prissy’s bangs. “Her face and hands used to glow in the dark,” he said. “That’s from the phosphorous. She knew it would get her in the end. They all do. But they have no choice. Eventually she was forced to quit, and had no way to support herself and her mother.” “No respectable way, that is,” Prissy said wryly. She tried to smile, but only one side of her mouth could rise. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you, Miss O’Rourke,” Livie said with calm certainty. “Nay, ma’am,” Prissy demurred. “I insist.” It was not a premeditated offer. She was simply doing what any decent, thinking person would do when faced with such tragedy. “There are many others like Miss O’Rourke,” Clara said. She took a step forward. Livie had nearly forgotten she was there. “I cannot save the world, Clara. But I can help one family at least. Todd, see that Dr. Mortrew pays a visit. We will send food and money, Miss O’Rourke. And I will see that Peter is educated.” Prissy gasped. She looked incredulously at Will. When he nodded and smiled, she began to choke with excitement. “Oh, thank ye, ma’am. Thank ye.” The boy appeared at the top of the stairs. “There he is,” Will said, standing. “What do you say, Peter? Would you like to go to school and learn how to be an upstanding young man?” “School?” He slipped his hand in Will’s, frowning up as if Will were teasing him. Then his eyes caught fire. “Ye mean it? Oh, aye, Will, that ‘ould be prime!” Will chuckled and tousled his hair. “You sound like a regular bloke there, Peter. Soon you’ll be the man about town.” “Take care of him, Will,” Prissy said weakly, shutting her eyes again. She’d meant after she was gone. Will blinked hard. “You know I will.” “You can trust us, Miss O’Rourke,” Livie reassured her. “Peter will never have to worry again about his future.” Prissy began to cry. Her eyes showed no sadness, but tears poured down her mottled skin and she held out a hand. Livie stepped forward, squeezing it firmly.

“Everything will be fine, my dear.” “Yes, ma’am,” she said in a choked voice. “Thank ye. God bless ye.” Livie did feel blessed. She was astonished at the painful swell of compassion that ached in her chest. She had not known she was capable of such feeling. How very human she felt. How alive. It hurt, but in a good way. She would never forget this woman, or this moment. She would never again be able to live in ignorance. “Thank you for your hospitality, Miss O’Rourke,” she said in a tight voice. “I must go now. Will, you and the others take your time.” Livie turned and left without further adieus. She did not trust herself to speak. She did not want to add to Prissy’s sorrow by crying in front of her, and she felt a torrent approaching. Feelings were so new to her that she had not yet learned to control them. Olivia hurried down the stairs and rushed out, taking in a hissing breath of fresh air. The piss-covered thoroughfare was refreshing compared to the stench of encroaching death. She almost stepped on the dead cat again, and reeled back against the wall of the tenement. Why did people have to live like this? It wasn’t fair. The footman saw her and opened the door to the waiting carriage, but she waved him off. She heard the footsteps of her companions coming down the stairs. She couldn’t let them see her like this. She couldn’t run. It was dangerous here. She’d get lost. But if Todd saw her now, he would know. He would know she was an imposter, that her reserve had cracked and couldn’t be put back together. Witnessing her raw emotions, he might even guess that she had succumbed to carnal desires, that she possessed an unnatural passion, that she was no better than a girl like Prissy, who was dying because of her sexual transgressions. This was Will’s world. It was so brutal. Oh, she hated herself. Hated her weakness! She had wanted to open her eyes and experience life as it really was, but now she felt paralyzed, for she no longer fit in her own world, but neither could she see a place for her in Will’s. “Your Grace,” the footman said, offering a hand. The words sounded foreign. She looked up in a daze and found a white glove stretched out to her. “No! I don’t want to get into the carriage.” She whirled, her voluminous skirts churning up a cloud of soot, and started to lurch blindly down the uneven cobblestone street. She nearly tripped over a beggar, who sat on two stumps that had once been legs. “Please, ma’am, a ha’pence for a ‘ungry old man,” he said in a croaking voice, holding up a wizened hand that only had three fingers. With tunnel vision, she could only see those dirty, mangled fingers, and the sight sent her reeling in the other direction. “I’m sorry. I simply can’t,” she called over her shoulder as she darted down an alley. Boxed in by narrow brick walls and shadows, she at last found the hovering quiet that was so much like her life. She took a steadying breath and tried to still her trembling hands. She longed to feel nothing again, to be unaware. But she couldn’t go back. That way was death. As real as the death that Prissy faced.

Why did Prissy have to suffer? It seemed so unfair that she had been forced to chose between her health and feeding her child. Livie couldn’t understand what sort of God would allow that, and what kind of Society would turn a blind eye. It was her Society. She was the very embodiment of the aristocracy who lived off the fat of the land and on the backs of the commoners. She had been asleep to the fact all her life. “Oh, God!” She shook, not with the urge to weep, but with the desire to strike something. “Duchess!” Will shouted in a distant, panicked voice. He skittered to a stop at the end of the alley. “Your Grace! Thank God you’re safe.” His voice echoed off the brick walls on either side. He jogged to her side, his face stricken with fear. “Livie, we must return to the carriage. It isn’t safe here.” “No!” she shouted, reeling back when he tried to guide her arm. “It wasn’t safe for Prissy, was it? But no one came to take her away. Why should I be so cared for?” “Because you’re a Duchess,” he said in a hard voice. She shook her head disbelievingly. “And what of little Peter? Does he have ... syphilis? Is he going to die as well?” “No, thank heaven.” Relief assuaged her fury, and she focused on him through her blurry vision. “I thought mothers sometimes passed it on to their children.” “She contracted the disease after he was born.” “How will it end for Prissy?” Will shrugged. “The victims go blind and sometimes insane. No one is immune. Whores give it to their customers. Rich men who can afford whores give it to their wives.” The darkness of the alley thickened. It was hard to get a good breath. “How did she contract the disease?” Will shook his head. “Livie?” “I want to know!” “After she had to quit the factory, she had no way to make money. She couldn’t benefit from the Poor Laws because Peter is illegitimate. So she had to take to the streets.” “Good God. How? With her face looking like that, who would ... ?” Will grimaced. “Any rat from the gutter with a bone for a prick looking for any hole to put it in.” When she winced, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Livie, it’s a hard world. You saw the mask on the wall. The one with peacock feathers. She wore that. They called her the Foreign Princess of Winston

Street. She never took it off when she was with her customers. They thought it was exotic. She attracted quite a following.” “How cruel men are,” she said in a far-off voice. “Sometimes they’re no better than animals.” She heaved a sigh. “I had no idea how perfectly hideous life can be.” She lay her forehead on his chest. Heat burned through the thick muscles crisscrossing his breast bone. It soothed her cheek. It seemed the only thing she could count on anymore was the strength of his arms. She tilted her head up. His lips were so close. His eyes burned into her, but he would not kiss her. She knew this instinctively. It was not safe when the others waited in the carriage. Despite his incredible passion, he was capable of discretion. He was more noble than her husband had ever been. She took in a steadying breath and smelled the rotting garbage along the wall that provided a feast for beady-eyed rats. No longer comforting, the alley was now unpleasant. “I want to go home.” Home to Brandhurst Hall, that place of conspicuous consumption. The place where she would plot her future. And it would be one unlike anything she’d experienced to date. While she might be unable to change the world at large, she could bloody well change her world. And that’s precisely what she would do.

Chapter 8

“What can I do to help?” Olivia asked. “What do you want to do, Your Grace?” Clara replied. “Whatever it takes to make a difference.” Clara fell silent as she contemplated the significance of this statement. It was a beautiful day for ruminations. The women had set out early for a walk around the estate. Clara had been surprised that the Duchess was up and about and in such obvious vigor. She’d half expected Olivia to keep to her bed after yesterday’s disturbing trip to the slums. On the contrary, the journey seemed to have strengthened the Duchess’s resolve, but to what extent remained the nagging question in Clara’s mind. They passed through the stable courtyard, where young grooms smoothed their brushes over a half dozen sleek and muscular horses. Livie’s white mare saw her pass and bobbed its head with an affectionate nicker, swishing its braided black tail. Beyond the cobblestone courtyard sat the wooden mews. There a dozen hooded falcons, merlins, and hawks stood alert on their perches, waiting for a fly at the lure. The Duke’s enormous hawk, Balthazar, pranced back and forth on fearsome claws as old Mr. Parlman reached into its cage with his leather

glove, a pouch of raw meet hanging at his waist. The bird opened his beak and closed it without emitting the ear-piercing shriek that would soon stretch across the sky. As the women continued on, reaching the trimmed green turf that dissolved in the distance into an undulating meadow, Livie tucked her arm in Clara’s, adjusting her parasol so it wouldn’t clash with her companion’s. “What say you, my dear?” Livie said warmly, eyeing her with anticipation. “Where is the best place to start?” “Mr. Leach has already asked the doctor to visit Miss O’Rourke, and the footman sent the items you requested earlier this morning. Mr. Hildebrande is going to talk with Peter’s grandmother about where he should go to school.” “Yes, but that will only help Prissy and her family. Yesterday that seemed all that I was capable of doing. I want to do more.” “What you are offering Prissy O’Rourke is generous, ma’am. You could set up a fund of sorts for other girls in her predicament.” Livie frowned. “But that’s not enough. It’s too late then. I want to prevent suffering, rather than relieve it. Why do I have the notion you’re patronizing me, Clara? You are the one who triggered my interest, and now you act as if I’m incapable of doing anything of consequence simply because I’m a member of the aristocracy.” “That is not true!” “Prissy and I live in different worlds, but we have both been categorized, pegged and dismissed. No one will listen to her because she knows too much about life, and no one will listen to me because I know too little. Now what do I have to do to convince you I’m serious about this?” Clara flashed her a burning blue gaze. “Good heavens, you really are determined, aren’t you? I’ve been waiting for such a resolution from you. I was not patronizing you, Your Grace. I wouldn’t presume. But the resolve had to come from you alone. Now that I know the depth of your determination, there is no end to what we might accomplish together.” Livie smiled triumphantly, then regarded her companion with admiration. “If I am determined, I can thank you for that. You’ve taught me so much. I wonder what has made you wise beyond your years.” Clara flushed and looked away. “Don’t be alarmed. I won’t pry. I just wonder at your remarkable resolve.” “My resolve? The journey into town was your idea. You must take credit for that.” “But the notion would never have occurred to me if you hadn’t come to Brandhurst Hall. Oh, listen to us! Here we are congratulating ourselves while young factory girls are dying.” “And there is only one way to make a real difference,” Clara replied. “Yes?”

“You must persuade those who sit in the House of Lords. There are some brilliant statesmen in the Commons working on our behalf. And arguably the House of Commons is the only legislative body that truly matters. But the Lords still holds sway in the hearts and minds of the common people. The power of the Lords is largely symbolic, but symbols are so important. That’s why we must sway the aristocracy to our cause. Mrs. Butler believes that Lord Skelton would be the best one to approach.” “Lord Skelton?” Livie looked at her as if she’d just sprouted two heads. “Do you know him?” “Unfortunately, yes.” She refrained from telling Clara that Neville wanted her to marry the toad. “He is a man of despicable personal habits and small intellect, but for some reason he has indicated sympathy for the match girls. I should think he’d be immeasurably heartened to know the esteemed Duchess of Brandhurst, who has heretofore never sullied her hands with politics, feels strongly enough about the cause to get involved.” “I would not look forward to such an encounter, but I will write to him and see what sort of response I receive. However, I must do so quickly. The new duke may arrive as early as next week. I cannot imagine he will be interested in supporting this cause, and I’m sure he will require my time as he adjusts to his new role.” Clara shot her an alarmed look. “You mean you will be able to do nothing once he arrives?” “This will be his home, and like you, I will be his guest. In truth, we have no idea what sort of lord he will be. He may not even plan to live here, in which case life will largely continue as it has.” “Good heavens! Belonging to the aristocracy certainly has its disadvantages. Your life is not your own.” Livie gave her a droll look. “You have no idea. Meanwhile, what do you think about the notion of hiring one of the factory girls to work as a parlourmaid in my household? I’d have to do that before His Grace arrives.” “That would be capital!” “Why don’t you talk to Mr. Barnes about a possible candidate?” “I’d be delighted to, ma’am.” By her even reply, Livie could tell that Clara had not noticed any intimacy between her and Will. As long as their relationship remained a secret, it could go on. She was astonished to realize the depth of her relief. She couldn’t live without Will now. In that alley he had been her anchor. He was the only person to whom she could reveal her feelings and still feel accepted and secure. He was as necessary to her now as the air she breathed. She smiled at Clara, aware that she, too, had contributed to Livie’s present sense of fulfillment. She and Will were her young and able guides. There was so much left to do! And so little time. “I’ll go speak to Mr. Barnes at once,” Clara said. “I suspect he’s in the garden.”

She started off, but Livie pulled her back with a gentle tug. “Clara, there is one other matter I wish to discuss.” She swallowed slowly as she searched for the right words. She let her hand fall from the girl’s arm. “Did you see the feather mask in Prissy’s room?” Clara’s cheeks turned rosy as she nodded with chagrin. “Yes, I did.” “Did you know that Prissy was a... a streetwalker?” “I surmised as much during our visit.” She frowned. “I recognized the signs of syphilis.” Livie tipped up her chin. “Aren’t you shocked?” Clara sighed. “I’m afraid it is all too common.” “Do they all suffer like Prissy, from disease and possible madness?” “A frightful number of them do, ma’am.” “These women shouldn’t be allowed to harm themselves in this way. Why aren’t you trying to do something to alleviate that horrible problem?” Clara lowered her parasol, folded it up, and rested it in the nook of her bent arm. She smiled wryly. “I am attempting that very thing. I simply haven’t discussed it with you.” “Why not?” “I didn’t want to shock you. I was afraid that if I first approached you about the prostitutes, I’d get no farther than the front door.” Livie remembered Clara’s first visit. Neville would have fallen into a fit of apoplexy if Clara had presented herself as an advocate for women of ill repute. “I suppose you are right, my dear, but do tell me. What are you doing for these poor wretches?” “I’m fighting with other like-minded women against the Contagious Diseases Act. It’s legislation that victimizes the victims. It doesn’t outlaw prostitution, but it allows police to imprison women suspected of having caught a disease from their illicit acts. In other words, the law tries to ensure that men who seek satisfaction from whores can do so without catching syphilis. “And the women, including wives, who are unfortunate enough to catch the disease from these men are imprisoned if the authorities find out they’re ill. There is even the suggestion that the wives of military men, who are not known for their fidelity, should be hauled off the streets to have their privates examined for good measure.” “How grossly indecent and unfair!” “Precisely. If you’re really interested, Your Grace, we can talk further.” “Absolutely. I want to know everything!” Clara gave her a brilliant smile. “Thank you. You’ve revived my faith in womankind.”

After watching Clara walk back toward the Duchess’s Garden, Livie continued her ramble, cutting through the meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers that offered the best view of the great house. She’d felt an odd sense of betrayal upon learning that Clara had not considered her prepared to deal with the worst of Society’s problems. Livie had to let others know that she was capable and determined to live fully cognizant of the world around her. Slowly but surely others’ perceptions of her would change. And in the process, her perceptions of herself would change. Like a butterfly crawling out of its chrysalis, she had yet to see the design of her own wings. They still clung to her body, but soon she would fly, and all the world would know her true colors. She climbed to the top of a small slope with such sure and quick steps that she was soon winded and had to pause to catch her breath. She held a hand over her eyes to guard from the glare and scanned the horizon. That’s when she saw him. Willoughby Barnes. Her heart leaped in her chest, like that butterfly winging to the brilliant sun. Will was painting at an easel. And he was alone. Clara would never find him. He was Livie’s for the taking.

Will was having one of those incredible moments at the canvas when his arm was merely an extension of his mind. Not the conscious part of his mind that criticized and questioned, analyzed and judged, but the unconscious part that flowed like a river of three-dimensional striated colors. The carmine of a rooster’s head, an azure sky before a storm, the green of moss under a leafy forest bed, the yellow of a lemon, and the peach pink of a virgin’s nipples, all magically moved from his thoughts to the canvas in a brilliant swirl of colors. Once blended, they arranged themselves into a lush semblance of reality. This was magic. This was divination in its purest form. Will had often thought that’s why so many men were willing to starve for their art?because it was as close as any man could come to knowing God. After all, wasn’t this how the Deity must have felt after seven days of exhilarating creation? “Hello! Will!” The distant voice brought his swirling fantasies to a quiet close. It was like awakening after a deep dream. He stepped away from his easel and saw the Duchess drawing near. She marched with dignity and still looked as delicate as any flower in the field. He wanted to throw down his pallet and run through the meadow into her arms like a lovesick fool. Instead, he rubbed his head as memories of yesterday bombarded him. He had been racked with guilt all night. She could have been killed when she ran off into that alley, not to mention the beating her spirit must have taken by seeing such deplorable human conditions. And it was all his fault for taking her to Winston Street. He had never understood more clearly just how impossibly different their backgrounds were than when he saw the Duchess in his environment. She was right I to say they had both changed. But could they ever change enough to bridge that gap? She came to a stop before him, blinked in the sunshine, her smile more radiant than ever. She wore a pretty lavender hat that topped her bouquet of hair. She was so sweet and so bloody elegant it made his

insides melt. A wave of longing swept his worries away. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Her brows rose teasingly. “That would be impossible,” he said with a wry smile as he set down his pallet and wiped his hands on a rag. She twirled her parasol on her shoulder. “You’re painting this morning. Clara went to look for you in the garden. I was rambling.” “Lucky for me.” She glanced at the house. It was so far away. The easel and canvas were just wide to enough to offer a bit of protection. She folded her parasol with great care, then impulsively grabbed his hand and dragged him behind the easel. “Madam,” he said as she reached between his legs, “are you seducing me?” She gave a throaty laugh. “Whatever gave you that idea?” He shut his eyes and moaned as she plied him with the perfect amount of pressure. “You’re a fast learner.” “I had the best teacher,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his. She dropped her parasol and slipped both arms around his waist. He opened his eyes. “You don’t have to stop that.” “Yes, I do.” She nestled against him and felt the evidence of her expertise pressing against her abdomen. “Or we shall both lose control in what would most assuredly be the wrong place and the wrong time. But I do see my technique had its desired effect.” He kissed her, tongue dipping in for a sweet taste, then nibbled her ear. “You see or you feel?” “Only an artist would ask a question like that.” She brushed her nose softly against his, and he inhaled her rich breath. “Lord, you’re sweet. I wanted you last night. I couldn’t sleep. I worried?” “Don’t say it,” she whispered. He drew back and regarded her contritely. “I am so sorry about yesterday.” “No, don’t be. I needed that.” She cupped his cheeks with both hands, smiling up at him as if he were her savior. “I needed to feel, see, and do something, and I have you to thank for it. You’ve awakened me. Will, what would I do without you? You mean so much more to me than I could ever have imagined.” He hugged her tight against the swelling in his chest. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered in her ear. “I wish I could see the world through your hopeful eyes.”

“You’re feeling despair? Don’t, Will. I?” She stopped when she noticed his painting from the corner of her eye. She withdrew from his arms and faced the canvas. Her face went blank. Her eyes widened and sparked with wonder. She moved closer, astonishment written on her features. “Good Lord, is this your painting?” Will rubbed the back of his neck and his smooth, square jaw tightened with self-mockery. “It wasn’t done by the elves.” Her head whipped in his direction, and her glittering topaz eyes took him in as if she’d never seen him before. “Good heavens, you are talented.” His lips thinned. “I thought you understood?” “No, I mean you’re brilliant.” He flushed and looked at his feet. Those words meant more to him than any “I love you” would. That was the selfish artist in him. Having his art praised and recognized was more important to him than being loved. That’s why he’d never married anyone. He knew what a selfish bastard his art made him. He looked up at her, saw her admiration, and felt more than her equal. It was a chilling, staggering feeling, and he basked in it for a lingering moment. “Thank you,” he said simply. She looked back at the painting and crossed her arms, losing herself in its perfection. “You’ve rendered the house in a way that breathes. And the surroundings, the environment is a collage of all the ways it’s ever been. How did you know? How did you do this?” He shrugged. “My God, you’re good.” “You mean in bed?” She looked back at him, her eyes darkening. His jab had burst her bubble. So why did he feel deflated as well? “Was that comment necessary?” “You tell me, Livie.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and shifted weight from one leg to the other. “Why did you hire me for this painting? You admit you had no idea how good I was as an artist. What were your real motives here?” “How could I know you were this good?” she replied indignantly. “I’d never seen your work.” “You should have. Most people do so before commissioning a work of art.” “You’re not being fair. You know the circumstances under which I hired you. Why are you doing this?” He squeezed his temples with one hand. “Ah, hell, Livie, I don’t know.” He dropped his arms to his sides. “I sense that we’re hurtling down a path that has no end. How long can we dally here? Yesterday

it became painfully apparent how different our lives are. And now I’ve just realized how superfluous my work is to you. What am I doing here? You don’t even have enough faith in me to hire me to do your portrait. I’m not a dilettante. I have a career to build, and I’m not getting any younger.” Neither was she. Livie closed her eyes as panic roared inside her. She was getting old. Was that what he was telling her? Of course he was. She could never hold him. He would find someone younger. He was going to leave her. And how dare she stop him? “Don’t look like that, Livie.” “Like what?” she snapped, her eyes glittering brightly. “Like I’ve just crushed your world. You make me feel so important, but what am I to you? A garden lover. What happens to me in a month, or less, when you’ve had your moment of passion and I get to go on my merry way?” “You think I will send you packing?” She laughed wonderingly. “Yes, I do. And even if I’m wrong, if for some miraculous reason I remain in your life, what will I be doing? I’ve got to make something of myself. I don’t want to be your whore. I’m more than that.” “Of course you are!” She reached out and caught his arms, squeezing lovingly. “You would never be that. You’re too strong. Don’t you realize how much power you have over me? I was dying and you brought me back to life!” He gripped her arms in return, giving her a gentle shake. “Then what’s going to happen to us? This new duke, when the hell is he coming?” She bit her lower lip and looked off in the distance, as if she might see him riding toward the house at this very moment. “Soon.” He closed his arms around her and burrowed his cheek in her hair. She smelled of carnations, clean and sweet. “Ah, Livie, then it’s all over.” She tightened her arms around his waist. “No, it won’t be. We’ll find a way.” A way to do what? he thought morosely. He pressed her head to his chest and gently stroked her cheek. “My painting is almost done. The garden design is nearly finished. I’ll have no more excuses to stay. Where do we go from here, Livie?” “On a picnic.” He stepped back, squinting at her. “Are you jesting?” “No.” She withdrew from his embrace and retrieved her parasol from the ground. She opened it and shielded her eyes from the sun. She looked very thoughtful, and distant. His chest seized up with a moment of panic. He had meant everything he said, but none of it mattered if in voicing his objections he had cut the silk cord that bound them together.

“I understand your concerns,” she said. She flashed him a half-smile. “Of course you have your own journey. Will, I want you to be everything you can be, for your own sake.” She raised a hand helplessly toward the canvas. “You’re brilliant. How could I possibly stand in the way of your destiny? I would never take that from you. But perhaps you have misunderstood my ... affection ... for you. I want you to know that you please me everywhere, not just in bed. Therefore, you simply must go with me on a picnic.” Her brashness sent a chill dancing down his back. He shook his head. “No, others will talk. You’ll be ruined.” “I don’t care,” she said, though the tremble in her voice indicated otherwise. “Life is short, Will. My husband’s death proved that. Prissy’s slow demise was simply a confirmation to me. Oh, I know you’re young enough to think yourself immortal.” She bit her lower lip, tilting her head as she regarded him quizzically. “How old are you?” “Five and twenty.” Young enough to be her son. She didn’t care. She raised her brows in a challenge. “Are you afraid of what others will think if you cavort with an old woman?” The heat that had filled his groin earlier returned. He pulled her close at the waist and gave her a hard, sensuous kiss. Their tongues danced deliciously. He drew back. “I don’t know any old women.” He let go and returned her challenging look. “And if I am worried, it is only for your sake, ma’am.” “Don’t you dare ma’am me again,” she shot back with an arched brow. “I want you to come with me on a picnic, Willoughby Barnes.” She began to walk toward Brandhurst Hall, glancing over her shoulder but once. “I expect to see you on Hawksdale Tor at one. Come if you dare.” Livie walked home on a cloud. The only thing that brought her back to earth was a shadow that fell on her path when she cut through an oak grove. For a moment she thought there was a man behind a tree, but it proved to be nothing. She couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding, though, and Antonio Maulderazzi came to mind. There were many times when her husband was alive that she had thought his valet was spying on her. But Quinton was dead. Antonio no longer had access to the Duke and Duchess’s private quarters. In fact, he no longer had any real purpose at Brandhurst Hall. Andrew would undoubtedly be bringing his own personal servants. She just might let Antonio go before the Duke arrived. She’d being doing him, and herself, a favor.

Chapter 9

She sat sideways on her saddle, erect in her tightly buttoned riding habit, with her skirt napping in the breeze. She doffed her black lady’s top hat and let the sun beam down on her cheeks. The wind gently caressed the coppery wisps and coils of hair pinned to the back of her head. She wanted to feel free, and

didn’t give a damn if her china complexion turned brown or freckled without her hat. With her horse perched as she was on top of the rocky tor, Olivia could see for miles. In the distance lay the beauty of wild heathered moors, and a bit closer lay patches of woodlands that eventually turned into a lush dale. Just below the tor, the earth spread out like a dazzling sea of wild green grass. It had been years since she’d ridden here. What a pity that it had been so long. The view was absolutely breathtaking. She laughed softly, amazed at her new appreciation of the world. She’d had no idea how fulfilling it would be simply to be aware of the richness inherent in everyday life. To let the sunshine warm her skin, to smell the hundred scents of nature on an untamable wind?these things were enough. Better even than what she’d had before. A curlew flew overhead, crying forlornly. Its bittersweet note was a lovely contrast to Livie’s own happiness. Only briefly did she allow herself to imagine the desolation she’d feel if Will decided not join her. Her mare shifted weight from one side to the other, and its shod hooves clattered on the rocky mount. “Steady, Bluebell,” Livie said reassuringly. She tightened her hand on the leather reins. “He’ll come. I know he will.” Soon she saw Will walking across the dale with long, confident strides. He bore a tall walking stick cut from a branch and a leather hat. He stopped, removed it, and raised a protective hand over his eyes, scanning the distance. Seeing her, he raised his hat and waved it in greeting. Livie burst into a smile and threw a wave in the air. “You see, Bluebell? I told you he would come.” It would take a while for him to ascend the tor on foot, so she put her top hat on and pulled on the reins, carefully turning her mare around, and descended the sloping escarpment of rock at a measured pace. When she reached the earthy plain, she nudged her boot into the horse’s belly and galloped the distance across the verdant field. When she reined in at his side, he put his hands on his waist and gave her a crooked half-smile. “Duchess, fancy meeting you here.” Laughter bubbled from her lips. “What a surprise, Will Barnes. I just happen to have a lovely basket of food. Enough to share with another. Will you join me?” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his tumbled blondish-brown locks, as if giving this notion great consideration. “Well, now that you mention it, I am hungry. But I can’t say yes until I know what you’re offering.” At his doubtful, squinting gaze, she grinned slyly. “A delicious meat pie, baked by the best cook outside of London. And I have fresh berries and an almond tart. Wine. Bread. So much I can’t remember it all.” “All in those little saddlebags?” She nodded, grinning now from ear to ear. “I’m a clever girl. Didn’t you know?” “I’m beginning to understand completely. Very well. Where shall we go?”

“Have you been to Tillor Abbey?” Tillor Abbey. The words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t answer for a moment. There was a hitch in his chest, as if she were some sort of fairy-tale heroine who had pricked his heart with a thimble. Tillor Abbey was the first landscape he had ever painted. The enchanting, slightly eerie setting was what had first inspired him to take up the brush. Little did he know at the time that his paintings of fairies and medieval knights mirrored the iconoclastic efforts of a now infamous group of painters called the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. He often wondered if he would ever have taken up painting were it not for the inspiration and mystery of Tillor Abbey, for he was entirely self-taught. How incredibly perfect that Livie should want to picnic there. He shadowed his eyes again and stared up at her. She was such a fine woman? beautiful, dignified, tender. Had she somehow guessed what meaning this journey would hold for him? “Tillor Abbey would be delightful,” he answered, then added teasingly, “It’s haunted, you know.” She didn’t seem surprised or dismayed. She simply nudged her mare forward to a large rock that jutted up out of the landscape. “Climb up and you can ride pillion.” She held out a graceful arm. He grabbed it and steadied himself as he straddled the horse and hopped onto the quilted pad of material behind the saddle. He gripped her narrow waist, noticing she wore no corset. Easy access, he thought as he dipped down and kissed the hollow at the bottom of her neck. “Have you ever made love on a horse?” he murmured against her eggshell skin. “No! And I don’t intend to try. Hold on, Will. I want to feel the wind.” With that she kicked her horse and the mare leaped into a canter. Soon they were breezing over the dale like wild riders, ancient Britons riding their first horse. Will felt like Arthur fighting off the Saxons. Or was he Lancelot riding off with the king’s wife? He’d always imagined Guinevere looking like Olivia Brandhurst?lithe, with reddish blond hair, wise and knowing, yet still innocent, needing to know more, something that only the younger Lancelot could teach her. Will had taught Livie much already. And she had taught him a few things as well?patience for one. “I should like to visit Avalon someday!” he shouted above thudding hooves. She turned her head to hear better and reined in the horse. It slowed to a trot, and finally to a fast walk. She turned her head again and pressed his mouth with a kiss. His lips were eager and firm. She pulled away smiling, loving the intimacy that always pulled her to him. “Did you know that in King Arthur’s day, Avalon was called the Isle of Apples?” he asked. “Where do you suppose Avalon was located?” “Glastonbury Tor,” he replied. “The tor used to be surrounded by marshy waters. They say King Arthur is buried there and is simply waiting to rise up and lead a new generation of knights to the Round Table.” Olivia flashed him an approving look. “I wish he would. Then we could live in a perfect world. I’ve always wanted to see Glastonbury as well. Perhaps we can visit there soon. Say yes! Don’t deny me

anything today, Will.” “I’d like that very much,” he said. As she picked up pace, he envisioned them climbing to the top of the tor, hand in hand, and refused to think any more about the obstacles they faced. King Arthur had created a kingdom out of nothing. He was bastard born. But a greater destiny had awaited him. Who was to say what life Will was destined to lead? When they rounded a hillside, they found the mist enshrouded remains of Tillor Abbey at the bottom of a small hill, surrounded by worn grassy embankments. A dozen crumbling gray stone walls rose to various crooked heights, as if a ceiling were still there to meet them, as if the nave were still protected from rain and wind, as if monks still chanted in the chapter house, as if it hadn’t all fallen to ruin after the Reformation, when Henry VIII founded his own religion and ransacked the holy sites belonging to the pope. Seeing the decay, the green moss covering worn gray stones, and the fog that clung to the sacred remains even on a clear day like this, Will shivered. “Perhaps we should have gone someplace more cheery,” he said as she reined in the mare at the edge of the embankment that overlooked the abbey ruins. “Nonsense,” Olivia declared. “If we walk to the raised area where the stables were once located, we’ll be above the mists and still protected from the wind.” She pointed to the square, grass-covered plot that loomed above the church site itself. Once a wooden stable had housed the monks’ horses there, but nary a trace of that structure remained. They dismounted, hobbled the horse, detached the saddlebags, and walked down the embankment. They strolled quietly through the mists that hugged their knees, holding hands as Will imagined they might one day at Arthur’s burial place. Her gloved hand fit snugly in his. Just being in her presence was fulfilling. He had never felt so complete. He looked at her profile as a frown formed on his brow. The only other time he’d ever felt this content was when he was painting. No, this felt even better. The air was moist with fog. Letting it fill his lungs, Will felt the usual spiritual tug of this place. It was almost as if he would be literally transported back to the Middle Ages if he shut his eyes long enough. Livie took the lead up to the stable grounds, and Will followed a few paces behind, balancing the bags on one shoulder. When they reached the square grassy plateau, he threw down a blanket tucked in one of the bags, and then watched in amazement as she pulled the delectables from the other. There was a small flagon of excellent wine, a napkin filled with two beef pies, French cheese, blackberries, bread, and a delicious almond tart. After they’d feasted on all but the berries, they leaned back on their elbows, relaxed from the wine. “Tell me about your models,” she said. He twisted his lips as he contemplated the prospect. “That could be dangerous.” She laughed. “Why?”

“They’re an unsavory lot.” “I won’t judge you, or them.” “Like bloody hell.” She threw her head back and laughed again. “You know I’m beginning to think I like profanities.” “The Queen would be appalled.” “Yes, she would. Now look here, you can’t divert me this way. Tell me about the women you’ve painted. I suppose they all were your lovers and all younger than I.” He twisted on his side, propped his head in his hand, elbow on the ground and grinned mischievously. “Very well, I’ll confess everything, but you have to pay me first.” “Oh?” She arched a brow. “Feed me those berries.” She sat up and reached for the container of black, shiny fruit. She then leaned over and placed one on his lips. “Open wide,” she murmured. His tongue slipped out and sensuously took it from her fingers. He stared at her suggestively while he chewed. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. You’re going to try to seduce me just so you don’t have to tell me about your paramours.” “No, I’ll tell you. Most of my models weren’t lovers, though I paid them for tupping.” “What!” He winked. “Give me another berry.” “You drive a hard bargain. Here, no more nibbling on my fingers.” She threw the berry at his mouth, but it bounced off his chin into the grass. She broke into cascades of laughter. “Very funny, Duchess.” He made a great show of dusting the berry off and placing it in his mouth. “If you’re such an oaf when you eat,” she said through gasps of laughter, “no wonder you had to pay for carnal pleasures.” “But I didn’t! That’s just it. I hired streetwalkers to sit for me. After I was done painting, I sent them on their merry way. They all thought I was a bugger, I’m sure, but I didn’t care.” She controlled her laughter long enough to kiss the berry juice from his lips. “I doubt very much anyone would mistake you for that.” She sat cross-legged, feeling as free as she ever had. “If I had known just one person with your individuality when I was a child, my life might have turned out very different.” “Tell me about your childhood, sweetheart.”

She smiled down at him, touched by the endearment. “Only if you pay me, one berry at a time.” He gave her a mock simmering glare and begrudgingly placed a berry between her teeth. She chewed with satisfaction, then licked her lips as her thoughts sobered. “I was an only child,” she began as her mind drifted to her innocent youth. “Like most children of the nobility, I saw little of my parents. I lived in the nursery with my nanny, and later my governess. I only saw my parents for an hour after dinner, and then I was all trussed up in my fanciest clothes and I had to be on my best behavior.” “It sounds dreadful,” Will said, quick to sympathize. He gave her another berry, which she took in her hands, then popped it thoughtfully in her mouth. “It was all I had ever known. It never occurred to me that life might be lived any other way. I suppose your mother bounced you on your knee and let you sleep with her at night when you had bad dreams.” “Yes. Of course, with six children it was a bit crowded.” “I never felt crowded in our castle. My father was an earl. He was always worried about how to upkeep the estate. I think it sent him to an early grave. He was a bit melancholic. My mother was a loving, obedient wife. They always told me that one day I, too, would be dutiful wife. That time came so quickly. I was only eighteen.” “Lord,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Of course, I could have refused the match.” “It wasn’t your idea?” “Oh, no! But I fell in love with the great and distinguished duke my father presented to me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was all wrong. I knew I should wait. I knew nothing about life outside my father’s castle and wanted to explore the world. But I trusted my parents’ judgment.” “So that was the end of it?” She leaned back on one elbow and nuzzled his cheek for comfort. “Yes. Somehow I thought they would always be there for me. I didn’t know that when a woman marries, her husband nearly possesses her. After that, I only saw my parents at Christmas. It was so sad. For I really loved them.” She sank back and put her head to the ground, and Will followed suit. They locked hands and stared at the clouds and mist flying overhead. The rays of sun beat down on him and made him groggy. “I wish I’d met you long ago,” she said dreamily as she leaned over his chest and ran her fingers through his hair, “before I met my husband.” Will tried to smother a smile. She wondered at it, then narrowed her eyes with a mocking threat. “Don’t you dare say it. I know what you’re thinking. You were just a baby then.” She playfully punched him on the chest, then tickled him until he burst with laughter. “It wouldn’t matter in any event, for I’m not above stealing from the cradle.”

“I believe you!” he gasped between laughter. “Now have mercy and stop tickling me.” She obliged, as their gazes locked with unspoken words. She kissed him tenderly, then leaned down on one elbow and let her forefinger trail over his chestnut eyebrows. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” “What?” She breathed deep the love between them. “Our differences.” “They don’t matter,” he said lightly. “But yesterday you said?” “I lied. It was fear talking. When I’m with you, there is no fear.” “Only when we’re apart.” He nodded. “Will, is it possible ... I mean, how do you suppose you would feel about me twenty years from now?” He blinked soberly and reached up to cup her cheek. “I know how I’d feel. Exactly the same as I do now.” She smiled doubtfully. “That’s your youthful idealism speaking.” “No, I’m the cynic, remember?” He propped himself on an elbow so they were face to face. “What I see in you has nothing to do with my eyes. You’ve touched a place in me I didn’t even know I had. You’ve satisfied a need I never even recognized before.” When she looked to the ground, frowning, he lifted her chin and gave her a feather-soft kiss. Whispering, he said, “Listen to me. I have my art. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I don’t have room for love. But I have room for you. I don’t want a wife. But I want you. My art. And Livie. That’s it. If I can’t have you, and Lord knows I don’t see how I can, then I don’t want anyone.” “You don’t mean that.” He smiled jadedly. “Just try me. I’m a selfish bastard, Livie. That’s why you’re such a miracle. You made me a person I was sure I could never be. I don’t need any woman. I need you. That will never change.” She rushed at him, fusing her lips to his, he sank down and pulled her into his masculine embrace. They joined like ancient stone and mortar. Not even the rains of time would wash the memory of them away when all was said and done. He consumed her with his mouth, and before he knew it, he was inside her. He felt the usual ecstasy, but it paled compared to the poignant feelings that flowed continuously between their hearts. Their lovemaking was a language, speaking the words they dared not say?I love you. Forever. Come what may.

They dozed in the sun, side by side, holding hands, happier than they had ever been, apart or together. Will thought the earth had not only moved, but disintegrated. Then a raindrop plopped on his forehead, and he winced his way back to reality. A few more drops confirmed it. “It’s raining,” he muttered. “Where did the sun go?” “I think it was put to shame by the heat we produced,” she said, turning her smiling, sleepy gaze his way, “and it slunk away in humiliation.” Suddenly the sky seemed to open. A sheet of rain fell, soaking every bit of exposed clothing in an instant. Livie whooped with surprise, then laughed. She struggled to her feet. “Come along, hurry!” Will said, trying to shield her, though it was hopeless. He grabbed up the blanket and just as they were about to make a mad dash, an enormous crack of lightning splintered the sky and pounded into the earth not far from them. The horse whinnied. A powerful wind whipped around them. Will turned to grab Livie’s hand, but she was clutching her throat. She stared at something he couldn’t see, blinking against the slashing rain as if she’d seen a ghost. Whatever it was, it had stricken her with horror. “It’s just a storm, Livie. We’ll be fine. But we need to seek shelter.” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. “Livie!” he shouted, then yanked one of her hands from her throat. “Come along!” He half dragged her behind him, holding her up as they skidded sideways down the small embankment. There was only one corner of the ruins that offered any shelter. A place where a small tree had tipped over, roots and all. Dead branches propped against the corner stones of the ancient church that stood six feet high at their jagged peak. “Crawl under here.” Another ear-shattering bolt of lightning coursed down. Livie jolted upright and froze. “Go, Livie!” Exasperated, Will crawled into the haven first and tugged her in. “You’re safe now. That’s it. Sit over here in the corner.” He pulled her into his arms. “You’re trembling. What is it? Are you frightened of storms?” Livie sucked in a quivering breath. When she exhaled, it came out as a sob. “Shhh,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Easy.” She hugged him tight, loving the feel of him, the security and strength, and most of all the unconditional love. “Oh, Will, I can’t stop thinking about him.” “Who?” He kissed her again. “My husband,” she sobbed. “I’ve been dreaming about it. The night he died. It stormed just like this.”

He reached down and lifted her face. He kissed her eyes and absorbed her tears. “That’s past.” “No, it’s not.” She shook her head and looked up with such regret his heart pitched. “Ever since you came back to me, I’ve been remembering that night. I feel so guilty.” She clung to him and half strangled herself in her effort to feel his heat. “I should have known that I could not share part of myself without revealing the rest.” “Livie, whatever it is, whatever you have done, I cannot condemn you.” She drew back, searching his face. She let out a shaky gasp. She could trust him. She could tell this man anything. “Will,” she said in a small voice, “my husband was murdered.” He blinked, but otherwise remained entirely silent?waiting for her to continue. “He was murdered and I told no one.” She pressed her forehead to his, taking strength from him. He massaged her arms. She knew he would require no more information of her, but she wanted him to know. “My husband was murdered by his lover. I saw the dagger. I knew it had not been an accident, but I let the authorities believe it was. I should have told the truth.” “Why didn’t you?” She pulled her head back and let out a deep sigh. “Because I thought my husband deserved what he received in the end.” Another crash of lightning lit the darkened afternoon sky. She jumped, but then settled easily by his side. They sat with their backs to the ancient stones. She entwined her fingers with his. The rain drummed against the earth in a lulling beat. They watched the gray descent through the black silhouette of branches overhead. Water drops pinged against their scalps now and then. “They’ll be sending out the dogs to search for me soon,” she remarked dispassionately. The storm would raise concern over her absence. Already it was too late to escape notice. In all likelihood, she had unwittingly exposed their rendezvous. She had to tell him now, while their privacy was still theirs. “Will, you once asked me how it was that I had been married for nearly a quarter of a century and still was so ... so naive. Let me ask you, what have you heard about Quinton Thorpe?” “That he was a hard bloke. Bits and pieces of stories floated into town. My father said that one time he rode a thoroughbred so hard in a foxhunt that the animal went lame. He was so furious over losing the prize that he kicked the felled horse in the head over and over with his boots, cursing at it, until the other members of the party came along and someone shot the poor beast and put it out of its misery. Blood was everywhere.” “Yes, I remember that. I felt like that horse after a few years of marriage.” “Did he??” “No, at least not as much in the beginning. Only this last year did he become violent. I think he’d finally

realized what it meant to die without issue, and he resented me so. In the early days he only abused me with words.” “You say you were in love with him? Seems impossible.” “As I said, I was young. So naive. He was older and dashing. And handsome. So masculine. He was a man’s man, and that made him so attractive to women. I felt that I was special because he had chosen me. He was very charming up until our wedding night. Then he got very drunk.” “Was he a sot?” She shook her head. “He simply had to drink to numb his senses before coming to my bed. He hated me. He called me names ... words I’d never heard before. When I later learned what they meant, I was even more humiliated.” She paused and looked out at the rain. He squeezed her hand. “You know, Livie, you don’t have to talk about this.” “Yes, I do. I’ll never be free of him if I don’t. Before the wedding, I was told by my mother that I would be allowed to... to undress first and slip quietly under the covers. I should shut my eyes and think of England. Mind you, I didn’t expect any sort of pleasure. I even anticipated some pain, but not... not what followed.” She let out a shaky breath. “He told me to stand in the middle of the room. He turned up the lamps and sat in a chair. He crossed his arms and legs and ordered me to undress.” “What a bastard.” “I was absolutely terrified, and humiliated. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew that he was not behaving as any decent sort of husband would. I could see the loathing in his eyes, and in a shattering moment of realization I knew that he had married me for my dowry, and because he needed an heir. Though he held a great title and vast amounts of land, it was all entailed and he had gambling debts to pay. He was in love with someone else, but was stuck with me because he needed money.” “That is not an uncommon reason to marry among members of your class.” “No, but I had made the mistake of believing he loved me. The night of my wedding, when I took off my clothes and stood there shivering in the middle of the room, he began to laugh, viciously. He walked around me as if he were an estate steward who had just realized he’d paid a thoroughbred’s price for a mangy, bow-backed nag. The more he laughed, the more bitter he became, and the more he drank.” “You poor girl.” “Brandhurst then ordered me to lay down. But he couldn’t... he couldn’t perform his duty without... pain. And I couldn’t hurt him. I just couldn’t.” “Oh, Livie.” “It took a great deal for him to admit what he wanted, and then when I couldn’t provide it, he felt disappointed and humiliated. That’s why he hated me so very much. I... I might have accommodated him

if I’d had any idea that such a predilection existed. Where, I wondered in horror, had he found someone to do this?” “There are brothels that specialize in this sort of thing,” Will said. “He managed to complete the act, at least once a month for a year. He so desperately wanted an heir that he managed to overcome my failings. But it didn’t work. After a year of torture for both of us, he gave up and declared me barren.” “Thank God.” She looked up bitterly. “No, I couldn’t thank Him for what came next.” At her hollow rasp Will searched his mind for worse scenarios. “What do you mean?” “Quinton was so furious with me for failing to conceive that he said he was going to punish me. He locked me up in the attic and told the staff I had gone to visit my mother. That was in October. He didn’t let me out until December, when he knew my parents would be arriving for their annual visit.” “You were locked up for two months!” “Nearly. I would have starved, I’m quite sure of it, except a... a friend came to me when Quinton was gone, fed me, and read to me.” “Thank heaven! Who was it?” Livie shook her head, and he felt the door that had opened close an inch. “I can’t say.” He nodded, accepting this. “I’m so sorry for what he did to you,” he said hoarsely and kissed her temple. “I think the servants caught on, but no one dared confront Quinton. I believe he wanted to kill me so he could marry again and try to have a son. When my husband released me, I threatened to expose his cruelty. He said he would have me locked up in an insane asylum if I did. I would have considered that a better alternative, but then he told me he would kill my mother, too. He would have his valet, Antonio, do it and make it look like a Yuletide mishap. Antonio had murdered before, so I knew he was not bluffing.” “My God, he was a madman.” She looked at him steadily. “I believe he was. Though he never showed that side to the world. If he was mad, he carefully contained it. I never expected to live this long. I thought he would try to murder me again, but he didn’t. Not until last year. So now you understand why you’ve given me the greatest gift in the world. And you know why I am willing to risk everything for a picnic with you.”

Chapter 10

The picnic had not lasted long enough, Livie concluded later that day as she huddled in her personal drawing room near the blazing fireplace. The burning coals glowed red in the ornate wrought-iron fire grate. Livie stared at them morosely with her legs stretched out beneath a blanket on her favorite chaise lounge. She wore a flannel dressing-gown and a mobcap. The storm had brought with it unseasonably cold weather, and she was grateful for the warmth and comfort of her clothing. She sipped tea with Clara. It was hot and sweet and warmed her throat. The sky outside was an eerie greenish-gray, and rain fell with a steady drumming noise. The downpour was relentless. It had never let up from the first moment it broke. Will had walked the horse the last leg of their journey home, guiding the skittish Bluebell through the rainfall. When they reached the estate, he gave Livie the reins, so she could arrive alone at the stables. He kissed her hard, drinking the rain from her lips, then turned and disappeared in the silver rain. As soon as she’d entered the Hall, her servants had pounced on her like worried nannies. Hammond clapped his hands and servants scurried into place. He took her drenched cloak, the butler brought her a hot toddy, the footmen started a fire in her drawing room, the housemaids boiled water for a bath, the housekeeper sent in fresh towels, and everyone generally scurried around in prime form, a tinge of disapproval mingling with their concern. Or so Livie imagined. She could tell by the pale and drawn faces of her personal maid and Mrs. Jarvis that they’d all assumed she’d fallen over a cliff. While she appreciated their concern, Livie found their negative assumptions irritating. But it wasn’t until Livie learned that a search party had gone out after her and was still looking for her, headed by Neville, that she realized what a scandal she had created. “I really don’t understand why everyone has to make such a fuss,” she complained to Clara as she scowled at the fire. “As I explained to anyone who would listen, the storm came up suddenly and I had to seek shelter. I’m perfectly capable of finding an appropriate place to wait out a storm.” Clara poured more tea, adding the sugar and milk just the way Livie liked it. Livie reached forward and cradled her cup in her hands, savoring the warmth. “Everyone is acting as if I had been in terrible danger. It isn’t as if I’ve never ridden a horse before.” “No, ma’am,” Clara said evenly, the concern on her own face finally fading, “but you apparently aren’t in the habit of riding out alone, and not in a fierce rainstorm. It was unusual for you, and that worried everyone.” Livie sat up straighten “Who told you that I don’t ride alone?” “Everyone,” Clara replied with an ironic smile. She held her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other. “Mr. Thorpe mentioned it. So did Mr. Leach. And Mrs. Jarvis, Mr. Hammond, your maid, even the chimney sweep from town was muttering worriedly about it as he left the house. He said he would pray for you.” Livie took in a long breath and let it out slowly. Oh, God. She had garnered the notice of the entire household in a way she had avoided during her husband’s lifetime. She didn’t like being the center of attention. But that was the price she would pay for assuming her own identity and making choices. She suddenly thought of Andrew. It would be terrible of her to stir controversy just before his arrival. “Oh, dear. I see now what a commotion I’ve caused.”

“Unfortunately,” Clara said and took a delicate sip, “I doubt you’ve seen the worst of it.”

Neville and his search party came to a galloping stop in the courtyard. “Has she returned?” he shouted to the head groom, who ran from the barn to take his reins. Cold rain pounded the cobblestones, and it was hard to hear. “What, sir?” “The Duchess!” Neville shouted as he swung his leg over his saddle and jumped to the watery ground with a splash. “Has she returned?” “Oh, aye, sir! She’s safe and sounds in ‘er private quarters. She returned not an ’our ago wit‘ nary a scratch.” Neville fisted his hands and ignored the water that poured over his beakish nose like a fountain. “Was she alone?” He bit the words out. “Aye, sir. A brave one, she is, stayin‘ out so long all by ’er lonesome.” “Brave, yes,” Neville said sarcastically. Alone, no. Without another word, he turned and stomped toward the castle. Every man had a limit, and he had reached his. She had finally pushed him too far. “Pssst! Mr. Thorpe!” Neville stopped before he reached the walk, bordered with box hedges, that paralleled the side of the house. He turned and found Antonio standing in his meticulous attire beneath an umbrella. Neville simmered over the vision of dry composure, but an umbrella would do him no good at this point. “What is it?” he snarled at the valet. “Did you talk to Her Grace about keeping my position when the Duke arrives?” Neville let out a soundless laugh, then shook his head with incredulity. “I cannot believe you would ask me about such business at a time like this! I have a great deal on my mind, Antonio, and the security of your position is not one of them, I assure you.” “But you said you would, if I helped you. Now is the time to ask her! You have something to hold over her.” Neville looked more carefully at this strange little man. “What on earth do I have to hold over the Duchess?” “She was with the gardener, wasn’t she?” The valet’s dark eyes showed no emotion as he made this outrageous accusation, and one that happened to be true. Neville had only just confirmed this dreadful news himself.

“How in the bloody hell did you know?” Neville rasped, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The valet raised one caterpillar thick black brow, and his brown lips curled smugly. “Antonio has his ways.” “And he has opinions about everything. What’s your point?” “Use this mistake, sir, to your own ends. She is humiliated. Get what you want from her while you can. Force her to declare her allegiance to you, and force her to assure me, in writing, that I will continue as the ducal valet. If she agrees, her reputation remains intact. If not, the world will know she’s a whore!” It was too much for Neville. He briefly tapped a fist to his aching forehead. Then he hissed at Antonio, “Have you found the Duke’s papers yet?” Antonio looked down. “No, sir. I cannot find them.” “You’re worthless,” he muttered, then jabbed the valet’s dry waistcoat with his dripping forefinger. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine.” “Right now, sir, your job is blackmail.” Neville stared down his aristocratic nose and frowned. “You are an evil man, Antonio.” The Italian smiled. “So are you, sir. You just won’t know the extent of your own wickedness until you absolutely have to. But that time is coming soon. Very soon.” With that ominous warning, Antonio turned and walked leisurely back to the servants’ entrance.

If Livie had any doubts about the extent of her faux pas, they were put to rest when the door flew open and Neville stalked in, looking like something the cat had dragged in. His black hair was stringy with water and plastered to his forehead, his coat was obviously soaked through, and his boots squished with each step. He’d returned from his search and hadn’t even taken a moment to change before coming to see her, obviously wanting her to witness his suffering on her behalf. Normally, appearing in the Duchess’s drawing room in riding clothes would be an affront to Her Grace. But under the circumstances, righteous indignation gave him the upper hand. He came to a stand in the middle of the room, gave Clara a dismissive glance, then glared at his aunt. “Thank God you have returned safely.” She smiled. “Neville, dear, how kind of you to be concerned. Would you like some tea?” “Concerned!” he nearly shouted. He was trembling with cold or fury, or both. “Concerned is much too mild a description, Your Grace.” “You needn’t have worried, my dear, I would never put myself in danger.” “Needn’t I?” he asked with exaggerated disbelief. “You run off with the gardener,” he said despairingly,

“with one horse between you in a torrential downpour and you expect me not to worry?” Livie placed her teacup carefully in its saucer without so much as a clink. “Who told you I was with Mr. Barnes?” Neville nodded his head, smiling with dark triumph. “I see you don’t deny it.” Livie stood abruptly, casting aside her blanket. “I don’t need to deny anything to you, sirrah.” “For your information, madam, a shepherd tending his flock saw you at Hawksdale Tor. Did you think it was possible to do anything without attracting notice? Every Duchess is famous, whether she deserves to be or not. And if you are not careful, you will soon be infamous.” “I take extreme exception to that, Neville,” Livie said in a shaking voice. “Perhaps I should go,” Clara said, rising abruptly and dabbing her kerchief to the corners of her mouth. “Don’t bother,” Neville said sarcastically as he began to pace. “You are practically family now, Miss Peabody, thanks to my aunt’s unfortunate lack of good judgment. I should think you very much enjoy her hospitality. It’s more comfortable here than at the Wilshire Arms, I daresay. And you have such a warm and cozy friendship with the Duchess.” Not even worldly-wise Clara had a retort ready in the face of such a vitriolic attack. “You’re teaching my aunt lessons I’m not sure she needs to learn. Was it your idea for this touching little rendezvous at Hawksdale Tor, Miss Peabody? Did you tell my aunt that it no longer mattered what people thought of her? Did you tell her she could throw away her reputation now that she was free from the distasteful shackles of matrimony?” Livie felt sick to her stomach, and she could well imagine how Clara felt. “That’s enough, Neville,” she managed to choke. “Leave Miss Peabody out of this.” “You didn’t think about me, did you, Auntie? Didn’t you think about how your actions will affect my future?” “I went for a ride!” Livie shot back. “There is no crime in that. I found Mr. Barnes walking in the dale, and we talked about the garden.” “That’s convenient, wouldn’t you say, Miss Peabody?” Neville said with an exaggerated smirk. “I have nothing to say to you at all, Mr. Thorpe,” Clara snapped. “I find your present behavior toward your aunt inappropriate and reprehensible, and I will not stand by and listen to another word. With your permission, Your Grace, I will take my leave.” Livie nodded. As she marched from the room, Clara heard Neville grumble, “Unnatural woman! Good riddance.” Clara was so angry that tears filled her eyes as she hurried down the hall with brisk strides. It was a sign of weakness that made her even more furious. She was so preoccupied that she didn’t see Todd Leach exiting from the library. She ran right into him.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he said with gentlemanly calm even as her boots stomped over his toes. She tried to pull her weight off of him, and merely ended up losing her balance. He grabbed her arms just in time to keep her from toppling over into a priceless jade screen. “Oh, dear! I should have looked?I’m sorry, Mr. Leach. Are you ... did I smash your toes utterly?” He let out a warm peal of laughter that somehow soothed her in an instant. Soon she was chuckling over their graceless collision as well. “I didn’t see you until it was too late. I had a great deal on my mind.” “That much was obvious,” he said, eyeing her engagingly. “Do tell me you are more graceful on the dance floor.” “I should hope so.” “So should I, and I mean to find out at the next opportunity.” She pictured herself dancing with him and a faint blush colored her cheeks, which had just a moment ago been white with fury. She blinked. “I say, Miss Peabody, are you well? You look a bit... undone.” “I am, though I’m not sure I can talk about it.” He looked down the hall in the direction from which she’d just come. “Did I see my cousin going into my aunt’s drawing room a moment ago?” Clara nodded tersely. “Yes, I just came from there.” “Ah, well that explains it. Neville always brings out the best in everyone around him, especially on a day like this when he’s gotten himself into a superior frenzy. Why don’t you step into the library for a drink? The bell will ring soon, but there is still time for a relaxing nip of sherry before you dress for dinner.” “I’m not sure?” “It will do you good. Come along, Miss Peabody. You need to learn to enjoy life.” She wasn’t sure about that. And she wasn’t sure about his intentions. While Todd Leach was infinitely more agreeable than his cousin, he was almost too charming. Clara had learned to distrust sophisticated men. But he seemed to genuinely care about his aunt, and that made Clara inclined to view him as an ally. “Very well,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Just one drink.”

The library was a peaceful, stately room that seemed to invite curiosity and intellectual pursuits, even if one were an utter dolt. There were maps hanging on the few walls that didn’t contain floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The decor was masculine, full of mahogany and leather furniture, and a dark red Persian carpet. After Todd splashed sweet sherry into two ruby cut-to-clear glasses, they settled in two low

empire-style easy chairs. The soothing liquor cleared Clara’s thoughts, but not her anger. “Now, now, Miss Peabody,” Todd said teasingly, eyeing her from beneath his fair eyebrows, “what is troubling you? I can see you are still distressed.” Clara inwardly debated the merits of honesty. She suspected she had little choice. If the Duchess had indeed been riding with Willoughby Barnes, Todd Leach would hear about it soon enough, and doubtless already had. And she was in no mood to dissemble about her feelings for Neville. “I was greatly distressed to hear how Mr. Thorpe addressed your aunt.” “Oh? What was the problem?” “He berated her for taking a ride. He treated her like a child.” “He thinks of her as a child, just as our uncle did. He thinks he’s protecting Aunt Livie from herself. He’s the sort of man who believes women simply don’t have an ounce of sense and are incapable of judging the difference between right and wrong. That sort of fellow is all too common, I fear.” That apparently meant Todd thought of women in different terms. “I’m glad you think so. I had hoped you would understand.” “I understand, but I may not be able to help. What is it you want me to do?” “Stop Mr. Thorpe from speaking to her in such a manner. I’ve been trying to prove to Her Grace the benefits of doing something important with her life, and he’s trying undo everything I’ve ... we’ve ... accomplished.” Todd gave her a warm, teasing smile. “Ah, so you’ve taken on my aunt as a little project. Your intentions are very noble, but perhaps not entirely practical.” Clara swallowed and frowned. “What do you mean?” Todd shrugged noncommittally. “Aunt Olivia has lived a very sheltered life. More than most women in her position. I think it entirely possible that she may misjudge your notions of do-gooding for a sort of wild abandon that applies to other areas as well.” Clara’s stomach grew queasy. “Do you think it was a mistake to visit Miss O’Rourke and let the Duchess see her terrible condition?” Todd sipped thoughtfully and licked his generous lower lip. “Not necessarily. It is not her association with Miss O’Rourke that concerns me.” When he fell silent, Clara was forced to fill in the blanks. He was worried about Willoughby Barnes. Truth to tell, so was Clara, though she’d never admit it. What on earth was the Duchess of Brandhurst doing with him all alone at Tillor Abbey? She had to admit even she had judged the Duchess harshly for her ill-advised picnic. But why did it bother Clara so much? If the Duchess wanted to meet Mr. Barnes alone, that was her decision. “Like it or not, Miss Peabody,” Todd said gently, “one in my aunt’s position has to keep a certain decorum or her reputation will be sullied beyond repair.”

“I don’t think very much of reputations,” Clara tartly replied. “They are fragile things that do more harm than good.” “You would give the matter a great deal of thought if you were a Duchess. And I suspect one who is so bent on rectifying the wrongs of Society has herself been wronged. Am I right?” She said nothing. A hallow chasm opened inside her heart. She could not let him see inside it. She would not admit to the pain she still felt over her own near miss with disaster. “I don’t think my aunt is prepared to deal with the consequences of her behavior,” Todd continued, gracefully changing the subject. “Soon she will be on her own. She is no hoyden inured to the opinions of others, so she will need her good reputation to buffer herself against the world. I’m sorry if I seem as judgmental as my cousin, but I understand the way Society operates. I’ve seen more than my share of defamation suits in court.” Clara smiled wanly. “Unlike your cousin, at least you care for your aunt’s well-being. I have the distinct impression that Mr. Thorpe only cares about how her behavior reflects upon him.” “Naturally, and with good reason. He does not have a title or an acceptable occupation to fall back upon. A man like Neville must live and die by reputation. I, at least, have the law. Neville is merely a sycophant.” “How despicable.” Todd sighed. “Yes, but we are all guilty of that to a certain extent.” “Sycophancy? Not I, surely!” “No?” He raised a brow in gentle query. “Did you not come here to ask my aunt to back your causes and fight for legislation to help the factory girls? And now I am given to understand the Duchess is inquiring about the Contagious Diseases Act.” Clara felt a stab of guilt. “Yes, but I did not try to manipulate her or bully her into doing so. And I like to think that her efforts will have a beneficial effect on her disposition as her period of mourning comes to an end. She’s already beginning to feel as if she has a purpose in life.” “But have you thought about the effect the Duchess’s behavior will have on your noble cause? If her good reputation is ruined by a dalliance with a gardener, Miss Peabody, I can assure you she will be in no position to use her position as a virtuous woman and a social paragon to help your cause.” Clara looked up with a stunned expression. “I see you hadn’t thought of that. I’m glad. It confirms my admiration for you. And I admire you all the more for your forthright and fair dealings with Aunt Olivia. But be forewarned, my dear Miss Peabody, that should my aunt take your notions of women’s rights too seriously, or if she should misappropriate them and parlay them into a significant scandal, all your work here on behalf of the factory girls and the prostitutes will be ruined.” Clara nodded. She didn’t feel chastened. Todd’s manner was too kind for that. But he had given her a great deal to think about. She had met few men who had an understanding of human nature equal to a

woman’s. Todd Leach was one of the rare ones. “Thank you for the drink.” She set her glass down on an oval mahogany Chippendale table and turned to go. “I must dress for dinner.” “Miss Peabody,” he called out, pulling an object from his pocket. “Before you go, I want to lend you something.” He held out a beautiful shell pink and white oval cameo brooch. “This was my mother’s. It reminds me of you. You have the dignity of the women carved in cameos. I wondered if you would flatter me by wearing it while you’re here at Brandhurst Hall.” Her eyes widened at the sight of the gorgeous brooch. She reached out and gingerly took it in her hands. It was heavy, obviously worth a great deal of money, and oh, so lovely. Then she looked up, suddenly suspicious. Why was he offering this to her? What did he want in return? She saw only kindness in his face, and something more. Great regard. She flushed with unexpected pleasure. He smiled tentatively. “I assure you I will tell no one that it is mine.” If she were wise, she would turn him down. She would let him know in no uncertain terms that she would not flirt with him. But he wasn’t asking her to take it permanently. And while she’d been at Brandhurst Hall, she’d begun to appreciate the finer things in life. She sensed that her effectiveness in her future political causes would be enhanced by her knowledge of the well-to-do. And the cameo really was very lovely. “Very well.” She clutched it in her hand, smiling genuinely. “I will take pleasure in wearing so fine a piece of jewelry, though it will only be briefly.” She turned, giving him no more to hope for than he’d already stolen himself.

Chapter 11

Clara woke feeling tired after a sleepless night. She’d tossed and turned, thinking about what Todd Leach had said about her motives regarding the Duchess of Brandhurst. Clara would never intentionally do Olivia harm. And yet sometimes forcing one to wake after a lifetime of unconsciousness could in itself be painful and cause untold ramifications. Clara had always thought that as long as one was the better for it, the pain of living fully conscious was worthwhile. But could she make that choice for the Duchess? She pondered that question while she dressed in a simple light blue gown and pinned her brown hair up into a tight chignon. She might be pretty if she smiled more, she thought, looking at her simple, cameo-like profile. Mr. Leach was right. She was elegant. Little did he know that her dignity was really a learned facade she’d acquired to protect her from intimacy. As she pinned the cameo brooch to the high collar of her blouse, she nearly stabbed herself when a sudden realization took her breath away. She was jealous of Olivia Brandhurst. That’s why Clara had been so quick to judge her indiscretions.

There was much to envy. While the Duchess had inbred dignity befitting her station, she also possessed a free spirit yearning to soar in a way that someone of Clara’s meager stature dared not even dream of doing. Clara coveted Her Grace’s natural carelessness, her innocent trust, and her willingness to risk everything for love. Good Lord, Olivia couldn’t be in love. Clara was surely making much ado about nothing. She quickly collected her parasol and proceeded on her mission. She needed to ask Mr. Barnes for a recommendation on potential servants. And she desperately needed to assess for herself just how far his relationship with the Duchess had gone.

After walking around the estate by herself, Clara discreetly diverted off the usual path to make her way to the Duchess’s Garden. Unfortunately, Will Barnes was not there. She looked at the sundial and realized it was already well past noon. He might be eating a cold plate in his cottage. She’d learned from the housemaids that he dined alone. She would have to approach him in the privacy of his cottage. It was a fifteen-minute walk from the garden to the stone lodging, and Clara rehearsed her impending conversation all the way. Though prepared, she was nevertheless startled into speechlessness when she reached out to knock on Will’s door and it swung open with a whoosh. “Oh!” he said, blinking, dumbfounded. He teetered a moment on his toes, as if he had been prepared to tackle her and thought better of it at the last moment. He gripped the door frame for purchase, then sank back on his heels with an audible hiss of frustration. Clearly, she wasn’t the one whom he’d hoped to see. It didn’t take much deduction on her part to imagine who was. “Hello, Miss Peabody.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Have you come to wring my neck?” “No, Mr. Barnes. I want to talk about the factory girls.” His eyes darted back and forth between hers, as if searching for a grain of truth in what she said. Then he nodded and stepped back. “Come in, please. I was eating.” She stepped into the cozy dwelling and looked askance at his meager fare. On his table lay half-eaten moldy bread and old cheese. “Why don’t you dine in the servants’ hall?” she suggested. “The food is delicious, I hear. Nearly as good as what is served above stairs.” He pulled out a chair for her at the table, then went around and spun the opposite chair around, straddling it and cradling the back. “I stopped going there a few days after I arrived, if you really want to know.” “Why?” He shrugged. “I’ve never fancied the feel of knives in my back.”

She blinked with understanding. “Servants are always the first to pick up on a mistress or master’s favoritism.” He looked at her penetratingly. “What are they saying now, Miss Peabody?” “I can only imagine. The worst, I gather. Upstairs is in an uproar as well. Mr. Thorpe is in a fury over your picnic.” “To hell with him,” Will growled quietly. “He’s an idiot. How is Livie?” Hearing him call the Duchess by such a casual and intimate nickname shocked her, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. Her flesh turned cold with dread. It was worse than she thought. Good Lord, were they having an affair? Clara couldn’t believe that the Duchess would be so indiscreet. “She’s ... I should imagine she is distressed with the assumptions being made.” His handsome, tanned face, his fallen locks of blond and brown hair, his furrowed brows, his youthful anger, all combined to make him unspeakably attractive. Clara could well imagine the draw. “Mr. Barnes, do you know what is at stake for Her Grace?” He scratched his forehead with a thumb. “Yes, of course I do. The picnic wasn’t my idea.” “Perhaps not. But any thinking gentleman would put the Duchess’s welfare above his own interests, even if she weren’t clear on precisely what was or wasn’t in her own best interests.” He leaned forward, frowning fiercely. “Are you implying I’m taking advantage of her?” Todd Leach’s comments came to mind. Weren’t they all taking advantage of her? “I would not presume to cast judgment,” Clara said primly. “I am only concerned about the Duchess.” “As am I.” He frowned with bewilderment and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, what is it you want? I won’t talk about the Duchess anymore. It’s not right.” “Very well, I’ll get to the point. The Duchess wants to hire a factory girl and place her in service here at Brandhurst Hall. Since I am new to the area, I don’t have any proper candidates in mind. We thought you might be able to suggest someone appropriate.” He blinked in surprise. “You want me to suggest a name to you?” “Precisely. Perhaps a young woman who has grown weary of the work and wants to better herself. She’ll have to accept the notion that her wages in domestic service will be less than she’s used to. But the job will at least be respectable and much better for her health. She might even find herself with a marriage proposal from a respectable young man sometime down the road. Do you know of anyone who might fit that description?” “Yes,” Will said with a wry half-grin. “I believe I do. Her name is Maggie Tulliver. She worked at the linen factory until recently. She was let go and is desperate for work. She has been trying to get on at the match factory, against my advice.”

“She wasn’t let go because of negligence on her part, I hope?” “No, it wasn’t her fault. She deserves a break, I’ll avow.” “Good. Send her to me at once, if you would be so kind. This is precisely the sort of prevention the Duchess talked about.” She stood and collected her parasol. “Do be careful with Her Grace, Mr. Barnes. She is very vulnerable right now. She is still in mourning.” He looked up sullenly from beneath velvet lashes. “Do you think she ever mourned a moment for that cruel Duke of hers?” Clara was momentarily speechless. The Duchess had clearly given him full access to her heart. “I wouldn’t know. Nor, I should imagine, would you. I want the Duchess to realize her potential, not destroy her reputation.” “That wouldn’t be convenient for you, would it?” She bristled, but she was ready for that argument this time. “I only have her best interests in mind, no matter what you might think. But the Duchess is not strong enough to withstand the disapproval of others.” He let out a spontaneous, almost boyish laugh, then bit his lip when he realized he’d insulted Clara. She tipped up her chin. “What is so amusing?” “You really don’t know her at all.” “What do you mean?” “She’s stronger than you think. She has a heart as deep as a river and as big as a mountain. That’s what will save her in the end.” “Do you think she needs saving?” He didn’t answer. She smiled confidently. Now she understood his motives, and she could regain her superior footing. “How very romantic you are, Mr. Barnes.” He shrugged. “I see what I see. As an artist, sometimes I see what others don’t. But you should look carefully, Miss Peabody, you might be surprised by what you discover about yourself.” She frowned. “What are you implying?” “That you could gain from the Duchess’s wisdom. You’ve taken the role of teacher, but for all your boldness, it seems to me you could learn from her. You’re running from something, and she is facing all her demons with remarkable courage.” Clara had heard enough. She pivoted, her gown rustling in her wake, but just before her hand hit the wooden door, she turned and fixed him with frank gaze.

“Thank you for your advice. Now I have some of my own to dispense. I recommend you dine in the servants’ hall from now on.” “Why?” “If you don’t, the gossip will only grow and swell beyond your control. You can’t let them think you’re in retreat.” “You sound like you speak from experience.” “Yes. Hard-won experience.” She cocked a brow. “And I didn’t get it from running away. And one more thing. You say you’re not taking advantage of her, but what do you really want from her? Are you simply hoping she will become your patroness?” “No.” “Are you simply an opportunist, looking to have a good time at a lady’s expense?” Will grit his teeth. “No.” “Well, just remember one thing in the days ahead. The Duchess would never have gone on that picnic with you if I hadn’t convinced her that there was more to life than what she had experienced heretofore.” “There is.” “But that has to be her decision. Not yours, and not mine. Can you say for certain that you are good for Her Grace, that you will do more good than harm? As for myself, I fear I’ve pushed her too far too fast. She may not know what she’s getting into. This may all turn out badly for her. And if that is the case, do you really want to be the one to bring her down and destroy her?” When Will blinked uncertainly and looked at the floor, she said more kindly, “I know you don’t mean her harm, Mr. Barnes, but that’s not to say that you won’t harm her, is it?”

Because of a rainstorm, their innocent rendezvous had garnered notice. And Livie had spent the subsequent hours and days trying to act normal. It was not easy. She did not feel normal. All she wanted to do was be with Will. She wanted the simplest of things in life?affection, a gentle kiss, an intimate look, but they were forbidden to her. She could have a mansion, an army of servants, fine dresses, and social respectability, but not love. At least not love with Willoughby Barnes?the only man she’d ever wanted. Neville had made that more than clear. God, he was insufferable! And yet he was a monster of her own creation. For the last year Olivia had acquiesced while Neville took it upon himself to make most of the decisions regarding the estate. He had become the de facto conscience and standard bearer of the family. In truth, Neville reacted as any decent member of Society would. She had debased herself. And she

didn’t care. At least not for herself. But her nephew was correct in pointing out that her actions would affect more than her. Neville would recover from his prudish outrage, but what about Andrew? It wasn’t fair of her to cast a blight on the family name just as he was arriving at Brandhurst Hall. If he were in poor health, as he was said to be, a lurid scandal might weaken him further. Apparently Neville hadn’t thought of that, or he would be encouraging her affair. She desperately wanted to talk to someone about her dilemma. But who? Both Will and Neville had so much at stake they couldn’t be objective. Not even Clara Peabody would know how to respond to this predicament. For all her talk of justice for women, Clara was a prude at heart. Livie could tell she’d been nearly as shocked by the picnic as Neville had been. There was only one person in the world who would understand. Perry. Dear, dear Perry. Sir Perry Moore understood her as well as a brother. Their friendship, if she could call it that, had been forged in fire. The very thought of seeing him again filled her with anticipation and dread. She had not seen him since the Duke’s funeral. Yet he was one more piece to that unpleasant puzzle that must be put in place before the game was over. Perhaps tonight was the night. Yes, a visit to Perry would be quite the thing.

Sir Perry Moore’s house sat at the border of the woods just east of the Hall. Perry was not a poor man, but he cherished his privacy and lived by himself with only a housekeeper to tend to his needs during the day. After sneaking out through the Duke’s secret passage and hurrying along through the trees that connected the close properties, Olivia knocked on his door freely without fear of being recognized by servants. As she waited, she thought it ironic that one so close to her?physically and mentally?should be the one person she’d had to avoid during this last lonely year. A light came on behind the curtains, and a moment later the baronet opened the door, still straightening his brown quilted velvet smoking jacket. He took one look at Livie, then held out his arms. “Olivia.” “Perry,” she said, rushing into them and holding him tight. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.” He wrapped his lean limbs around her and held her tight, kissing her forehead. “Livie, my darling girl. What are you doing here?” He gripped her arms tight and scanned the horizon over her head. “Do not worry. No one saw me leave.” “Come in.” He stepped back and let her enter his cozy two-story Tudor cottage, giving one last furtive look at Brandhurst Hall before he shut the door. Perry was a writer of some renown, and when he escorted her through the small entrance hall to the rear library, she could see he was busy with a new book. A manuscript was scattered on his baronial-looking desk. It dominated the warm room, which was lined with paneling, paintings, and glass-enclosed bookcases. The air smelled pleasantly of time-worn parchment, spicy pipe smoke, and spilled wine. A few substantial armchairs sat before a crackling fire, and half-written letters adorned a handsome cherry wood secretary. Livie immediately felt at home, though she hadn’t been here in years. “The place is a mess.”

“Oh, goodness, Perry, don’t even mention it.” “Can I get you a brandy?” “Please.” He went to a sideboard loaded with fancy crystal decanters and poured two glasses, studying her with those keen black eyes of his as he carefully handed one off. He rather resembled the peregrine falcon for which he was named, with his rather beakish nose and wide, thin lips. His hair was slicked back from his forehead, and his temples were indented and lined with veins. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He was lean, pale, and exquisitely elegant. She’d noticed that the first day Quinton had introduced them. “What on earth has brought you here tonight, dear girl?” he said, poising himself on the sloping back of an embroidered oyster-colored divan. She sank into an easy chair nearby. She leaned her head back, for it was spinning. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Those thin lips of his widened into a half grin of sympathy. “It’s me you’re talking to, Liv. Perry. Remember me? We went through hell together. You’ve seen me at my worst, and I you. And I still hold you in the greatest affection. Now what is it?” She put down her brandy glass with a shaking hand. She wore no gloves. No need for cover here. This was Perry. The man who had watched her being tormented, who had tried to stop it, only to be physically beaten for it, time and again. “I’m in love.” She waited for a wave of guilt, but it didn’t come. This was news to her. She’d turned a corner without realizing it. She was finally accepting the reality of love. It had begun to happen at Tillor Abbey. She looked up at Perry, impatient for some reaction. “Did you hear me? I said I think I’m in love.” A wistful look came over him, then his face shuddered with relief. “Thank God.” “No! Don’t say that. You act as if this were a good thing, as if it were perfectly acceptable.” He frowned in bemusement. “It’s what you’ve always deserved?true love.” “Yes, but I never thought... not like this. It’s simply impossible.” “What’s wrong? You haven’t got yourself another??” “No,” she said emphatically, knowing what he meant before he said it. They knew each other that well. “He’s very much attracted to me. I believe he’s in love with me. At least I hope so. Heavens, if I’m mistaken, I’m making quite a cake of myself.” “Then what’s the problem?” She looked at him blankly. “He’s a gardener.” He raised both brows. “Oh, dear,” he said in his sophisticated, rich voice.

Livie’s spirits sagged. She hadn’t really expected that Perry would clap his hands with glee, but she’d hoped for some understanding from this unconventional man. “Actually, he’s an artist who is redesigning my garden for me.” “An artist? Well, that shows some promise. Have I heard of him?” Livie shook her head and sighed. “No. He’s a local boy ... oh, and that’s the other problem. He’s ... young.” “How young?” She let out a quivering breath. “It all sounds so... sordid.” “Not to me, darling girl.” “He’s twenty-five.” “Ah! A mere fifteen years difference. That is nothing.” She looked up hopefully. “Do you think so?” “Yes.” “How could one so young find me attractive? I keep wondering that in the back of my mind. I suppose I’m questioning his motives.” “Livie!” Perry said, wagging a paternal finger at her. “Don’t tell me you were listening to what Brandhurst told you. They were all lies. You are a lovely woman, and he knew it.” “If he thought so, he would never admit it.” She shut her eyes again, this time against her will, the memories coming back unbidden. “Scrawny little bitch,” Brandhurst said of Olivia as she approached the gazebo where he and Sir Perry were having their morning coffee. His sotto voce comment was just a little too loud, as usual, and she heard every word. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, her stomach tightening as it always did in his presence. She approached the round table and flashed an affectionate look at Sir Perry. He wore his usual debonair gray frock coat and pin-striped trousers. “Good morning, Perry.” “Good morning, Duchess,” he said, rising. “You look lovely today.” “Oh, shut up and sit down,” Brandhurst muttered as he flipped the page of his newspaper. “Your penchant for flattery, Peregrine, will do you no good. You must learn to tell the truth.” “I was telling the truth,” Perry said, his smile gone now. “Just as I was telling you the truth when I said your latest tome reeks of melodrama and poor

prose?” “That’s unfair,” Livie blurted out, then winced when the duke slashed her a livid glare from beneath his handsome brows. “If I ever want you to speak, dullard, you will be told,” he said in his cutting baritone. “Until then, keep your bloody stupid thoughts to yourself.” “My, you’re in a good humor today, Your Grace,” Perry said with a false smile. “I’ll be going. ” Livie started to rise, but the Duke reached out and yanked her back into her chair. “Sit. Speak. Bark. I’ll have to train you like a dog. The dog you are.” He went back to his paper. “We have appearances to keep, Duchess. How could you possibly have forgotten that?” She hadn’t. She never did. And so she drank her coffee in her usual silence and let her mind wander. It was wandering now into territory she did not want to tread. Seeing Perry again had brought it all back. “Olivia,” he said, sitting on the arm of her chair. He took her hand in his. He had long, graceful ink-stained fingers. His fingers felt like ivory?cool and smooth. “You must accept that you are a beautiful woman, inside and out. Until you accept that fact, you will not be able to accept your artist’s love at face value. You deserve love from whomever you want.” “But... a gardener. Perry, it isn’t done.” “An artist, you mean. And why the hell not? What have you got to lose? God, you’re lucky you still have your sanity. Take what life you can and live it, dear heart.” “Neville says?” “Oh, Neville! That ass. He’ll be gone as soon as the new duke arrives.” “He took my indiscretion most personally.” Perry frowned. “I cannot believe you’re giving his opinions any credence.” “He’s rather taken over since Quinton’s passing.” “Are you afraid of him?” She shook her head. “No. But I’m not sure I trust him anymore.” “Good. Your instincts are wise.” He went to the sofa opposite her chair and sank into it, stroking his chin as he studied her. “What is your friend’s name?” “Willoughby Barnes.” “Do everything you can to forward his career. Do not use him anymore as a gardener. Commission him

for a portrait. I might even be able to put in a word with one of the great critics. That’s quite the thing to do, you know. If he can gain a reputation as an artist, then your relationship would be far more acceptable. Is he any good?” “He’s magnificent. Better than I could have imagined. I believe he’s truly gifted.” “Then what’s the problem?” “I have opened my heart so thoroughly to this young man that I very much fear he will crush it. I find loving someone very frightening. Isn’t that odd? I thought all I would need to be happy was kindness from a man. But not even that is enough to make me feel secure. I wish you would come back to Brandhurst Hall. I miss your steady presence.” “Fear is a part of human nature. Don’t ever let your fear keep you from loving. Love is the only thing that counts in the end. As for visiting Brandhurst Hall, I’m afraid I can’t, my dear. My days there are over. My relationship with you would no longer make sense.” “Does everything have to make sense?” He nodded. “When there has been a murder, yes, everything must.” He gave her an odd look then. She did not understand its significance. And she wondered how he could feel no remorse for his crime. Not that she judged him. By murdering her husband, Perry had set her free. “You have gotten on with your life then?” she asked. “All I know is what I see in the newspapers. Your latest book was well received.” “Yes, ironically, my career is nourishing. I’ve put everything that happened at Brandhurst Hall behind me.” She wished it had been as easy for her. She stood and lifted the hood on her cloak. They said their goodbyes and hugged fiercely, for she did not know when she might see him again. She shouldn’t have come tonight. Peregrine Moore had murdered her husband. And he was the only one who really knew what her marriage had been like. He knew what hell the Duke had put her through, as only the Duke’s lover might.

Chapter 12

The next morning Olivia awoke with thoughts that were curiously clear and focused. She felt a deep sense of calm that all would work out as it should. While she couldn’t imagine what would become of her and Will, she found herself wanting to put every other aspect of her life in order. She decided to tackle practical matters which could be easily resolved. First on her list would be the last of the details regarding the estate. She wanted to put her house in order, literally, before Andrew arrived. And with a pang of anxiety, she

realized he might arrive any day. He had doubtless already docked in London. If he had any sense of propriety, he would send word announcing his plans. But he had been raised in America, and from what she’d heard he fancied himself thoroughly plebian. Americans were notoriously impulsive and ill-mannered. She met with the Duke’s secretary in the estate room. She discovered that over the course of the last year Neville had taken a great deal more upon himself than she’d ever imagined. He had even changed estate policies and land uses that she was quite sure the new duke would want to decide for himself. “Hildy, whatever happened to that disputed property near Chesham? I remember His Grace ranting about it before his death.” “Mr. Darvy says he leased it out for a fair price last month.” “He leased it!” She sat forward, leaning her forearms against the mahogany desk where her husband used to reign. “The estate steward leased it without my permission? Why was I not informed of this decision?” “Mr. Thorpe said it was what you wanted to do.” “But he never discussed the matter with me!” She leaned back in her chair and drummed her fingers on the desk. “Neville has gone too far with his presumed authority. Andrew might have wanted that property to dispose of as he pleases.” She sat forward, plucking up a pen. She scratched her signature on a letter the secretary had composed for her. “I want you to get that property back.” “It’s too late, ma’am.” “Hire a lawyer if you must.” She looked up. “Speak to Toddy about it.” Hildebrande’s mouth curved in an uneasy line. “Pardon me for saying so, Your Grace, but Mr. Thorpe will be most displeased.” “How unfortunate.” “Shall I tell him forthwith?” “I do not care what he knows or thinks about this matter. I simply want the use of the property restored to Andrew.” There was so little time, and so much to do. She still had the factory girls to contend with. She gave Hildebrande a conciliatory smile. “If you are that concerned about Mr. Thorpe’s reaction, you can assuage his hurt pride by informing him I am considering bowing to his greater judgment by inviting Lord Skelton to Brandhurst Hall.” Hildebrande flashed her a look of relief. “Very good, ma’am. That should please him.” She wouldn’t deflate the secretary by telling him her true purpose?to convince Lord Skelton to support legislation for the match girls. If she accomplished nothing else in her life, that would truly be a great deed. “By the by, has Miss Peabody spoken to you about a new maid?” “Yes, she started today.”

Livie smiled broadly. “Good.” She rose, feeling alive in a way she’d never quite felt before. She was now handling matters that her late husband would never have even discussed with her, much less allowed her to decide. What would Brandhurst think if he could see her now? It didn’t matter. This was her time to reign over the estate. Her tenure would be short, but if she held her nerve, it would be productive. She gathered the papers she had signed and stood. With her heart beating hard, she said as casually as possible, “One last matter, Hildy. I’ve decided to hire Mr. Barnes to paint my portrait.” He looked up and his smooth brows pinched together. “Should I inform Mr. Thorpe?” “No,” she answered decisively. “I will do that myself, when the time is right. Meanwhile, if he asks, you can simply inform him that I am not pleased with the painting commissioned last year by my husband. The new portrait will hang in the gallery. It will be my last official portrait as the Duchess of Brandhurst.”

That afternoon Will dabbed his paintbrush in a spot of red oil paint, jabbed it in a dollop of yellow, then mixed them together on a clean area of his pallet until they blended into a luscious shade of orange. The fine sable hairs of his brush swirled in the moist explosion of color like a lover’s tongue. Then he lifted the brush and stroked the canvas with quick, graceful motions. “Are ye sure that paintin‘ is really o’ me?” Maggie’s voice seesawed with doubt. She was sprawled on a wrought-iron bench in the garden. “Yes, Maggie, I’ve been meaning to finish it for ages. I started it on your birthday two years ago, remember? It was going to be a present. I found it in a stack of canvasses I brought to the cottage. You can have it when it dries. I’ll leave it here for you.” “Ow, right, I remember now. But I can think of sumpin‘ else I’d like a ’ole lot better as a present, luv.” She batted her lashes seductively and puckered her lips to blow him a kiss. Will didn’t so much as blink an eye. He wanted to be done with this painting, as well as the other unfinished portraits cluttering his life. This was the last thing he would do for Maggie. He’d done more than his share to help her straighten herself out over the years. More than old friendship and old romance required of a man. With her job at Brandhurst Hall, she could start anew. He could leave with a clean conscience. “Are ye sure this was the paintin‘ ye started on me birthday?” She was clearly irked by her inability to elicit a reaction from him. “Or were ye paintin’ the Duchess again?” She retrieved her sloppily rolled cigarette, which was burning at the edge of the bench. She lifted it to her painted red lips and sucked with singular purpose. Frowning, she blew out a cone of white smoke, and said, “I don’t like the idea of ye puttin‘ me face on ’er body at the last moment. What’s the matter, she still won’t sit for ye?” “This is hardly an unfinished portrait of the Duchess.” To make his point, Will lifted the canvas and turned it so she could see. Defined by long, bold, and thick streaks of yellow and red, with tufts of glistening orange, was the languorous naked body of an unabashed woman stretched out on a tattered sofa. Only her facial features remained unfinished.

“Satisfied? It’s you, Maggie. Now will you put that damned cigarette out? You keep moving out of place.” “It’s always sumpin‘ with ye. Ye’re such a temperamental artist.” “Hardly.” He returned the canvas to the easel. “And you can’t complain about anything I do for the next century. I just arranged a position for you in a ducal palace. Can’t do much better than that, old girl.” She stuck the cigarette between her front teeth, squinting at the smoke that burned her eyes, and shoved her brassy, long red hair up behind her head. “ ‘Ow do I look? Do I look like yer Duchess?” He continued stroking the canvas. “She’s not my duchess.” “From what I ‘ear below stairs, ye ’ave special privileges around ‘ere.” “Lucky for you, Maggie my girl, or you wouldn’t now be employed by Her Grace.” “So it’s true.” “I doubt that anything you hear about me and the Duchess will be accurate. You know better than to listen to gossip.” She was clearly unconvinced, but that coy, hard look came back in her green eyes and he felt relieved. As long as she was scheming, there would be no tears. “I suppose ye want me to be grateful.” “No,” he replied, “I simply want you to do a good job in your new position. If you don’t, it will reflect badly upon me.” “So ye do care what the Duchess thinks.” “Of course, I care. So should you.” He looked at her hard. “This is your last chance, Maggie. If you make a mess of this, you’ll be lucky if you can even find factory work.” “Look ‘ere, mate, if ye?” She stopped abruptly when a nearby lilac bush rustled. She jolted upright. “What in bloody ’ell is that? I don’t suppose there are any bears in this garden.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” The rustle sounded again. “There it is! Who’s there? Come out with ye, or I’ll fetch the constable.” Tom Crumby slowly rose to his towering height above the bush, then stepped around it. He looked like an Adonis dressed in tattered clothes he’d outgrown in his youth. He eyed Will sullenly as he clenched and unclenched his hands at his side. “Hello, Tom,” Will said. He put down his brush and pallet. “I was just finishing a portrait of Maggie. Would you like to see it?” “ ‘Ello, Tom,” Maggie said. She sized up the handsome oaf with a carnal stare. “Aren’t ye the pretty

boy. Me name is Maggie. Maggie Tulliver. Nice to meet ye.” She threw down her cigarette and held out her hand with a broad smile. “I don’t know no Maggie,” Tom said, stepping backward. “I know, luv, that’s why I’m introducin‘ meself.” She slunk toward Tom as she said to Will on the sly, “So he’s a lackwit, eh?” “Hush, Maggie!” She stopped close to Tom and ran her hands through his hair. Then her fingers combed down over his brawny chest. He looked down at her with terror in his eyes. “Don’t!” Tom said. “Don’t touch me!” “Ain’t ye a fine specimen of a man.” She let her other hand reach down to his groin and gave a good squeeze. “Oh, Lor, quite a pecker ye got there, luv.” “Maggie, stop it!” Will barked. “Behave yourself.” “The Duke ... the Duke won’t like this, miss,” Tom said, shaking his head. His fists were still pinned to his side. “The Duke is dead, Tom,” Will said as he moved to extricate Tom from Maggie’s clutches. “Dead?” Tom cried out. “Oh, you mean the new duke. He hasn’t arrived yet, so he presumably has no opinion on Maggie’s regrettable behavior.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her away. He narrowed his eyes at her. “However, one can well imagine what the new duke might think of such behavior if he were here. And anyone who wants to keep her job will bear that in mind.” “I want to keep my job!” Tom cried out, even more agitated than he had been while Maggie fondled him. “You’ll keep your job, Tom,” Will said reassuringly. “I’m leaving. You do not have to worry about me taking over your garden. It’s all yours. Now, why don’t you tend to the daffodils at the other end, old chap, and let me finish up my painting? Cut some fresh flowers for Her Grace. I’ll be gone soon enough.” “Oh,” Tom said, his frown turning to a look of incredible glee. “Ye’re leavin‘, eh? Good. That’s right good. Wait ’till I tell Pa.” He hurried off, crashing his way back through the lilacs. Maggie sighed with disappointment. “I’d like to get me hands on that dumpling, I would, even if he is a simpleton.” “Keep your hands to yourself, Maggie.” He returned to his canvas. She crossed her arms and pouted. “What’s this about ye leavin‘?”

“After your awful treatment of that poor fool, I don’t feel like answering, truth to tell.” “Ow, come on! I was just ‘avin’ fun.” She settled on the garden bench. “It was probably the closest old Tom will ever come to gettin‘ spent. Now tell me, why are ye leavin’?” He blended the flesh tones on the rough canvas, the feather brush making a soft whisk-whisk sound. He inhaled the pungent scent of tobacco, of turpentine and oils. He and Maggie had spent many hours over the years wrapped in these smells. Memories flashed through his mind?when they were young, together, in heat, and afterward, when they parted and later became friends, watching her run through one man after another, always trying to maneuver her way out of the slums, watching her heart harden and her youth disappear. He felt sorry for her. It wasn’t fair that he’d been educated and she hadn’t, that her ambition far outstripped her good sense. He was far away from her and the life they’d shared as children, but he did feel a twinge of guilt for leaving her behind. It was nothing, however, compared to the roaring pain that ripped through him at the prospect of leaving Livie. “It’s time to move on. You may not see me anymore.” “Why?” She sat up, her firm arm muscles tensing. “Are ye too good fer me all of sudden like, now that ye’re workin‘ up close with yer Duchess? Is that it?” “No.” He chuckled morosely. “I’m not good enough for the Duchess or for you. A woman should never love an artist, Maggie. If I really loved someone, I’d have to leave her for her own good. Art is my mistress. I don’t need anything else. I thought you knew that by now. It’s time I made my mark in the art world.” “So ye’re really leavin‘ Brandhurst ’all?” “My work in the garden is finished. The landscape I painted is drying as we speak.” The muscles in his chest tightened painfully. A hollow feeling nearly buckled his knees. Suddenly he didn’t trust himself to speak anymore. The feelings choking him would garble his words. He was staggered to realize how much this place, and his Duchess, had come to mean to him. He touched his breastbone, trying to caress the soft place that ached down deep. He cleared his throat. “I’m going back to my garret tonight, gather my best work, and then I’m heading off to London in a few days. I have to find a way to get the notice of a critic.” “A critic?” she repeated in an awed whisper. “Don’t ye ‘ave to be taken seriously for that?” “Yes, and it all starts with me taking my own work seriously.”

Livie approached the cottage late that night, feeling as exuberant as she had felt despairing just a day ago. She could scarcely wait to formally ask Will to paint her portrait. He would have to know how significant this was. Her request would change his life, and maybe open doors for them both. Doors that heretofore had been secured with ancient, rusty locks.

As she drew near the stone dwelling, she looked for a light in the window, but it was dark. Perhaps he was sleeping. She went to the door and knocked quietly. When no answer came, she knocked louder. Then she opened the latch and entered the dark one-room cottage. She smelled him in the room, his paints, the faint hint of his unique scent. She went to the bed, but it was empty. She looked around and realized all his possessions were gone, except for a stack of paintings in the corner, and the landscape which he’d left on an easel. When she realized what it was?a farewell present?she shut her eyes against an overwhelming wave of pain. He’d left. And without so much as a good-bye.

Chapter 13

Livie was good at pretending. She’d spent her whole life pretending that things hadn’t happened, or that they didn’t bother her. Pretending she didn’t hear the masculine sounds of lovemaking in her husband’s room, that the Duke didn’t insult her with every look and word, that being Duchess was enough recompense for the aching loneliness she endured. Therefore, it should have been easy to pretend that Willoughby Barnes’s abrupt departure didn’t leave her insides feeling scalded. Likewise, she should have accepted the notion that she could live without the man who had held her heart so tenderly in his graceful artist’s hands. That she did not need him anymore now that she had been awakened. However, Mother Nature would not cooperate in her attempted subterfuge. While Livie spent the next day trying to be bright and productive, a dreary rain fell heavily all afternoon, trapping everyone indoors. The downpour splattered against the windows of her drawing room and pounded the lawn’s bright green turf into submission. It was the sort of rain that made a room cozy, and made one grateful to be safe and dry. Or, as in Livie’s case, it made one feel hopelessly inert. While Clara drafted a letter to Lord Skelton in the small easy chair by the fireplace, Livie pressed her fingertips to the windowpanes. Her thoughts smeared with the rivulets of water that crawled down the other side of the glass, mingling, weeping, then silently melding into a greater whole. She would survive Will’s leave-taking. She would not even cry over it. She could not blame him. She had forced him into a public display that necessitated his honorable withdrawal. Her mood brightened a little when she realized he had probably left for her sake. How she missed him. She wanted to feel as she’d felt in his arms. Not even his absence could now numb the sharpness of her emotions. “I’m going out,” she said, then impulsively started for the door. “Now, Your Grace?” Clara looked up from her letter with a frown. “What for?” “I want to walk.” “In this rain?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Clara’s blue eyes clouded and she set down her pen. “May I come with you?” Livie stopped at the door, smiling at her. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine, Clara. I’m not a child, and I’m not mad. You really aren’t responsible for me, my dear.” Clara looked inordinately relieved. “Very well. But don’t get wet.” Livie exited without comment. That was precisely what she wanted to do?get wet. She wanted to feel nature as she had never been allowed to, even as a child. She wanted to experience those cool, random drops on her unexpecting skin. To melt into some greater whole. She brushed past the butler and footmen who hurried forward with her umbrella, leaving them in gaping confusion as she stepped out into the downpour. At least she wore a hat. Though it would be ruined, she would not shock them by going without a hat. She walked carefully down the granite steps leading from the entrance to the drive, sensing the befuddled stares of her servants as they gaped out the windows behind her. She held her head high, lest they think she’d gone mad. More than a few women had been committed to Bedlam for lesser offenses. Then she stepped carefully down the second tier of steps, toe-heel-toe-heel, until she touched the squishy grass. Her shoes would grow sodden. She would besmirch the hem of her gown. How utterly decadent. And how perfect. She headed for the Grecian gazebo around the side of the house. By the time she reached it, her clothes were soaked through. Water trickled from her breasts down into her stiff corset. It felt clammy, but at least she could feel something. No more pretending. She felt vulnerable, hurt by Will’s departure. He had forced her to play her last hand. In order to see him again, she would have to invite him back in very public circumstances. Was that his intention? Did he want to make this even more difficult for her? Or, as she hoped, had he simply taken a misguided notion of doing what was best for her? She hugged herself, knowing she surely looked like a drowned rat. No matter how she appeared, though, she was still Olivia Brandhurst. She still retained her dignity. Somewhere deep inside her was a hidden well of strength that would always be there for her to call upon. That counted for something. For the first time in her adult life, she began to think she would retain worth without her title and position. Even without the esteem of her peers. Her strength lay in her honesty. And if she were to be perfectly honest, she wanted Willoughby Barnes back in her life no matter the cost. Their bond had been cemented at Tillor Abbey. It had simply taken a few days to recognize how impermeable it was. She could not afford to wait, to play games. Andrew would be here any day. She had to act now. She sensed this portrait would be as important to her as it would be to him. He would paint her as she could be. And as she would be if she showed the courage that destiny now required of her.

Prissy O’Rourke died the day that Will returned to his garret in Stowfield. The news cleared his mind of impossible fantasies, like a bucket of ice water being upturned over his head. Any hopes for miracles

he’d nurtured before withered that day. He hung his head out his window, taking in the reality of his world like bitter medicine. He’d forgotten just how distinctive the odors were in the lower part of town?tangy, fresh manure mingled with the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts at the corner, unwashed bodies bustling by, trudging through a pall of coal dust. And of course the overwhelming, nose-curdling smell of coal fumes and phosphorous. Add to that his choking sadness over Prissy’s death, and he could hardly breathe. He helped pay for the funeral. He wanted little Peter to have a respectable grave site to visit. When he went home, he counted what money he had left and bought paints. He also bought a cheap bottle of gin and put half of it away before he realized the greatest measure of his sorrow was over the loss of Livie, not Prissy. He’d expected Prissy to die. He had not even thought about losing the Duchess. Not really. Now recognizing his own failure, his heart ached as if half of it had been torn out of his body. The only way to survive was to return to his painting. Before Olivia, he’d never wanted love. He saw it as an interference to his art. Now art would have to be a distant second best, a distraction. His last hope of redemption. Just when he’d fully sobered and began to attack a new canvas, there came a knock on the door from a most unexpected visitor. “Mr. Hammond,” Will said. “What are you doing here?” The house steward from Brandhurst Hall, dressed in an immaculate suit and stiff black top hat, looked out of place in the drab hallway. “Good afternoon, Barnes, I hope I am not disturbing you.” He smiled perfunctorily. Though the warmth in no way reached his eyes, Will understood the compromise of his pride this visit represented, for he was a man who took his position, and his mistress’s rank, very seriously. Realizing this, all Will’s former hostility toward the man evaporated. He stepped back to welcome him in. “You’re not disturbing me at all. Please come in. May I offer you something? Brandy? Tea?” “No, thank you.” The shorter man surveyed his surroundings like a sharp-eyed bird looking for a worm in a compost pile. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Hammond.” “I have a message from the Duchess.” The word Duchess shot through Will’s skin like a poisoned arrow, numbing his entire body. He thrust his hands in his pockets and meandered to the window, where he watched fumes billow from the factories a few streets over. He made a point of breathing it in. This time the putrid smell, combined with this shocking news, stirred his blood enough to enable a halfway articulate response. He turned and smiled casually. “Why ever would the Duchess send me a note? My work in the garden is finished. I can do no more.” “She is pleased with your work,” Hammond said in his clipped manner. “But that is not why she is writing.” There was a long pause, then he added in a voice that sounded like gravel beneath a carriage wheel, “She wants to invite you to tea.”

Will looked up sharply. The man’s squarish face, half covered with thick muttonchops, showed no sign of mockery or mischief. His demeanor was, in fact, strangely neutral. Will thought he almost sensed resignation in his mastiff demeanor. “Is this some kind of tomfoolery?” “I wish it were,” Hammond said dryly. He handed him a note. “She wanted this delivered, and when I realized where it was going, I decided to do it myself, since I had business in town in any event.” “In other words, you didn’t want any of the footmen to know what a mistake she was making.” Hammond shrugged. “They’ll find out soon enough.” When Will saw the golden insignia sealing the envelope, he swallowed hard and his heart pounded back to life. Why was she doing this? She was ruining herself. Was this all for him? He reluctantly took the note. It read:

My dear Mr. Barnes, I am writing to invite you to tea Wednesday afternoon. I hope you will come. We have much to discuss. First and foremost, you must begin my portrait immediately. We have very little time. I want it completed before the new duke arrives. Do not disappoint me. You are the only artist who will do. Olivia Brandhurst

A peculiar warmth and tingling spread over his skin. His lips burned. He licked them and tucked the note back in the envelope and tossed it on his small desk. Then he raked both hands through his hair. “Come, come, Barnes, do not pretend you’re not pleased by this invitation to Brandhurst Hall. I’m told to pick up your things and take them back to the gardener’s cottage.” Will shook his head wonderingly. “Why are you pretending that this is normal? You hate me, Hammond, and yet you’re being civil.” “It is as Her Grace wishes. And I am in the Duchess’s service, at least until the new duke arrives.” Hammond’s obvious loyalty to the woman who would soon wield no power over his life spoke well of him. Will sighed away some of his defensiveness. “You serve Her Grace well, Hammond. You do whatever she commands, even if she orders you to open the gates and let the riffraff in.” Hammond slipped his hand inside his knee-length coat and pulled out a card. “Take this.”

Will reached out and took the card, reading, “Jacob and Sullivan Tailors.” He snorted a laugh. “What is this?” “Buy a new suit. I stopped by Jacob and Sullivan on my way here. They are willing to make you a top priority, and you can have new clothing made in time for your visit to the Duchess.” A muscle in Will’s jaw ticked and a ball of anger roiled in his gut. “Did she tell you to clean me up?” The upper servant looked at him with uncharacteristic kindness. “No, that was my idea. You should have enough money from your work in the garden to make yourself look presentable. This visit is very important, Barnes, make no mistake. If you care for her at all, you’ll make the best out of a disastrous situation.” So Hammond still thought Will would ruin Olivia. Of course, he was right. Why had she invited him in spite of the danger to her reputation? They had no future together. They courted disaster. Why was she doing this? That wasn’t the only question burning his tongue. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Hammond? Why do you care how I look?” Hammond went to the window from which Will had been gazing. He frowned, and ambivalence clouded his eyes. “Most upper servants come from respectable farming families.” “Of course.” “I was raised not far from here. I lived with my mother on Predeaux Alley.” Will’s face softened as understanding registered. Predeaux Alley was filled with brothels. The place where whores plied their business and raised their bastard children. Had Mr. Hammond’s mother been a streetwalker? “Despite my upbringing, I was educated.” He turned to Will with a blank look. “We live in a world where one can make the most of oneself, where one can forget the past, as long as one does not reach too high.” That mirthless smile reappeared. “I do not wish you ill, Barnes. Just because one comes from the gutter doesn’t mean one has to stay there. The Duchess is making a terrible mistake, but that doesn’t mean you have to make one as well. Do this right. Don’t be a damned fool.” He started for the door. “If you have trouble paying the tailor?” “I won’t,” Will cut in. Hammond stopped in the doorway and gave him one last doubtful look. “Good luck, Barnes. You’re going to need it.”

Chapter 14

As soon as Hammond returned with word that Will Barnes had accepted her commission, Livie mentally began preparing for the inevitable disapproval that would follow. The most difficult task would be breaking the news to Neville. She asked him to meet her in the portrait gallery. It seemed an appropriate place to discuss art, and she was curious to see all the old paintings again before Will began his work. The gallery was a perfectly square two-story chamber lined from floor to ceiling with dark wood paneling. More than a hundred portraits lined the walls in various sizes. Life-size paintings hung by smaller ones, all in gilded ornate frames. There were dark Elizabethan portraits of a related knight and his family, a Van Dyck painting of the first Earl of Caudlon and a Rubens portrait of his dissolute heir, numerous landscapes by lesser-known artists, scores of portraits from the Georgian era, and one of Livie’s favorites?a portrait of the second Duke’s favorite tricolored foxhound painted by George Stubbs. She had left Will’s landscape in the cottage as sort of a talisman to lure him back. But when he returned, it would be hung here next to Stubbs’s work. There were a few pictures of her own family. Her father, the Earl of Cummings, was a prim and cautious-looking man with Livie’s large-lidded eyes and his own unique dash of a mouth. Her mother’s portrait hung next to his. She was a gorgeous redhead who was equally taciturn. Their poses were dignified, set against generic scenes of antiquity. Her father’s title had died with him, since he’d had no heirs. With her parents’ deaths Livie’s subsumption into the Thorpe family had been complete, though never natural. Her own portrait seemed laughably innocent and mundane. It had been painted when she was only a shadow of her true self. Next to her disappointing portrait hung Quinton’s flattering and regal likeness. His hard eyes glinted with defiance, and only the secret few knew how it had been manifested. He had defied Society with his homosexual affair. Conscious of public opinion, he had been secretive, always resenting Livie because he needed a wife to deflect suspicion. Always demeaning her for the stupidity of her sex, and hating her because Society required an heir from him. Their portraits hung on the oak paneled walls amidst an exotic smattering of stuffed animal heads?African water buffalo, a lion, a reindeer?some of which looked more lifelike than the paintings. Livie wondered what Will would think of this collection. She could only imagine, and with not a little excitement, how vibrant a person might be appear rendered on his canvas. But first, she had to prepare her nephews and her staff for Will’s presence at Brandhurst Hall. The door creaked open. “Your Grace?” Neville sauntered forward with his hands locked behind his back, perusing the paintings with indifference. “Why did you want to meet here? You’ve always loathed this place.” “Like so much in my life, it seems different now.” When he stopped at her side, she turned to him with a smile. His hair was slicked back over his ears with maccassar oil. She noticed for the first time that the hair at his temples was graying, just like his uncle’s. Her smile faded. Neville studied her with inscrutable eyes. “Hildy tells me you’ve written to Lord Skelton.” “Yes, I have.” Here it came. She would have to let him down gently.

“May I have reason to hope you have given his suit some encouragement?” Livie folded her hands at the waist. “No, I’m afraid you can’t. I wrote to the earl about the factory girls. I’ve offered my support of legislation on the matter. Nothing more. He has wired back saying he welcomes my assistance, and that my support should do a great deal to shed light on the problem. I feel I have accomplished a great deal. I see now that Clara was quite right. Someone in my position can accomplish anything she sets her mind to.” Two pink spots of color brightened his lean cheeks, and he said in a strained voice, “Don’t you think a marriage to Skelton would help your cause?” “Very likely. But I am not going to marry him to benefit womankind. It’s out of the question. Not even Miss Peabody would request so great a sacrifice.” “Miss Peabody.” He ground the words beneath his yellowed teeth. His taught jaw muscles tightened like fiddle strings. “I can blame her for this, I suppose.” “Not in the least. You’ve been most unfair to Clara from the moment she entered this house. I must insist you temper your antipathy toward her. And I should warn you myself, Neville, that I am determined to help right the wrongs against not only the factory girls, but against the prostitutes as well.” “The p-prostitutes!” he sputtered, the color now fading into a sickly pallor. “Good God! Have you lost your wits?” Livie’s entwined fingers tightened. She clamped her jaw shut lest an expletive escape. “This is her fault, isn’t it? I heard about your appalling trip into town.” He began to pace, like a father ranting at a wayward child. “You could have been killed.” “I am aware of that. I realize what a risk I took.” “I suppose you were hoping I wouldn’t find out. You know nothing escapes me. This estate would fall apart without me.” “I doubt that, my dear,” she said evenly. “And you went with that... that gardener!” He stopped pacing and looked at her as if she’d just crucified him. “If I had known what would become of that... Oh, God, we’ll be ruined by this.” “We?” she asked pointedly. He looked up disbelievingly. “Did you think you could dally with a gardener and hurt only yourself?” She flushed red. “He is a painter. In fact, I’ve commissioned him to paint my portrait.” “Your portrait! Why? This one is perfectly adequate.” He waved at the wall. “And you did not even consult me!” “I don’t need to answer to you, young man.”

“You certainly answer to that other young man. He’s using you, Duchess. There’s no fool like an old fool.” She stepped forward and slapped him hard on the face. The sound cracked and echoed to the high ceiling. Neville’s beakish nose flared, but he said nothing. Even he knew the limits of his authority. “I will not hear you speak another word on this matter,” she hissed. “If you do, I will ask you to leave Brandhurst Hall.” His thwarted fury turned his dark brown eyes a cesspool black. “As you wish, madam.” “I do wonder, Neville, why you are so intent on marrying me off to Lord Skelton. I know you think no woman is capable of living without a man to guide her every decision, but why Skelton? Is it simply that you hope to please the Prime Minister? Are you hoping for a career in politics?” If only he would be honest with her, there might be a way to restore their former affection. “My dear Neville, you have been my right arm this last year, and I am grateful, but I must know what drives you. Please, tell me. Before Andrew arrives.” He wiped a hand over his face, and when it came away, his features were guileless. She scarcely recognized him this way. He looked like he had as a young boy, when a playmate had snubbed him and he wasn’t afraid to say how much it hurt. “I want the title,” he said gruffly. “Which title?” “The title. The only title that matters.” Her frown melted. “Oh, dear boy, you know that is most unlikely. It always has been.” “They said he was sickly. I met him once as a child. He could hardly play.” “Somehow he managed to survive and is coming here soon. You must accept your fate.” “Must I?” he returned hotly, that fierce ambition once again gleaming in his eyes. “There are reasons other than death why a man might fail to claim a title.” The unreasonable fire burning in him sparked a sad realization in Livie. She recognized at last what she had perhaps willfully ignored until now. Neville had too much of his uncle in him. Whatever it was that had embittered him, she did not want to hear it. She turned to go, but he stopped her by whirling ahead and stepping in front of her. “Do you remember, Auntie, when Uncle Quinton would have too much drink and talk about the lamentable strain of illegitimacy that tainted our family?” “Yes,” she answered soberly. “I know he was talking about Andrew. They say his mother had an affair with Lord Hall?” “Those were vicious rumors! I’m quite certain there was nothing to them at all.”

“You always were so naive,” he said scornfully. “That’s enough, Neville. Even if the rumors were true, Andrew’s father would have had to deny paternity at his birth, and he did not do that.” “Don’t you think it’s odd that his father took his family to America immediately after Andrew’s birth? He wanted to avoid humiliation, even though he was apparently unwilling to turn out his wife.” “Oh. Neville?” “There’s proof, Aunt Livie.” “What proof?” “The Duke kept a lockbox of papers somewhere in his suite. I know they’re there. He talked about them. He said the evidence is all there in writing. There is a written confession by the mother of the illegitimate child. If I could find that box?” “Neville, darling, stop now! Why would the Duke have kept a confession?” “You know how he was. He liked to have something to hold over everyone in his life. If I could find it and prove that Andrew was illegitimate, then I could claim the title. Lord Skelton said he would do everything in his power to support my claim.” “Ah.” She smiled wanly. “Now I understand.” “I’ve looked, but I can’t find the damned box. Not even Antonio can find it. He thought it might be hidden in the secret passageway.” “Do you mean to tell me he has been looking in the Duke’s private quarters?” “Only because I asked him to.” “He had no right! And he had no right to tell you about the secret door.” Livie clenched her fists in fury. “I’ve never trusted him. And I will not subject Andrew to this outrageous subterfuge. I want Antonio gone before Andrew arrives. Is that clear?” “He’s my valet now, Auntie.” “And the estate is paying his wages,” she snapped, not realizing she’d finally pushed him over the edge. “Where is it, Duchess?” He grabbed her arms, squeezing too tightly. “After all I’ve done for you, you owe me your allegiance!” “Let go!” Suddenly she was frightened. How far would he go to get what he wanted? “Where is that box? Tell me, damn you!” “Excuse me, ma’am.” Mr. Hammond stood at the door at the other side of the gallery. He had spoken forcefully, and they both turned to see a threatening scowl on his face. “Is there something amiss?”

Livie took in a shuddering breath of relief, extricating herself from Neville’s loosened grip. She’d never been so happy to see the house steward in her life. “No, Hammond,” she called out, “everything is in order. I was just preparing to leave Mr. Thorpe.” She gave Neville a potent look. “He wants to view the portraits in this gallery by himself, to ponder the lessons of history, and to remember the dignity, if not the kindness, of his forebears.” She walked with head held high toward the protective Mr. Hammond, and turned back for the last word only when she’d reached the door. “Circumstances have changed. You can’t reverse the course of fate. All you can do is accept it. And quickly.”

Neville stomped into his withdrawing room and didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of the sideboard with its collection of liquor bottles that looked like a colorful city skyline. He grabbed a decanter of brandy and poured. The bottle’s thick lip kissed the rim of his glass and amber liquid glugged out. He stoppered the decanter and tried to take a drink, but his hand shook so badly the brandy splashed over the rim and down his fingers. “Damn it!” Antonio whisked into the room, closing the door quietly, as was his custom. He hurried forward on his short legs and stopped in the middle of the room. “Well?” he said, all trace of deference gone. Neville slashed him a guilty look, then took a swig of his drink, lifting the glass with a wet hand. “Well what?” “Did you settle the matters we discussed with the Duchess?” Neville swilled the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the sideboard. “Clean up this mess. There’s been a spill.” “You didn’t, did you, sir?” “Oh, sod off! Clean up this mess.” Antonio’s gleaming eyes dulled and he inclined his head in submission. As he attended to the spill, Neville went to a grandfather chair and opened the cigarette box on the table beside it. He lit a safety match. The flame trembled as the phosphorous tip caught fire, then singed the tobacco. He blew out the flame with a puff of smoke and threw the matchstick in the empty fire grate. It infuriated him that a lowly valet had the temerity to admonish him. Neville meandered with forced languor to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He held the heavy green velvet draperies aside with his shoulder. With its tall windows and light tile floor, this room had the bright feel of an Italian palazzo. The heavy brown leather furniture gave it a masculine contrast, and it was a welcome relief from the colorful flowered wallpapers in the other rooms. He had taken the room over as his study when the Duke died. It had been one of many estate rooms that were rarely used. Situated near Neville’s bedroom, it seemed a perfect place to smoke, drink, and reflect. Or to simmer with fury, as he did presently.

“Damn the Duchess. God, I hate her superior airs. She isn’t even a blood relative. How dare she try to dictate the course of the title’s fate?” “You did not maneuver her as I recommended?” Antonio’s question was carefully neutral. He took great care in straightening the liquor bottles. “It’s not that bloody easy! For one, she’s utterly shameless. I don’t know what’s come over her. I don’t think she cares if she causes a bloody scandal. For another, you seem to forget that if I destroy her reputation, I will hurt the family name.” When Antonio chuckled cynically, Neville turned on him. “I don’t suppose you know about honor. You committed your assassination in your homeland, then turned tale and ran to England with a Duke you met during his tour. You arrived at Brandhurst Hall and promptly murdered a whore, who just happened to be the fallen niece of the Mayor of Stowfield. Ever after you served the Duke like a lapdog just because he was powerful enough to protect you from prosecution, or retribution. No, I don’t believe you know a thing about honor. You bloody foreigners are all alike.” Antonio’s olive complexion turned pale and his nostrils flared. “You will regret insulting me, sir.” “I don’t think so,” was Neville’s smug reply. “If you don’t want to reveal the Duchess’s affair, I will.” “Don’t you dare.” Neville jabbed his cigarette in the air. “That information is mine to reveal, when and if I so choose.” Antonio mulled this over, then said, “I had best continue searching for the box behind the Duke’s secret door. For without those papers, you won’t ever claim the title. You’re not clever enough by half.” Neville blinked through the haze of his fury and focused on the valet. He wanted to refute this insult, but he could not. He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked off into space. “You can’t look for the papers anymore. You’ve been stricken from the Duke’s quarters.” Neville rubbed his pounding forehead with the palm of the hand that held his cigarette. Smoke curled up like a snake to the ceiling. “I believe the Duchess is trying to position herself in a place of power before my cousin arrives. In a moment of weakness, I told her about the lockbox.” “You what?” Neville sank into a chair, weary from his efforts to retain a dignity that did not come naturally to him. “If Olivia finds the lockbox, all hopes are lost. She’s too bloody good-hearted. She’ll share everything with Andrew.” He felt Antonio’s derision and disbelief, though he did not have the heart to see it etched on his face. The valet came to his side, then spun away and pounded the fireplace mantel. “Damnation!” “Very nearly,” Neville said wryly. “And for you, it may very well be.” Antonio’s swarthy features stiffened with dread. “What do you mean?”

“The Duchess says you are to leave Brandhurst Hall. You are no longer employed as the Duke’s valet.” A wave of extreme emotions washed over the valet at Neville’s words?disbelief, anger, sorrow, hatred. Neville saw it all and shivered. He saw in him a glimmer of the remorseless assassin Antonio had been in his youth. To his surprise, Antonio didn’t shout or threaten him, though. Instead he smiled mirthlessly. “What a pity,” the valet said. “I had hoped to spare the Duchess this trouble.” “What trouble?” Neville inquired in a monotone. “A murder trial.” Neville was struck dumb. “You see, sir, the Duchess murdered her husband. I knew it from the start. I had planned to keep her secret, but now she has betrayed me.” Neville jumped to his feet. “What in God’s name are you saying?” “That the whore will hang.” Neville went still, then expelled a huff of air. “Murder! You mean?” “Yes, your uncle was murdered.” Antonio’s smile looked like a hyena’s. “You didn’t even know, did you?” “But it... it was apoplexy. The doctor?” “The doctor was bribed by your aunt.” Neville slammed his cigarette in the fireplace, spewing the last bit of smoke from his lungs. “You’re mad, Antonio. She wouldn’t have had the strength. He was six feet tall and as strong as an ox. He would have fought her off. And where would she get a weapon?” “She used her letter opener. I have the blood-encrusted dagger in my possession.” “Wha?!” “And he would have fought her off, unless she took him by surprise. He would never imagine she would do such a thing. His greatest weakness was his inability to understand how much those closest to him hated him.” “Like you?” “I hated the Duke.” Antonio’s eyelids trembled, then stilled. “I admired him, of course. But I hated the power he had over me. He knew I could never leave Brandhurst Hall. Nor can I still, not without hanging for my crimes.” “Why are you coming forward with this accusation now? Why not a year ago?” “Believe it or not, sir, I felt sorry for her. I thought she would keep me on. But now that she has

betrayed me, I must betray her, to save myself.” “How can you save yourself now?” “By seeing you crowned with the ducal coronet.” “I like the way you think, Antonio, but for the life of me I don’t see how it can be done.” The valet began to pace as he rubbed his chin. “We go to Scotland Yard. Rather, you do, sir. Antonio makes himself scarce for a time.” “Scotland Yard?” Neville tried to swallow, but merely choked instead. “You mean you want me to turn the Duchess over to the authorities?” “Oh, yes.” The valet practically salivated at the prospect of revenge. “She will not help you now. It’s best to get her out of the way before the new duke arrives. Then it’s your word against his.” “What word will I have? I have no evidence of his illegitimacy without that lockbox.” “These Scotland Yard detectives, they are clever at finding things, no? You tell them more evidence lies somewhere in the Duke’s private apartments. They find the box, and you have your evidence.” “What if they find something in my uncle’s papers condemning you?” He shrugged. “What do I have to lose that is not already lost to me? Besides, if you are the new duke, you can lie for me.” He smiled almost sweetly. “A good arrangement, no?” “Very.” Neville strolled slowly around the valet with his hands clasped behind his back. He couldn’t quite fathom how one so low-born, a mere servant and a dreadful foreigner at that, could wield so much power through sheer cleverness. When he came full circle, Neville cleared his throat and looked off in the distance, seeing his past and future, both shadowed with regret. “I will think about what you have said. Of course, it is my own good judgment which will prevail.” There was a pause. “Very good, sir,” the valet finally said with acceptable humility. Neville turned in time to see him give a crisp bow. “Then, when it is over and you have won and can indulge in regret, all you have to do is blame poor Antonio to relieve your burdened conscience.” Neville watched him go, hating that he’d gotten in the last word.

Two days later, wearing a hastily made black suit with a knee-length coat, Will made a triumphant, though quiet, return to Brandhurst Hall in a hired cab. While he knew he would now be welcome at the front door, he directed the driver to stop first at the gardener’s cottage, where he would be staying. Will had much to do before he began the portrait. He could scarcely wait to start. Painting the Duchess of Brandhurst, his beloved Livie, would be the penultimate experience of his life. He wanted to be prepared in every way for the honor.

Obsessed as he was with his mission, he did not immediately notice two strangers loitering near the door of his little stone cottage, nor the fine coach waiting nearby. Will exited the cab and rattled off orders to the driver about his paint supplies and suitcase, then paid his fare and was halfway up the sidewalk before he noticed the well-dressed men. He stopped abruptly and took measure. One wore a very dapper pin-stripe suit with a satin ascot. He was handsome and intelligent-looking, with sleek brown hair and a permanent look of irony imbedded on his expressive forehead. The other gentleman was more simply, but more expensively, dressed in a somber black coat and ascot. Will immediately noted his tremendous gravitas. His calm, intelligent eyes held arrogance born of confidence. He wore his hair straight back, not unlike Will’s, but his was thinner. He must be nigh on fifty. Full muttonchops added width to his narrow face with its strong, thin nose. “Mr. Barnes?” the dapper one said, unfolding his crossed arms and pushing off from the doorway, where he’d been leaning, with his shoulder. “Yes? Who are you?” The handsome interloper smiled kindly, his thin white face a picture of elegance. He held out his hand. “I am Sir Peregrine Moore.” Will scowled. Was he supposed to know of this man? “Have you heard of me? I’ve heard a great deal about you.” He was now standing in front of Will, hand still extended, focusing his brilliant and knowing eyes on Will. Then recognition clicked. “Yes,” Will said. “You’re the writer.” Peregrine’s lips twitched upward with satisfaction as he lowered his hand. “Indeed.” “I’ve read you.” “Oh?” “You’re good.” Perry melted with pleasure. “I’m glad you think so. I am also a friend of the Duchess of Brandhurst. Sir Perry.” Will automatically extended his hand for a shake. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Perry smiled warmly and scoured Will’s face with his perceptive eyes. “Yes, I see the attraction,” he said in a low voice. Louder, he added, “Her Grace spoke very highly of your artistic skills, Mr. Barnes. Of course, I was aware of your reputation before she mentioned you to me. I’ve seen your work before and was most impressed.” Will cocked his head quizzically, but the debonair gentleman ignored it.

“Come along. There is someone very important I want you to meet.” He fixed his lithe fingers on Will’s upper arm, gently urging him toward the cottage door. “This is Mr. John Ruskin. You may have heard of him as well. He is the most famous and important critic in England.” Will stopped in his tracks again. Of course he’d heard of Ruskin. While Will wasn’t well traveled, he was well read. His heart nearly stopped. Here was the man who could make an artist’s career simply by writing about him. He’d championed the Pre-Raphaelite artists when the rest of Society had spurned them. He had championed Turner and set the stage for a new wave of landscape art. He was so powerful he had even become a critic of social mores. His loathing of industrialization had inspired a return to nature in art and decor. “John Ruskin?” Will said hoarsely. “It’s true, dear boy,” Perry said quietly, for Will’s ears only. “Here is your chance. Seize the moment, and who knows what the future might bring.” They walked forward, and Will’s throat tightened when Ruskin turned his full attention to him. “Ruskin, this is the artist I spoke to you about, Willoughby Barnes. Young man, you’re very fortunate that Mr. Ruskin came to visit me. I told him how fond I am of your work.” “But?” You’ve never seen my work, Will almost blurted until Perry silenced him with a look that said Play along with me. “Where have you studied, Mr. Barnes?” Ruskin said, forming each word with great precision and muted, but vibrant, curiosity. “I... I haven’t trained at all, sir,” Will said bleakly. Ruskin’s perceptive eyes danced with a new light. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, dear boy. My good friend, Edward Burne-Jones, was self-taught. But he opened himself to the wisdom of the masters, and myself, I might add, and he has become one of the most celebrated artists of our day. Now where are your paintings?” “Inside,” Perry replied confidently, then said to Will, “Isn’t that right, Mr. Barnes?” Behind Sir Perry’s sophisticated veneer, there was a glimmer of pleading. He was obviously a man who played the tune of life by ear. “Yes, a few paintings are here.” Apparently the Duchess had told Perry as much. Will opened the door, wishing he had been warned about this. Here was the opportunity of a lifetime and all he had to show were the least of his paintings. Suddenly self-conscious, he brushed his hands over his new jacket, forgetting for a moment that he was at least properly dressed, due to a quirk of fate. “I’m afraid my best work is in my garret in Stowfield. Come in, please.” Ruskin entered first and chuckled softly as he glanced around. “This reminds me of my beginnings. I have painted myself, you know.”

“Of course,” Will answered. “Landscapes.” “I dabble. Have you seen them?” “Haven’t had the honor, sir.” “You’ll find Mr. Barnes is a rustic genius,” Perry said, putting himself out on a very long limb. “Then he hasn’t lost his roots in nature,” Ruskin remarked approvingly. “Good for you, Barnes. Now what do you have to show me?” Will cast about, searching for something to show the gentlemen. He flipped through a stack of old portraits, most of them half done or aborted projects. Then came a low whistle of approval from behind him. “Good heavens,” Perry said, a note of awe in his voice. Will turned quickly and found the men staring intently at the painting of Brandhurst Hall, resting on an easel in the corner. A shaft of light from the window illuminated it brilliantly. Thank goodness Livie had left it here! “Most impressive,” Ruskin said in a far-off voice. The critic regarded the painting more scrupulously than Will had ever seen done before. He began to tingle all over. “I say, Barnes, you’ve captured the essence of that prodigy house as no other artist has.” Perry slanted a look of sharp relief and warm admiration Will’s way. “What else do you have?” Will wiped the giddy smile off his face and cleared his throat. “I... uh ... I’m afraid I don’t have much. Just...” His voice trailed off and he gave the stack of upright canvases at his feet a pained look. “Just... a few minor projects, mostly incomplete.” “I suspect you might be underestimating yourself, young man,” Ruskin said, turning to him with evident excitement. “I want to see everything.” There was an awkward silence while Will resigned himself to showing these great men inferior work. “All I really have is this.” He pulled out one of the failed portraits of the Duchess. He’d set his subject in Arthurian legend. Olivia was Guinevere, accepting the hand of Lancelot, who knelt in full armor with an ethereal look of unrequited passion. He’d had no model for Lancelot and hoped any likeness to himself would not be obvious. He held it up, shrugging at the lame offering. “You see, I’ve been gone, and have just returned. Most of my work is at home. This is not my best, I fear.” Another long silence. Both men seemed frozen to the spot. Color glowed in Perry’s white cheeks, and Ruskin lost his air of analytical reserve. He frowned meaningfully and his lips worked with emotion. Now the passionate art lover, he stepped closer to the painting. “Extraordinary!” he declared in a hushed voice. “Who is she?”

“No one,” Will said, suddenly fearing for her, at the exact moment that Perry replied, “The Duchess of Brandhurst.” Ruskin looked questioningly at both of them. “That is to say,” Will replied, “this was a failed attempt to capture the Duchess’s essence. I wouldn’t presume to call it her likeness.” “Pshaw!” Perry said. “If this is a failure,” Ruskin added, “I’d like to see what you consider a success.” “You’re too modest, Barnes,” Perry declared. “I see qualities in this painting I would warrant Her Grace has yet to notice in herself. That is the mark of a truly great portraitist.” “You love her,” Ruskin said, turning to Will with sudden understanding. Will swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” “You love your subject. It is obvious. I tell my protégé‘s that your subject must be noble. That is to say, you must feel passionate about it, or there is no point bothering to paint it. You must also have a love of beauty, which you obviously do. You must be sincere, and you must treat your subjects imaginatively. These are the things required of any great artist, and you have achieved all that.” “But it’s?” “I know it is rough, even crude. But I have been a critic for a very long time, and I know potential the moment I see it.” Ruskin pulled out his pocket watch and squinted down at it. “Time to go, Moore, or I’ll miss the afternoon train.” He tucked the watch back in his pocket and promptly exited the cottage. Perry motioned for Will to follow. The footman opened the carriage door. Ruskin stopped before he entered and turned back to Will. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Barnes. I’d like you to come to London later this week with some of your paintings. I want to introduce you to some of the masters. You can learn more about your craft from them. I might even arrange a small exhibit.” “Later this week?” Will asked. Perry caught the note of despair and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Dear boy, cancel whatever plans you have. An invitation like this doesn’t come along every day.” “I can’t.” The guests stared at him, dumbfounded. Will ran a hand through his hair, restoring familiar disorder to his blunt locks. “I promised to paint the Duchess’s portrait. I have to start tomorrow.” “Can’t it wait?” Sir Perry asked.

“No,” Will replied, the simple word brooking no argument. “I am sorry, Mr. Ruskin. I would come any other time, but I have to do this painting. It is more important than ... anything. I hope you understand.” The critic let out a low groan of frustration. “Indeed I do. The day you stop feeling passionately about your work is the day I lose interest in it. Very well. Come as soon as you can. But don’t wait too long. Greatness takes time to cultivate. Your destiny awaits you. Come along, Moore. I’ll drop you off at your home.” Perry winked reassuringly at Will and climbed in the carriage.

Chapter 15

Late the next morning, a stranger galloped down the long drive to Brandhurst Hall. He’d drawn quite a few stares on his trip up from London. In the land of top hats and bowlers, his broad-brimmed flat-top hat stood out. Beneath it his shoulder-length fair hair, full mustache, and goatee made for a memorable face. His strong shoulders looked broader than they really were in his Prince Albert frock coat, and he wore a gleaming Colt in a hip holster. His high-heeled, tooled leather boots, his string tie, and copper belt buckle would have marked him as a cowboy to anyone in England who’d seen Bill Cody’s Wild West Show. When he reined in at the entrance to Brandhurst Hall, he jumped from his saddle, then took the front steps two at a time. When he rang the bell, the footmen scurried to attend the unusual visitor. Hammond met him in the entrance hall. “Good morning, sir,” he said formally, none of his consternation showing in his impassive expression. “I’m here to see the Duchess of Brandhurst,” the stranger drawled, “and I ain’t in any mood to wait.” Hammond struggled not to grimace at the man’s distasteful foreign accent. He looked every bit as ill-fitting as he sounded. And he positively reeked of leather and horsehair. “And who may I ask is calling?” “The Duke of Brandhurst.” He removed his hat and flapped it on his thigh. He smiled through the plume of dust that rose in front of him. “Andrew Thorpe. Nice to meet ya.”

Neville had finally cornered the new servant in exactly the place he wanted her?behind a half-naked marble statue of the goddess Diana. The tall piece stood on a marble pedestal in a grotto of the south wing. “Now, now, Maggie, don’t be afraid of me,” he murmured as he nibbled her ear.

“I ain’t exactly ‘fraid, Your Lordship,” Maggie replied in a bored tone as she canted her head awkwardly to one side, just out of reach of his nibbling lips. “Your Lordship,” Neville repeated on an ironic spurt of laughter. “You’re very charming, my dear. And very beautiful. I’ve had my eye on you from the moment your service began.” “I’ve been good, ain’t I?” she asked, finally turning his way. Worry shadowed her jaded eyes for the first time since he’d cornered her here. He knew in an instant what she feared the most, and that knowledge would give him the key to her bedroom. “I believe so, my dear. If you haven’t been good, I’ll have to punish you in a most painstaking fashion. You don’t want to lose your position, now do you, Maggie?” He reached out and squeezed one of her breasts. “Easy, luv,” Maggie said in a hard voice, shoving his hand aside. “I ain’t no trollop.” “Oho! You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” Neville said. “That’s what we get for taking in a factory girl. I’ve heard about your type, Maggie.” This time he lunged properly, taking her in a steady squeeze. His mouth plundered hers. She squirmed and protested with a moan. “Hold on there now, feller, let the lady go.” Neville heard the gruff command, but he was so intent on getting satisfaction the words didn’t register until he heard the loud, cold click of a gun being cocked directly behind his head. He froze. He turned slowly and found himself face to face with the barrel of a revolver, and the strangest-looking man he’d ever seen. “Who the bloody hell do you think are you?” Neville asked, lifting his chin. “Neville?” the stranger asked incredulously, uncocking his gun. “Well, that’s a fine greeting for your long lost cousin. It’s me! Andrew.” When the uncouth stranger held out his broad hand, Neville took it as a matter of course, but he could muster no greeting, warm or otherwise. This was Andrew? They had played together as children once when his father took Neville to visit America. But that had been years ago, and Andrew had been such a puny boy then. Neville squinted, trying to find a glimmer of that frail child in this western brute. “You ... ?” “Hell, yes. I’ve come home to roost,” Andrew said, slapping him soundly on the back. Then he looked at the flustered maid and raised a condemning eyebrow. “Fortunately, just in time for this young lady.”

Late that night, after Andrew turned out the lights in the Queen Anne room, Livie slipped out of the secret passageway. Yards of poplin and lace from her dressing-gown and cloak sailed behind her as she

sprinted unseen through the natural bower. She paused several times to catch her breath, then slowed to a manageable pace when she was well away from the house. When she reached the cottage, she thought she would burst with the news of the duke’s arrival. She banged on the door, and when Will opened it, she threw herself into his arms, laughing. “Will! Oh, dear heavens, you won’t believe what has happened!” He frowned. “What? Is something wrong?” “Yes! No. I’m not sure!” she answered on a giddy rush, reaching around to shut the door. “He’s arrived!” “The new duke?” She nodded and slipped her arms around Will’s waist. He pulled her tight and her hands slipped under his shirt and up the muscles and ribs that protruded from his chiseled back. His skin had a magic texture?smooth and hot. She nestled her forehead to his cheek and felt the familiar tug of his lips. “I couldn’t wait to see you.” He gripped her chin and pressed his mouth to hers, delving deep and hardening in an instant. She leaned into him, pressing her breasts to his chest. “Ah, Duchess,” he whispered. He unfastened the ties that bound her loose mantle and tossed it on a chair. Then he reached down and cupped one of her breasts, thumb caressing over the slick material. “How long can you stay?” “I want to tell you about the Duke.” That didn’t keep her from reaching around and caressing his derriere. He took in a hissing breath. “I suppose you plan to gesture often during the course of this conversation.” A narrow groove formed in one cheek as his wry half-smile dimpled the soft chestnut whiskers of a half-day beard. “You’re quite talented with your hands.” To further make his point, he reached down in kind and cupped her womanhood. “Oh, suddenly I don’t feel like talking.” He chuckled deep in his chest as he unfastened his trousers and drawers. He retrieved her hand and placed it around what felt like a silk-covered marble cylinder. She squeezed. The marble, it turned out, was malleable. He touched her lips with another soul-wrenching kiss. She felt his love pouring into her, and she kissed him back with the best she had to give. Then he broke away impatiently. “Oh, Livie! Hell, I’ve wanted you.” He pulled her to his small, square table, and with one sweep of his arm cleared it of the books, the plate and food lying there. When the plate shattered on the floor, Livie jumped. She felt a kind of triumph as he lifted her on the table and pushed down on her back with an urgency that spoke of desperate need. He leaned over her, his hips pressing between hers, and cupped both her breasts. “I want to paint you, but not nearly as much as I want to make love to you.” His fingers became claws that scraped down her breasts. He hurriedly unfastened the hidden hooks, then pulled the material aside and scooped up her bare breasts in both hands.

Livie groaned. Will’s strong, graceful hands kneaded her tender bosom with such skill she was soon squirming. Then his handsome features, gaunt in the candlelight, trained on her like a falcon to the lure. He leaned down, his eyes burrowing into hers, and his mouth pursed around one taut nipple, then the other, his tongue laving. At the same time his hands pulled at the loose pleats of her gown. He found her ankles, then crept up over her bare calves, his fingertips skating over her knees. When he realized she wore no undergarments, his urgency quickened. He roved higher, and with singular purpose gently squeezed the soft flesh of her thighs. His thumbs rotated in soft circles, inching ever higher, as his mouth swirled ever more erotically on her breasts. When at last his hands reached the apex, one thumb probed the softest and wettest part of her with exquisite skill. She jolted and gripped his arms. “I shall scream, Will.” “Good.” He chuckled almost demonically. He clearly planned to have his way. “I want you closer.” He gripped her hips and yanked them to the edge of the table in one easy move. He forced her legs apart, and slipped his own throbbing need beneath the folds of her skirt. He found the moist aperture, then slid in, thick and hard. She trembled and thrust up, wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her buttocks firmly in place, and as he moved with slow, delicious skill, she kissed him wildly. He reached into her very womb, it seemed. She didn’t know a man could go so deep, or last so long. She gave into him, gave herself over. Abandoned every last bit of dignity to revel in her humanness. He had taught her to live. And he had taught her to die, over and over. “I want all of you,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s yours.” With that, he picked her up, still inside her, and went to the wall, settling her back against it. Then he heaved with all his might. “You’re mine, do you hear me?” He was swollen with such desire the walls creaked from the force of his thrusts. Livie wrapped her legs around his waist and let her head loll with her drugged pleasure. “You’re mine, Livie. I don’t care who knows it. I don’t care if I die for it. You’re mine, sweetheart. My beauty. My love. My muse.” Her eyes went wide. She stopped breathing. A second later she cried out and arched with her shuddering release. “Yes, darling. Yes, yes, yes,” he said as he thrust. When she slumped in his arms, he carried her to the bed, lowered her, still inside again, and contracting the muscles in his buttocks, he pistoned her until he thought the bed would collapse. When he was finally spent, his vision blacked out, and he collapsed on the bed, unsure if he would survive, for surely he had filled her with not only his seed, but his life-blood. A very long time later he raised his head, smoothed back her sweat-soaked hair from her lovely face, and said, “Now, tell me about this duke.”

Will poured two glasses of sweet wine and swallowed deeply, regrettably washing the taste of Livie

from his lips. But it cleared his head, and convinced him he would revive. “Here, darling,” he said, handing her the other goblet. She languorously sat up and took it, smiling. She always thought it so sweet when he called her endearments. More than anything, it was proof of his devotion, and their equality. She put her lips to the cool goblet rim and sipped, savoring the taste of the liquor and pewter. “I think I can speak now without groaning with remembered pleasure.” “Don’t start your story until we wash.” He put down his goblet and poured water from a pitcher into a bowl on the washstand. He brought it to the bedside, knelt before her with his trousers still open, and tugged her to the edge. “Come closer. That’s it. Let’s undo your pretty gown.” He carefully unfastened each hook, then pulled it off her shoulders. “Lift up.” She raised her hips and he pulled the dress out of harm’s way. She was now naked. “Spread your legs.” She did as she was told, marveling that it all came so easily. When she was fully exposed, he raised a sponge to her navel and squeezed, letting the water drip down between her legs. Then he lathered soap on his hands and rubbed one of them deeply and gently up and down the groove. She groaned. “Oh, dear.” “I thought you said you were done with groaning,” he said slyly. He leaned forward and kissed a breast. He grabbed the other with his other soap-slick hand, twirling a thumb over the bud. “Will, I shall never speak my piece at this rate.” “It’s your own fault for being so damned attractive.” He stopped suddenly and rinsed his hands in the washbowl. He refilled the sponge and dribbled water over her soapy privates, manipulating the last of the suds from her body. “Now it’s your turn.” He stood and stepped out of his trousers, looking lean and fit, and handed her the sponge. He stood before her, still partially erect. She lathered him with the sponge, then lathered her hands, running them along his elastic shaft. She cupped his stones and let her thumb run up the underside. He gripped her shoulders and squeezed hard. “You’re too good at that,” he whispered. “Rinse me.” She obliged him. Then he gently pushed her back on the bed and slid one finger inside her, making way. He lowered himself and rubbed the head of his shaft up and down her slick groove. Then he entered, and brought her to climax all over again. He wasn’t as urgent as before, and it lasted a long time. She marveled at his beautiful, lean body, and the power of his manhood. When he came with a whimper of wonder, she loved him all the more and kissed him, over and over. I love you, her kisses said, though her tongue dared not do likewise. She held him in her arms and stroked his head. “He arrived unexpectedly today.” Will raised his groggy head. “Hmmm?” “The Duke.” “Before you start, let’s wash again.”

“No! Just lay here and be still.” She laughed and pushed him to her side. “Or I shall never tell my tale.” “I’ll settle for this tail.” He slapped her rump with a throaty laugh. “Will!” He grinned engagingly. “Very well. Tell me everything.” “I couldn’t believe it when I first saw him.” Will smiled, trying to picture it. “Is he a stuffed shirt?” “Hardly!” She propped herself on an elbow and focused on him with twinkling eyes. “He’s unbelievable. Wait until you see him. He looks like some eccentric American. He looks like Neville, but with muscles. And long blond hair. He wears the most outlandish clothes, though I suppose they’re typical for someone from the New World. Especially one from the Wild West. Oh, and he has the most dreadful accent!” Will laughed. “Lord, he sounds like someone I should paint.” “If you did, you would have such an opportunity to use color! His cheeks are darker than yours. He’s obviously spent a great deal of time in the sun, probably herding cattle. He’s a cattleman, you know.” “A British lord herding cattle?” “It’s not uncommon in America. They have to do something in that godforsaken land. We just had no idea that Andrew was so ... involved. We thought he was an invalid. We haven’t heard a word from his family since he was very young. His father didn’t get along with my husband.” “I can understand that.” “Andrew seems very uncomfortable in his new surroundings. Then again, he’s too familiar at the oddest times. He swears, then apologizes contritely. He always looks as if he’s tracked in mud on the carpet and just discovered it. Oh, good heavens, I just thought of something. The Queen will faint when he goes to Court.” “I’d dearly like to see that.” Will wrapped his free hand around her narrow waist and nuzzled his lips against her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of feminine sexuality. With her hair tumbling down her back, she looked like an enchantress. The more she grew at ease with her own body, the more he wanted to possess it. He was growing hard again. “I can’t get enough of you.” “Poor Neville,” she said, ignoring him. “He was quite undone. We were all expecting this sickly, weak man. I daresay Neville had been hoping to find his cousin standing at death’s door. Andrew had been unhealthy as a child. Apparently American sunshine cured him.” “So once again a duke reigns at Brandhurst Hall.” Will good-naturedly gave up trying to seduce her and took another drink of wine. She was preoccupied, as well she should be. “How did you get away without his knowledge?” The amusement lighting her tiger eyes dimmed. “I used the Duke’s secret passage. He stayed in one of the guestrooms. But tomorrow I will have to move out of the Duchess’s quarters and will have no way to

spirit out in the middle of the night.” His stomach rocked with a sick feeling. “But I will be able to come to the Hall to do your portrait.” It was more of a question than a declaration. He was just beginning to realize how much had changed the moment the strange American duke had arrived. She did not answer, rather turned her head and made a great deal of sipping her wine. “Livie, I turned down an invitation from Ruskin so I could paint your portrait.” Her head snapped his way. “Ruskin? You met him? So Perry came to see you?” “Yes. Who is he?” “A friend. A dear friend. You can trust whatever he says.” “I told him I couldn’t do anything until I’d finished your painting. You have to know how important this is to me.” “And to me.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding, but he wondered if she knew just how close they were to being torn apart. In some ways she was still so naive. No matter how unconventional the new duke might be, he would never tolerate Livie’s affair with a commoner. Her face clouded over, as if she’d read his thoughts. She leaned close and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Will, why don’t we run away together?” His heart skipped a beat. “Are you serious?” “We can go to America. If a man like Andrew is considered ordinary over there, who would even think twice about an old duchess and a young artist?” “It’s not that simple. Surely there are rules there, too.” “In Boston, yes, but we could go west. We could mine for gold.” He leaned back and propped his head on his laced fingers. “Now you’re talking nonsense.” She gave his chest a squeeze. “All I want is to be with you. Life doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.” “Oh, Livie,” he whispered hoarsely, tracing the sculpted heart-shaped edge of her face. “I want you more than words could possibly express. But I have to make my own way.” He felt cold inside. He sat up and put an arm around her. He felt as he used to, when a woman he’d made love to realized he was just passing through, that art was his real mistress. Suddenly he felt panicked. What if he hadn’t changed at all? What if not even Livie could hold him down? God, what was wrong with him? “Hold me, Livie. Yes, that’s it. Tighter.” He closed his eyes and nestled his chin over her shoulder while

tears she could not see watered his lashes. “You know I would do anything for you, go anywhere with you, but I must make something of myself. Now. Before it’s too late. I want to show at the Royal Academy, and I want it to be your portrait. And it must be perfect.” The reminder of their contract put a chill on her shoulders. She pulled away and scooted to the edge of the bed. “I thought you cared about me, not about the portrait.” He could see the return of brittle fragility that he’d seen in her that first night. Her eyes were empty. The natural warmth glowing in her cheeks had been replaced by the cool tint of alabaster. Again, he felt a stab of guilt for wanting so much for himself. But his innate stubbornness would not allow him to back down. He had little more to offer her but his strength and vision. If he let her take those away from him, he’d be of no use to either of them. He had to make her understand. “Livie, look at me.” He grabbed her arms and forced her body his way. “You are my muse. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. You are my inspiration, and my task mistress. You don’t understand, do you? Hell, how could you?” He leaped up from the bed and ran both hands through his hair. “How can I explain this? I knew I had talent before, Livie, but there wasn’t a soul in the world who cared. Somehow, when I met you, everything changed. “Now, don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking about the opportunities you’ve given me, not even introducing me to Sir Perry. It’s simply that after. .. loving you . ..” His voice broke and he blinked hard. “Suddenly my art made sense. This thing that I had been striving to achieve became flesh and blood. I understood this demanding mistress?that is to say, my work. And now that you are my real mistress, my desperate bid to paint is merely ... a ... part, or a piece? hell, what word am I trying to think of?” “An extension?” she offered. He whirled on her and pointed at her, smiling. “Yes. See, you understand. I’m no longer alone. I have some reason to be, something to shoot for. My art is merely an extension of my incredible life.” “How did I do that?” “By giving. By taking. By seeing the best in me. You showed me that I had not reached nearly high enough. I must succeed, not only so that you can be proud of me, but so that you might realize that you have the power to transform those you love.” He went to her and knelt before her. He covered her hands with his own. “You are a strong woman, Livie. I must be strong in return. I cannot be anything less in your presence. Don’t take away the only arena in which I might slay dragons. I must do this. For both of us.” She took him into her arms. “Very well, my darling. Begin your painting now. But if I am as powerful as you say, I will dictate the terms by which it is done.” He drew back, wondering what she meant. He rose, tugged on his trousers, then went to his easel, and began to prepare for his initial sketch. When he looked up again, he understood completely. She had placed herself in the easy chair, with an arm propped up, supporting her chin as she looked pensively into the distance. She looked like the perfect lady, except that she was utterly naked. “Paint me like this, Will.” Her sultry eyes found him. “Let’s see how courageous you really are.” He gave her a sensual wink. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He spent more than an hour at his easel, sketching her form in charcoal. He adjusted her this way and that, moved the candles just so, until at length she grew weary. “Haven’t you done enough for one night?” He dropped the stick of charcoal onto the easel tray and rubbed the black from his fingers on his pants. “I suppose so. This is just the beginning, though. I will start painting tomorrow. But since you’ve told me you can no longer sneak out at night, I must either come to the Hall by day, or you must visit me here.” “Of course, you can come to the house.” She grabbed his hand as he passed by. She looked up through an invisible and sticky web. “I am not ashamed of you, Will. You do know that?” When she said it, a starburst of anger and hurt exploded in his belly. He realized that’s what he’d feared the most? her embarrassment over him. But she was apparently willing to prove otherwise. He continued on and stepped around the easel, saying blithely, “I never thought you were.” She knew he was lying. She loved his subtle pride. It wasn’t loud, but it was deep. “May I see what you’ve done so far?” “Of course.” He held out a hand and helped her up. She moved with anticipation to the easel, anxious to see how he’d rendered her body. When she saw, she moaned. “You coward! You sketched me with clothes on!” He wrapped his arms around her from behind, cupping her breasts and caressing gently. She moaned again, this time with pleasure. “I’m no fool, Duchess. I want this painting to be shown in public. And I don’t want any other man to see you as I do.” He kissed her neck, tongue gently swirling and he softly pinched her hardened nipples. By the time his velvet mouth stroked her ear, she was in another world. “Don’t you agree?” he murmured. “I’ll agree to anything as long as you make love to me again.” “I thought you’d never ask.” She pivoted in his arms and kissed him deeply. They had faced an obstacle together, the arrival of the new duke, one that might have torn them apart before the race even started. But it had only brought them closer together. Love was the answer. She knew it now. And she knew it would take them places they’d never been. She just didn’t know where, when or how.

Chapter 16

At precisely one the next day, the fourth Duke of Brandhurst sallied into the main withdrawing room, where the Duchess and her intimates awaited him. Livie sat next to Clara on the green striped sofa, Todd sat casually in one of the high-back chairs, and Neville paced nervously in front of the hearth. They all fell silent when the double mahogany doors opened with a whoosh. Perhaps not surprisingly, Andrew had opened them himself, a duty normally reserved for footmen. Another long moment of silence followed as each perused his accoutrements. He had made quite a transformation since yesterday. His long, sun-streaked hair had been tied at the back of his neck with a ribbon. His Prince Albert jacket had been replaced by subtle gray tails, and his dusty boots had been replaced by polished black shoes half hidden by neat-fitting trousers. The only thing that might give away his true nature was the holster and Colt revolver still strapped to his waist, which Clara stared at with bulging eyes. Todd saw it and coughed away an urge to laugh. Neville smiled determinedly, and Livie simply took it all in, quite certain she’d never been so amused in all her life. Andrew Thorpe was a much-needed breath of fresh air at Brandhurst Hall. “Howdy,” he said as he perused the gawkers. “Did I say something wrong? I do something wrong?” He patted his clothes, as if searching for a food stain. “Not at all, sir,” Livie said. She rose, and everyone followed suit. The men gave short bows and the women curtsied deeply. “Welcome again, Your Grace,” Livie said. “I hope you were comfortable last night and found everything to your satisfaction.” His square, cleft chin parted as a warm smile curled up one side of his face. “Aw, heck, Aunt Livie, stop this formal talk. It’s just me. Andy.” Livie could hear Clara’s exhale of relief, combined with disbelief. The young woman had been terrified of meeting the new duke, but Livie had insisted she join them. “Andrew,” she said, not quite able to bring herself to speak his nickname, “I believe you’ve met everyone here except for Miss Clara Peabody. She has become quite a dear friend. She is the daughter of a vicar, and she’s quite knowledgeable about politics. She has taught me a great deal about the plight of?” Neville cleared his throat loudly, giving her a warning glare. “?the match factory girls,” Livie continued, giving him a pointed look in return. “Well, now, ain’t that somethin‘. Even here in England there are ladies who have important things to say. I admire that.” The Duke strolled forward, still walking as if he wore high-heel leather boots. He gave her a short bow and a charming smile as open as a Nevada desert. “A pleasure to meet you, miss. That’s a lovely brooch.” Clara’s hand shot to the cameo pinned at her collar, then cast a furtive glance at Todd. She blushed and returned her focus to Andrew. “Thank you, Your Grace.” “I say there, Andy old chap,” Todd said amiably as he edged determinedly into their circle of sudden intimacy. “You’re looking fit. We were given to believe you were on your last legs.”

“You wish,” the Duke replied, shaking Todd’s hand vigorously and slapping him on the back. “Good to see you, Todd. It’s been too long. I hear you’re a lawyer now.” “Yes, and I can get you out of any legal trouble that follows you from America.” Andrew barked out a laugh. “It may come in handy, though I bought my cattle fair and square. I ain’t a rustler or robber baron, so I’m safe from the law for the time being.” He cast his eyes about, frowning at the new surroundings. “Ain’t you supposed be drinking tea ‘bout now?” “If you’d like, Your Grace?” Livie caught herself and smiled. “I mean Andrew. I’d be happy to ring for tea, though we usually wait until later in the day.” “Ring for tea, by golly. Let’s celebrate.” “If it’s celebrating you want to do,” Todd said with his usual enthusiasm, “then you’ll want something a little stronger than tea.” They chatted amiably over tea and brandy, and for some time Andrew regaled them with stories of the Wild West. It seemed he’d kept with a rough crowd, eschewing the high society that reigned in the East. It was obvious that he loved living the life of a cattleman, and though he spoke with gruff confidence, Livie thought she saw trepidation lurking behind his earnest brown eyes, especially when the conversation focused on the social duties required of someone in his position here in England. Clearly, if he wasn’t ready to put away his revolver, he didn’t quite feel at home here. She wondered how she could put him at ease. “Perhaps I can show you around the estate, Andrew,” Livie suggested when she took the last sip of her reviving tea. “Thank you, ma’am.” She smiled, feeling buoyant. Her own future was uncertain, but at least she knew a decent and forthright man would take her husband’s place. She sensed he would be a good and fair landlord, and perhaps even inject a bit of his adopted country’s curious notions of equality into English society. Then a cool wave of melancholy rolled unexpectedly through her. Andrew’s arrival meant she was no longer needed here. She really could move on now. But to where? “Before we go,” the Duke said, tossing back the last of his brandy and exhaling loudly, “there are just a few a matters I want to hash through. I’ve spent the mornin‘ goin’ over the ledgers with Mr. Hildebrande and the estate steward. I need you, Neville, to go into London and handle some tradin‘ matters.” “Go to London?” Neville’s dismay was audible. “Why me? I can’t possibly go at this important time.” Andrew scratched the back of his head and sized his cousin up with a squinty glance. “Well now, tell me, Neville, what exactly is it ya do around here?” Neville sat ramrod straight. “Why, I take care of all the Duke’s ...” He licked his lips. “You see, the Duchess depends on me to...” His voice faded when he saw pity in Livie’s eyes. “I manage so much. This estate would be... it would ...” He finally fell silent and lost the starch in his spine. Andrew nodded understandingly. “I know you’re important to this estate, Nev. That’s why I’m sendin‘ you to London. I need you there. Ya understand? You’re family. This matter needs to be confidential. I

don’t trust anybody else.” Realizing he’d been deftly handled, Neville looked up with bitter resignation. “Yes, Your Grace.” “Enough of that nonsense. Call me Andy.” Over my dead body. The thought was written all over Neville’s sour face. “Andrew,” he said pointedly, as if to assert his last vestige of authority, “I trust you will be keeping the late Duke’s valet.” Livie looked up sharply and found Neville’s defiant glare waiting for her. “I’ve been using Antonio for the last year and he’s capital. I highly recommend him.” “Nope. Got my own man. He’ll be arrivin‘ tomorrow.” Neville flushed. This time he looked at the Duchess with resentment. He smiled at Andrew. “But Antonio knows how to dress a duke.” “I’ve been dressin‘ myself since I was five, Nev. I don’t need me a dandy dresser. Now, I know I have to learn the English ways, and I will, with the Duchess’s help.” He winked at Livie. “But for now, I trust my own people. I believe in a clean start. A man’s got to have old-timers in his private quarters, see? Don’t ya worry any, though. I’ll make sure your valet has a bundle a money to tide him over until he finds a new position. And if he’s as good as ya say, I’ll give him a fine letter of reference. Or if you prefer, use him in London. I just want familiar blood here. Anything else?” “I think that’s more than enough, Andy,” Todd said dryly. “Now how ‘bout that walk, Duchess?” “Of course.” She rose and took his proffered arm. Just before they exited, the Duke turned back, frowning as if a thought had just occurred to him. “By golly, how rude of me. Miss Peabody, I should have invited you, too. Then I’d have two purty ladies on my arm. Will you come?” Clara rose as smoothly as if a puppet master had pulled her strings. A curious little smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Of course, Your Grace, I’d be delighted.” She floated toward the Duke without her characteristic reserve, not even noticing the disconcerted frown that marred Todd’s congenial face. Livie did, though, and she thought she saw Andrew sweep him with a subtle smile of triumph. Could Andrew have already discerned Todd’s affection for Clara? If so, Andrew was more clever than Livie might have guessed. And strong-willed. He was obviously wasting no time establishing his authority. The one who had the most to lose under the circumstances was poor Neville. He had misjudged everything.

Neville returned to his study just in time to see his valet gulping down three fingers of brandy. Antonio didn’t even bother to look guilty. “You’re not going to become a sot, are you, Tony?” Neville said with remarkable poise. He flopped down in an easy chair and perused the newspaper waiting for him.

“No, but I thought I’d assuage the burning in my belly.” “Why are you upset, old chap?” Antonio poured another three fingers and swilled. “Because you haven’t gone to Scotland Yard. And now it’s too late.” He hiccuped. Neville smiled. “All in good time, my man. All in good time. I could hardly leave before I made an impression on my cousin. And now he has ordered me to London. That means I can do his business, and my own, without raising any concern here at Brandhurst Hall. When Scotland Yard detectives start their investigation and discover the lockbox, they will be the ones to present proof of Andrew’s illegitimacy. I will step in like the hero of the day to assume the title, and no one will even think to blame me.” The slightly inebriated valet swayed a little as he blinked in comprehension and came to Neville’s side. “You know, sir, that this means the Duchess will hang.” Neville set the paper aside and shut his eyes as the word reverberated in his mind. Hang. Hang. The Duchess will hang. Then he shrugged. “Ah, well, that’s the way of it, then. If you murder someone, you must pay for your crime.” He smoothed back a slick lock of dark hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. Yes, crimes had to be punished. He was doing the right thing. And just when he thought he’d gotten in the last word, he found himself running down the hall to the water closet to vomit. Damn his bloody conscience! It was always the last virtue to go in a man who had sold his soul to the devil.

Livie had enjoyed her walk with Clara and the Duke so much that she was lulled into a temporary complacency, and suspected nothing untoward when she was summoned by Andrew later in the day. The footman announced her in His Lordship’s study, and she swept into the long, stately chamber almost breezily. Mr. Hildebrande and Andrew were huddling over some papers at the desk where she had been conducting business in his absence. “You sent for me, Your Grace?” The Duke was frowning at an old document, but looked up and brightened at the sight of her. “Duchess, I thought I told you to call me?” “Andy,” she said with a vibrant smile. He rubbed his chin. “Aha. You’re humoring me. You can’t hornswoggle me, Aunt Livie.” He had the same narrow features as Neville, but his face was fuller and very tan, and his expressions were clear and devoid of subterfuge. “Yes, I am.” “Good.” He chuckled and winked. “One must always humor the Duke.”

“You’re learning quickly, I see.” He rose, then his smile turned down as he looked uncomfortably at an intimidating stack of documents. “Hildebrande, we’ll continue with this tomorrow.” “Very good, sir.” The efficient and slender secretary bowed shortly and slipped silently from the room. “Come over here, Duchess.” Andrew circled around the desk and motioned for her to join him on an enormous red velvet sofa, deeply imbedded with brass buttons. “There is somethin‘ we need to jawbone about.” The uncharacteristic trepidation in his voice was a red flag of warning that tightened Livie’s chest. “What is it?” “I took a gander at the ledgers.” He waited until she settled, then he sank down, rubbed his thighs with big, calloused hands, and licked his lips. “I see several entries for payments to a Mr. Willoughby Barnes.” He crossed his ankle over the other knee, draping his arm over the back of the chair in a pose so casual that Livie was momentarily at a loss for words. It wasn’t that she disapproved; she simply wasn’t used to such familiarity from a gentleman, if Andrew could be called such. She supposed this behavior was to be expected from a man raised in a country founded by rebels and rogues. She looked into his placid eyes and saw a distinct glimmer of compassion, but she knew well enough to let him do the talking, lest she be lulled into confessing more than was necessary. “What is it you would like to know, my dear?” “You hired Mr. Barnes twice for garden work, and twice for paintings.” Livie quirked her brows, daring him to lead them further down this slippery path. Andrew rubbed his square jaw and cleared his throat. “I reckon what I mean to say is, is he a gardener or is he a painter?” “Both” was her even reply. She employed a lifetime’s practice in austere grace to keep her expression utterly neutral, and faintly condescending. “Awright.” Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “Is he famous?” “Not yet.” She swallowed hard at the touch of his measuring glance, adding, “But I am quite certain he will be.” “Then hire him to paint me. I gotta do this right. I ain’t just a cattleman now. I passed through that confounded gallery yesterday. Lordy, what a somber group of corpses hangin‘ on those walls.” Livie smiled. “You’re a very intelligent man. You did not bring me here to discuss your portrait. Why don’t we speak frankly?” He turned a surprised look her way. “I reckon that’s best. I’ll bet old Uncle Quinton considered himself darned lucky to have a plain-speakin‘ woman at his side. He was an ornery cuss, as I heard it. I suppose you settled his hash.” Livie’s bright countenance clouded. “Not exactly. I’ve changed a great deal since your uncle’s death.

That means that I am strong enough to discuss any issue you’d care to raise. You know from our discussion with Miss Peabody that I am already involving myself in politics.” “Right.” He shifted uncomfortably, then rose and began to pace. “Now, I don’t give a gosh dang what other folks think, whether they’re servants or the... the aristocracy as you ‘uns call it. They practically had to truss me up and tie me to a mast to get me to come here to England, I have to tell you. The only gol-durn reason I came was because it’s my duty.” He gave up his pacing and returned to his desk, pulling a letter out of a drawer and regarding it as it were an adder. He held it up to her for her distant perusal. “This snake in the grass, the valet, Antoine?” “Antonio.” “Yeah, that’s the one. He sent me this here letter.” He tossed it down on the desk. She could hardly hear herself think, much less talk. The blood was roaring in her head. What had the valet told him? Antonio was the only other one present in the garden after Perry murdered her husband. Had that conniving valet accused him after all this time? “What about Antonio? What did he say?” Andrew rubbed his face up and down several times with his strong, calloused hands. Then he sighed wearily, letting his hands drop to his sides. “Aw, heck, Aunt Livie.” He regarded her painfully. “He says before he hits the trail, he wanted me to know that... that you murdered my uncle?” “Me?” “?And that ya did it so that you could... now, how would a right upstanding lady like you put it? So ya could associate with Mr. Barnes.” Her fingers went numb. Her face turned to stone. How crudely put. How cruel and disloyal. “How dare he make such an accusation!” The Duke sighed again, this time in sympathy, and returned to the sofa, sitting on the edge and staring down at his hands. “He says the late Duke was stabbed to death with your letter opener.” Andrew looked up then, his warm brown eyes cool and sober. She knew what he was asking. “I did not kill your uncle,” she said hoarsely. Her topaz eyes glittered fiercely. “I swear it.” His face shuddered with relief. “I believe you. I’m sorry, but I had to?” “Don’t apologize.” She realized she was twisting her hands together, and she forced them to relax. There was nothing to fear now. The truth had come out quicker than she would have guessed. She stood and went to the window, looking out with a sense of poignancy at this grand estate that had, at least in some small measure, been hers. “I did not murder the Duke, but I must tell you, Andrew, that Antonio is correct on one matter.” She turned to face him. “Mr. Barnes is indeed special to me. I realize how disreputable this must seem, and therefore, I will leave Brandhurst Hall immediately.” She started for the door, but he jumped up, taking wide strides until he reached her. “Now, hold your horses there, Duchess.” He stood in front of her, palms in front of his chest. “Hold on. Come back and sit with me a moment, if ya please.”

He held a hand toward the couch. Livie fought a terrific urge to flee and never return. She had not expected there would be a postscript to the melodramatic confession she’d dreaded for so long. At length, she nodded tersely. “Very well.” When they were again seated, he said, “You’re a widow, and ya got certain rights. And, dag blame it, I don’t mind tellin‘ ya I need you here. I don’t know diddly about proper Court behavior. I was countin’ on you teachin‘ me a thing or two before I met the Queen. I don’t cotton to all this formality, and I don’t give a dang what others think. I don’t see a thing wrong with your friendship with this painter.” She looked up in amazement. “You don’t?” He shook his head, smiling wickedly. “I have to tell ya, Aunt Livie, my parents hated your husband. My pa didn’t think much of his older brother, and he hated being part of the upper crust. It about strangled him. He raised me different. I don’t rightly know the best way to handle the threat from this polecat, Antonio. But I know one thing for sure. My first official act as the head of this estate is goin‘ to be breaking bread with Mr. Barnes. That’ll give the gossips somethin’ to chew on.” A flood of gratitude and surprise welled in the form of tears. She withdrew a kerchief from the frilled ruffs at her wrist and dabbed her eyes. “Andrew, you are the most extraordinary man I’ve met in a long, long time.” “I’ll watch your backside, Duchess, if you’ll watch mine.” He rose and went to the desk, picking up an invitation. “Now, I’ve got me here an invitation to visit the Duke of Devonshire. Ya got any advice for me?” “I am quite sure you will hold your own. But perhaps ...” Her voice trailed away, and she looked disdainfully at his holster. “Go on, I ain’t gonna jump down your throat.” “Perhaps you can leave behind your revolver.” She delicately arched her brows. “It’s not considered polite to wear weapons indoors.” He looked truculently down at his waist. “I’d feel like a fish outta water without my shootin‘ iron, but I reckon I could get used to the notion.” “Good.” She smiled. “You’re going to be a splendid duke, Andrew. I’m proud of you already.”

Chapter 17

For the next two days, Will worked on Livie’s portrait in her drawing room. Each morning he appeared at the front door and was greeted with increasing familiarity by the footmen. He had a quiet conspirator in Mr. Hammond, who daily escorted him to the Duchess, staring down any servant who dared to look

inquisitively at the gardener-turned-artist as he passed. Will did not meet the Duke until the third day, when His Grace returned from a tour of outlying properties. The Duke of Brandhurst met privately with Livie and Will in his study, then they took their meal in the dining hall. Neville had already left for London. Clara had gone there as well to deliver the Duchess’s formal statement of support to Lord Skelton, and Todd escorted her to ensure her safety. Will suspected the dinner had been planned around these absences. He was grateful that his first visit with the Duke had not been in the presence of Neville, or anyone else for that matter. Will felt keenly out of place. For as much as he hated being from the lower class, the distinction was as deeply imbedded in him as it was in his supposed superiors. He felt like an imposter chatting with the Duke over roast fillet of veal with béchamel sauce, larded sweetbreads, and baked raspberry pudding, as if such a fine repast were routine. It was only Will’s new confidence in his destiny, which the Duchess had nurtured, that steadied him and forced him to challenge his own assumptions about his place in Society. They chatted amiably throughout the meal. Will found himself far more comfortable than he would ever have imagined. Andrew Thorpe was perhaps the only duke in English history who could make Will feel well-bred. Will absorbed His Grace’s lazy accent with fascination and laughed delightedly at his anecdotes, many of which were charmingly self-deprecating. After dessert was served, Olivia excused herself so the men could smoke cigars and drink brandy. Will and Andrew both watched her depart with admiration gleaming in their eyes. The Duke was the first to look back. He surveyed Will’s reaction closely. “She’s quite a lady,” Andrew said. Will had no easy reply. “Words could not possibly express my admiration for Her Grace.” Andrew seemed pleased, and he leaned back while the butler served up two glasses of brandy and proffered a box of cigars. Silently the men lit them from the candelabra. Will had never cared for cigars, but then he’d never smoked the finest that money could buy. “This is a bit better than my usual fare,” he said dryly, holding it up appreciatively. “Wealth has its advantages.” Andrew stuck the cigar between his teeth and studied Will through the smoke that twisted upward. “There is not as great a difference between us as you might think, Barnes.” Will allowed a sardonic half grin to dimple one cheek. “How do you suppose, sir?” “I was raised out West. The old man wanted to make a man of me. I herded cattle on a pretty big spread. I learned the most from an old Indian who worked for my father. I mean to tell ya I learned with a hungry belly, a sore arse, and a hard head. And I learned that the greatest pleasures in life ain’t got a damned thing to do with fancy estates and titles. Not even with wealth. A man learns the measure of his own character in hard times. And in nature.” Will puffed and blew out a smoke ring, watching it rise, then vanish in the air. He didn’t know exactly what the moral of the Duke’s story was, but he sensed the plain-spoken man was trying to bridge the gulf between their social positions. Will was touched by the herculean effort. “Your Grace,” Will said, looking him in the eyes, “there is no sense in waltzing around the real issues here. I want to tell you I would do anything for the Duchess. And I do mean anything.”

Andrew removed the cigar from his teeth and took a strong drink. “Are you willing to do what it takes to make yourself a damned sight more respectable than you are now? Ya see, Barnes, a man with no family, no title, no money, he’s got to be famous. If ya can’t be accepted by Society, at least you can be respected. You’ve got to let the world know you’re brilliant, or eccentric. Or both.” “And how do you propose I go about doing that, sir?” He thought of his conversation with Livie. He wished she would talk to the Duke. Maybe then she’d understand how important it was that he prove himself. “Paint me.” Will looked up quickly. “Are you serious?” It was one thing to paint a duke’s widow, but the Duke of Brandhurst! Better yet, the odd new American duke would be an attention getter of the first order. “When do I start?” “As soon as you’re done paintin‘ my aunt.” “Excuse me, Your Grace.” Hammond swept into the room and leaned down to whisper in Andrew’s ear. The Duke frowned, then gave Will a worried look. “Pardon me, Barnes. We’ll talk later. I gotta feller from Scotland Yard here to see me. Why don’t you mosey on down and keep the Duchess company? I reckon she’ll be serving coffee soon. Save me a cup, will you?” “I’m quite sure I can promise you a serving of coffee, sir.” Will smiled at Andrew’s charming modesty. Only after they departed did Will sober with the realization of what had just occurred.

An hour later Livie joined the Duke and the inspector in the front drawing room. She entered alone with her head held high and her usual gracious demeanor. No one, not even Will, could imagine how much she dreaded this visit. Over coffee he had warned her what was afoot, and so she was somewhat prepared for this interview. But not as prepared as she would need to be to escape her downfall. Will thought that all she would have to do was proclaim her innocence. He didn’t understand how truly complicated life could be, especially when one’s reputation was more valuable than gold. “You sent for me, Your Grace?” she said when she stood before Andrew. She did not look at the detective. The men rose. “Duchess, this here is Inspector Dudley Gray, from Scotland Yard. Inspector, you have the honor of meeting Her Grace the Duchess of Brandhurst.” “Your Grace,” the stocky detective said, bowing curtly. His hair was a peculiar shade of reddish brown that gave one the impression it had been dyed, as well it might have been, for he sported a narrow gray mustache. He didn’t wear a uniform, but dressed in plain clothes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, though I regret the circumstances. I have come on a discreet mission, assigned to me directly from the Commissioner himself.”

“I hope it is not misfortune that brings you here, Inspector Gray.” “It’s a speck complicated, Duchess,” Andrew drawled. “Why don’t we all settle in here and have us a nice little powwow.” “Of course I will help in any way I can.” She sat next to her nephew on a short, brocade sofa. He briefly pressed her hand, and she flashed him a grateful smile. The inspector sat stiffly on the edge of an armchair. “Do you need some sort of intelligence from me, Inspector?” “I think the best way to approach this, ma’am, is to be forthright.” He spoke in a very proper, almost sing-song cadence, as if his emotions were in no way tied to what he said. And of course they couldn’t be. An investigator had to remain neutral, or at least maintain that illusion. “Scotland Yard recently received a package that included a letter and a letter opener. The note said that you had killed your husband, and that you had stabbed him to death with the dagger that was enclosed in the package. Naturally, the Commissioner appreciates your position and reputation, but such accusations must be dealt with forthwith.” Livie paused, taking great care to school her every blink and breath. She must not act guilty or nervous. “May I ask you who sent you this package?” “No, ma’am, you may not.” He gave a perfunctory smile to assuage the sting of his refusal. “It would present a great impediment to our investigation if I were to part with that information.” “But what makes you believe this anonymous informant? My husband died during a fit of apoplexy. The doctor said so.” “Yes, ma’am, but did someone also plunge a knife in his back during that attack?” “The doctor examined my husband shortly after his death. Surely he would have seen a wound if it were there.” “The doctor is a known imbiber, ma’am. I interviewed him before I arrived here and spoke with his neighbors. Under pressure, Dr. Donahue readily admitted that he was bribed, paid handsomely, to give that false report. Furthermore, not only have I interviewed the person who sent the dagger, I have spoken with a former servant who saw the stab wound as well. She was threatened into silence and resigned her post in fear for her life. I assure you, ma’am, I would not be troubling you otherwise.” Livie felt Andrew’s accusing gaze. She turned to him, trying to tell him without words that she was innocent. She looked at the inspector. “Are you saying that you believe the doctor’s word over mine?” “The good doctor is willing to swear to it under oath. Are you?” Livie looked away. Andrew moved to the edge of his seat. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” the inspector said, “but it is possible that Dr. Donahue was bribed by someone else without your knowledge.” She could not argue with that. Perhaps Perry had done it to protect himself. How much did this thorough investigator already know? “Who did the doctor say committed the bribery?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, Your Grace. He was apparently too inebriated at the time to remember.” He quietly sipped his tea. “The Duke’s valet?” “I suppose you’ve interviewed him as well,” Livie said in a hollow voice. “Yes, ma’am. Antonio Maulderazzi says that he found you kneeling over the body, with your hand on the dagger.” “But I was trying to remove it!” “So now you admit he was stabbed to death.” She felt Andrew’s censure, though she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. It was over. She shut her eyes and answered numbly, “Yes.” Andrew inhaled. “What?” “Mr. Maulderazzi says you tried to hide the dagger.” The detective looked oddly blank declaring this sensational tidbit. “He found it later, after you dispensed with it.” Livie’s head began to pound with pain. She had failed in her attempt to hide evidence of murder. A murder committed by Sir Perry Moore. Ironically the valet had not implicated her husband’s lover. He had apparently accused her. “Are you implying, Inspector, that I murdered my husband?” She pierced him with a withering look of disdain. “As much as I regret it, Your Grace, that is precisely what I am implying.” A moment of stunned silence followed. “Hold on.” Andrew stood. “This has gone far enough. We need to find a good lawyer.” “I did not kill my husband,” Livie declared. “Then who did?” Inspector Gray inquired with maddening neutrality. “If you know he was murdered, if you were there, then who was it? Who are you protecting?” Livie remained silent. “Are you trying to tell me the valet did it?” She shook her head. “No.” “Then that leaves you. Do you deny it?” She did not respond. She looked at him coldly. “I’ve said all I have to say on the matter.” She stood. “Now if you will excuse me.” The inspector rose. “One last matter, ma’am. Do not leave the premises. Barring some introduction of

evidence I’ve yet to see, I expect you will soon be indicted for the murder of the 4th Duke of Brandhurst. I will inform the Commissioner, and he will advise your lawyers further.”

Will waited for the Duchess in her drawing room, but she never returned. After a half hour had passed, he took to pacing and thought he might wear a path in the carpet until Clara entered. She was paler than usual. Her sapphire eyes were tinged with black shadows. He stopped in his tracks. “What is it?” Clara took a shaky breath. “Her Grace. She’s gone out alone.” “Where?” “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.” “Why didn’t you stop her?” Clara swallowed with difficulty. “I-I tried. But she wouldn’t listen to reason.” He hurried to her side. “What happened?” “There is a detective from Scotland Ya?” “Yes, I know!” He resisted the urge to .shake the news out of her. “She met with him. What happened after that?” Clara blinked back glistening tears. “She told me that she is going to hang for the murder of her husband.” “Murder.” It took a moment for the word to register. When it finally did, it felt like a steel spike being hammered into his skull. “Christ!” Clara nodded sadly. “Yes. Unbelievable, isn’t it?” “I have to find her.” “She left out the back. I think she was heading toward her garden.” “No,” Will said as he bolted out the door. “Not her garden.”

***

Will edged his way through a narrow opening in a wall of evergreens at the end of the Duke’s Garden. He found Olivia sitting on the same bench where he’d first glimpsed her more than a year ago. This time, however, she didn’t look like a nondescript mystery woman. She looked very much like a duchess.

She wore a confection of embroidered muslin and ribbon perched forward on her head. It rested lightly on a mass of frizzy pinned curls. Her petite shoulders seemed broad beneath her narrow, starched lace collar and above her tightly cinched waist. Her gloved hands were propped elegantly on a parasol she did not need, for the sun had all but set. He came around the bench, feet crashing through the grass, but she did not seem to hear him. “Duchess?” He came a stand directly in her line of sight. A full minute later she met his gaze. Hers was so blank it was as if she didn’t recognize him. “Duchess, it’s Will.” Awareness crept back into her eyes. “Yes, I know.” A sweet smile melted her icy expression. He rejoiced to see it gleaming in the dusky shadows. “Did you think I would forget?” “I hoped you wouldn’t.” He grinned with relief. “It’s scarcely been more than two hours since we dined together. I thought it went rather well, didn’t you? The Duke was most accommodating. He?” “I’m going to hang.” She barely spoke above a whisper. He swallowed hard and sank beside her like a ship’s anchor. He took her right hand and held it in both his hands. “You have such beautiful fingers.” He traced up and down a long blue vein buried just beneath the skin. “These hands have lived, and loved.” When he looked up, he found her scowling at him. “I said I’m going to hang. They’re going to charge me with murder.” “I know.” “Then why aren’t you raging against the injustices of the world? Don’t you care?” “Of course I care!” “Then rail at the moon. Shout to the stars. Life is bloody unfair!” “Livie, you may be tried for murder, but you are not going to hang.” She laughed bitterly. “What do you know?” She whipped her hand out of his. “I know you’re innocent.” She rose impatiently and strode to the headstone of her late husband’s grave. “He knows it, too.” She pointed to the grave. “And that will do me about as much good as my innocence will.” “Livie, I know you’re upset. You have a right to be. You can lash out at me if you wish, but you must listen to the logic of my arguments.” “Must I?” She whirled on him, lips quivering, chin in the air. “Why is that, Will?” “Because I know the truth,” he hissed. “No, you don’t.”

He stood and took a step toward her, but she cowered back as if he might hurt her. He scowled. “What has happened to you? Do you want to die?” She crossed her arms and hugged herself like a sullen child. “I have been dead all my life until now. Why in bloody blazes would I want to hang and die all over again?” “My point exactly, Duchess.” He fisted his fingers and took a steadying breath. He didn’t bother to approach her again. No point in playing cat and mouse. “It’s Will you’re talking to. Willoughby Barnes. The man who went with you on a picnic to Tillor Abbey. Remember?” She flung her hands to her heart and covered it tenderly. She closed her eyes and tried to swallow back a trickle of bittersweet tears. “Yes.” “Do you remember what you told me there?” She nodded and bit her lower lip. “You told me that the Duke’s lover killed him. Now all you have to do to clear your own name is to accuse her. Simply name her and I will take care of the rest.” This stopped her tears cold. She looked across the grave, and he watched her soften into the woman he had come to know and love. A tidal wave of relief washed over him. He started to cross the raised mound, then thought better of it and circled around until they were arm in arm. He kissed the top of her head, then gripped her arms and pushed her away so he could cajole her with his youthful smile. “I’m going to protect you. Understand? It’s simple. The Duke will ask Todd Leach to intervene on your behalf. He knows the law. He can set this bleeding inspector off in the right direction.” She smiled and her eyes crinkled with sadness. “No, Will, he can’t do that.” “Why not?” “Because I can’t accuse my husband’s murderer.” His jaw muscles ticked. He was growing angry now. “Damnation, Livie! Why not?” She pulled one arm free from his loosened grip and slid the other hand down into his. She slowly led him out of the garden and began to walk across the empty moonlit yard, tugging him gently along. “You mentioned Tillor Abbey. Do you remember me also telling you there about the time when my husband locked me in the attic for a months?” “How could I forget?” He tightened his grip around her fingers. “I told you that I would have starved if not for a friend, who risked life and limb to bring me food, to visit and help me keep my sanity. That friend was my husband’s lover. They were already involved before Quinton and I married.” Will stopped moving. “You didn’t tell me that part,” he said hoarsely. “No. I have always been discreet.” Her smile was full of irony, and she’d never been more beautiful.

“Quinton’s lover also fished me out of a pond once.” He slashed her an incredulous look. “Yes, I was that desperate at one point. I wanted to die. But Quinton’s lover wouldn’t let me.” “Why would she care whether you lived or died?” She shook her head emphatically. “No. That wasn’t it at all.” She turned and continued walking. He caught up and fell in beside her. “Anything else you haven’t shared with me about this murderer?” “Yes.” Livie’s voice was flat and emotionless. “My husband was murdered in the Duchess’s Garden. He was going to kill me.” “Why? Why after nearly a quarter of a century of marriage?” “It was the night of his fiftieth birthday,” she answered hollowly. “He was feeling morose. He’d glimpsed his own mortality and felt bitter that he did not have an heir. He’d been cursing me for it all week. I, too, felt a deep sense of loss and anger. In a rare moment, I lashed out. I told him he didn’t deserve an heir. I said if there were any justice in the world, he wouldn’t even be able to try. That night, after the houseguests retired, he tried to make love with his paramour. Brandhurst couldn’t perform at all. He was utterly humiliated.” “Thank God for small things,” Will said wryly. “He blamed me, of course. He came after me in a drunken rage and fired a pistol at me. I ran for my life. Someone must have taken the gun from him. By the time he found me in my garden, he had a cane. I tripped trying to flee. He stood above me with the silver handle of his walking stick posed for the fatal blow. Then he was fatally wounded himself. I would be worm’s meat right now if Quinton’s lover hadn’t stabbed him in the back, quite literally, just in time to save my life.” An image of her cold and lifeless in the ground flashed through his mind. “Oh, God, Livie.” He scooped her into his arms. With his arms entwined around her waist he lifted her off her feet, hugging her so hard their hearts beat together. She clutched his shoulders and her nails dug deep. He felt the connection he’d been craving and feared losing more than anything else. He could not solve this riddle. He could not tell a good woman to betray her own sense of right and wrong. But neither could he let her go. “I love you, Livie,” he whispered into her hair. It smelled like sunflowers. “Did I tell you I loved you?” She tightened her grip. “No.” He lowered her to her feet and claimed a kiss. She kissed him fiercely in return, almost desperately. Then she ended it and gently brushed a knuckle against her lips. “I’ll always remember that about you. How exquisitely you kissed me. You were my Prince Charming. You woke me up.” He frowned. “Why are you talking in the past tense?” “I can’t accuse anyone of murder, Will. I’m sorry. I can’t do it even for you. Just pretend our affair never happened. Go on with your life.” She turned and continued on without him.

He gaped at her incredulously a moment, then his slumbering anger awoke with a roar. “That’s it?” he shouted. His voice broke. “You’re just going to walk off and leave me to pretend I never knew you?” She stopped and turned. “What do you want me to do? Repay kindness with a savage betrayal? To condemn my savior to death?” “Yes, bloody hell, yes!” He stomped toward her. “Yes, if that’s what it takes to keep you alive.” “Will?” “I don’t give a ha’penny about this bloody lover. All I care about is you!” He raked a hand through his tumbled locks. The veins in his temples throbbed visibly and he cursed again. “Are you really concerned about me?” she asked. “Or are you simply angry that you won’t have my aristocratic patronage if I die?” “God!” he shouted. He grabbed her arms and yanked her roughly to him. “Goddamn you, Olivia. You have no bloody, fucking idea what I feel for you, do you? You have no frigging idea. You don’t even know that I love you. If you did, you would not ask me that!” He broke into tears. He let her go and put the back of his hand to his eyes. “Will, I’m sorry.” She reached out. He stepped away and shoved her hand aside. “Please, Will, I didn’t mean?” “Shut up, Livie.” He wiped his tears away with a clean sweep and stared at her as hollowly as she had regarded him from the bench. “If you won’t protect yourself, then that leaves me no other options. I’ll have to do it for you. Who is she?” Livie frowned. “Who is who?” “The Duke’s lover!” Her brows straightened, and an emotion he couldn’t read passed over her face. “I can’t tell you.” “Yes, you can. And you will. You don’t want to betray her? Then don’t. I’ll do it for you.” “No, you won’t, Will.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Won’t I?” “I forbid it.” He took a huge step forward and grabbed her arms again. “You forbid what?” “Let go!” “You forbid me to love you? How can you do that, Livie? You forbid me to stand up for what’s right?” His words were hot bullets spewing from his twisted lips. “You made me love you. You seduced me. Not only my body, but my bloody heart! You made me dissatisfied with any other woman. You made me want the world, and now you tell me to cast it, and you, aside? No way in hell.”

“Let go! You’re hurting me.” He released her. His fingers singed with remorse. He bit the inside of his cheeks. The pain cleared the rage fogging his head. “I’m sorry.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But you can’t stop me. You can’t stop a flood once the dike’s been broken. Remember the River Brandhurst during the thaws last month? When the waters rise, nothing is safe. Nothing can push the tide back once it’s broken free.” He turned and headed back to the house. “Don’t stay out long, Livie. It’s not safe. You might drown.”

Chapter 18

Will burst into the Duke’s private drawing room. The footman posted outside the door tried to grab him, but Will ducked, then slammed the door in the servant’s face. But that was as far as he got. Before he had even let go of the doorknob, he heard the slow, loud cock of a revolver. “Hold it right there,” a gruff voice snarled. “Put yer hands up, and turn around real slow.” It wasn’t the Duke, but it was an American. Will could tell by the atrocious accent. He knew well enough that Americans had love affairs with their firearms and weren’t afraid to use them. He raised his hands and slowly turned. When he had pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees, he found himself face-to-face with a snaggle-toothed, one-eyed, gray-bearded cowboy who looked as if he’d pickled himself with whiskey. “Now, who in blazes are you, ya lily-livered Brit?” the man asked, aiming the silver barrel at Will’s forehead. “That’s Mr. Willoughby Barnes,” the Duke answered lackadaisically from across the room. Will stood like a statue but allowed his eyes to rove. He spotted Andrew Thorpe sitting in an easy chair, dressed incongruously in a silk smoking jacket. He was reading the paper, and lowered it enough to eye Will over the top edge. “Mr. Barnes, I’d like ya to meet Stagecoach Sam. You can lower the gun, Sam. We ain’t in danger with this one.” The man reluctantly did as he was told, shaking his head and muttering oaths under his breath as he twirled his gun around and returned it to his holster. “I met Sam when my parents first took me West,” the Duke said in answer to Will’s questioning frown. He patted the empty chair next to him. “Sit down, Barnes. We need to talk.” “You’re damned right, we do.” Will went immediately to the proffered chair and sank down.

“Sam is my valet,” the Duke explained as he folded his paper and set it aside. Will tried not to show his surprise. “He’s also my outrider, my confidante, my nursemaid.... I suppose here in England you’d call him my man of affairs.” “He’ll fit right in,” Will said sardonically. He leaned forward. “Look, Your Grace, forgive me for barging in, but I’ve come on an urgent matter. The Duchess tells me she’s going to be charged with murder, but she’ll tell me little else. I want to know what you know about the situation.” Andrew leaned his head against the anti-maccassar doily protecting the brocade chair, casting his eyes to the ceiling. He pursed his sun-chafed lips speculatively. “How about some nerve tonic? Sam, get us two brandies.” He knitted his fingers together and rested them on his flat belly, kicking his legs up on an ottoman. He wore slippers and silk trousers. He looked just sophisticated enough to make Will wonder if Andrew Thorpe had been putting on an act simply to shock them all, or to lull potential adversaries into complacency. If that had been his intention, he’d succeeded. Unlike most men who strive for elegance in public and were more careless in private, Andrew seemed to revert to his aristocratic roots when he was alone. He’d probably adopted his cattleman demeanor simply to survive in the Wild West. When Sam handed over two glasses of amber liquor, grumbling all the while, Will gratefully accepted one and took a breathtaking swallow of the potent drink. It went down hard, but felt good when it finally hit his jangled belly. The liquor loosened the knot of worry in his brain and made the thoughts flow more smoothly. “What did the Duchess say to you, Barnes?” the Duke asked at last. “Very little. Simply that she was suspected of murdering her late husband, and that she would likely be charged.” Will looked up sharply. “I know she didn’t do it.” Did the Duke know that as well? Suddenly Will was filled with the sobering prospect that for some reason Andrew Thorpe might want his aunt out of his way. This would be easily done if she were convicted of murder. “You know she’s innocent, don’t you, sir?” The Duke pinned Will with his enigmatic brown eyes. “That’s what she told me, and I believed her. But I ain’t one to be hoodwinked. She wasn’t shootin‘ straight with me. She knew it was murder, but she covered the truth. Why? I don’t mind tellin’ ya I felt like a damned fool with that detective feller. It’s now clear to me my uncle was murdered.” He took another thoughtful sip of his brandy. “What else did she tell ya?” Will leaned his elbows on his knees, cradling his brandy in two hands. He studied the way the gaslights reflected on the dark, still surface. “She is being damnably stoic about the whole matter. She’s protecting someone.” “Well, that would explain a whole heck of a lot.”

“The Duke had a lover, and she’s the one who did it.” “Hell, that explains it! Cherchez la femme.” “No.” Will shook his head with a jaded smile. “Far from it. Her Grace won’t accuse this woman because she ... she was kind to Olivia when the Duke was not.” “I see.” “Do you? I wish I did.” He put down his glass and wearily rubbed his hands up over his face. “I’ve got to find the real murderer. The Duchess won’t do it herself. She’s too damned loyal.” He looked point blank at the Duke. “You were right about something you said earlier tonight, sir. You said we are equals. We are equally helpless in this terrible situation. But not for long. I will not let her go without a bloody fight.” “What do you aim to do, cowboy?” Will smiled for the first time. “Maybe I can borrow your revolver, for one.” “Hell,” Andrew said with a rough chuckle, “you’d just end up shootin‘ yourself in the foot.” Will barked out a laugh. “That’s true enough. No, the only weapon I need right now is the truth. I plan to do a little investigation of my own.” He added politely as he bent down to retrieve his glass, “With your permission, of course.” “On one condition. You keep me informed, ya here? I mean to protect the Duchess.” “Agreed.” Will upended the remainder of the brandy, gulped, then let out a hissing breath. He plunked down his empty glass. “I’ll start straight away.” “I’ll see if I can’t cut the reins on that inspector feller’s rig, so to speak. I might be able to delay Scotland Yard’s investigation, but I ain’t exactly well acquainted with British law. I’ve sent for Todd, and Neville. I’ll need Todd’s advice on a legal defense.” “You can trust Todd. But Neville?” “I know,” Andrew said wryly. “But I want him where I can keep an eye on him. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit to find out he had somethin‘ to do with this.” Neville Thorpe was the least of Will’s worries. He had to find the Duke’s lover. And the first place he’d start his search was at the home of Sir Peregrine Moore. Livie said he could be trusted. If she and Sir Perry were close, he might know the identify of the Duke’s lover.

By the time Will reached Perry’s cottage, it was nine o’clock. All the lights in the quaint two-story Tudor home were out, save for one well-lit room in the back. Mr. Hammond had given Will directions and told him that as a writer, Sir Perry would probably be working late.

Will knocked hard and loud. It wasn’t long before the door opened, and to his surprise the Baronet answered himself. Peregrine Moore’s black hair was slicked back, but a long strand had fallen down his forehead. He had apparently indeed been in the midst of writing; it took a moment for his gaze to focus on Will. He looked not so much angered by the interruption as befuddled. He blinked, then smiled briefly. “Ah! Barnes. What the devil are you doing here at this hour? Never mind. Come in. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your visit to London.” He waved Will in, not looking back as he proceeded toward his study in the rear. In that sacred room of his, the roof fell at a sharp angle, giving it the feel of a ship captain’s quarters. Leather-bound volumes lined ancient bookcases, and a half dozen candles lit the room with soft yellow light, casting dancing shadows on the dark beams overhead. One candle dripped into a brass holder next to a sheaf of papers. “My newest book,” Perry explained when he followed Will’s gaze. Then he realized Will was noting the candlelight. “I’ve never had this room converted to gaslight. I rather like to write the old-fashioned way, by candlelight. It’s much more romantic.” Will regarded Sir Perry’s graceful figure. He was one of the pretty people who alighted from expensive carriages at fashionable balls in London, looking elegant in formal evening dress in a way that was both masculine and feminine. Though he was no dandy, Will saw in Sir Perry a sensitivity that had apparently been of use in his novels, and had been of comfort to Livie. Will was grateful that he’d been a friend to the Duchess, but he didn’t understand why she had never mentioned the Baronet before his arrival at Will’s doorstep. Precisely what sort of relationship did they have? “May I get you something to drink?” Perry asked. “They’re going to arrest the Duchess,” Will blurted out. Perry froze a moment. Shadows of the past flitted over his face, as if a flock of ravens had flown between him and the sun. He shivered, violently enough that Will saw it. The Baronet crossed his arms over his chest. “For what crime?” “For the murder of her husband.” A dozen or more emotions flickered over the writer’s sophisticated features. The last one was despair. Finally he smiled in resignation. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Will’s gaze fell on a small framed photograph of a very handsome man on Perry’s writing desk. He wore a gold ducal coronet on his head and a very pensive expression. “Who is that?” “The Duke of Brandhurst, of course.” Will was stunned. He had not imagined the man being so thoughtful. He wore a slight smile, and his eyes were almost tender. “I hate the bloke,” Will said. “If not for him, the Duchess wouldn’t be in this predicament.” Perry wearily indicated a seat and slid down in a wing-back grandfather chair. He propped his elbows

on the arms and rested his chin on his entwined hands. “Tell me everything.” “A Scotland Yard detective believes that Her Grace murdered her husband. The new duke will try to delay formal indictment if he can.” Perry lowered his long, graceful fingers and regarded Will with deep regret. “What do you want me to do?” “I need information from you, sir.” “I’ll help in any way I can. What would you like to know?” “The Duke was involved in some sort of clandestine affair. Livie won’t tell me the girl’s name. But I need to know.” Sir Perry smiled wryly. “Do you?” “Yes. I’ll admit the Duchess’s unwillingness to confide in me hurts. But I won’t let that stop me from finding out. I’ll do anything to save her.” “She’s very fortunate to have a knight in shining armor to protect her. I wish I had had one,” he said dryly. “I wouldn’t take her discretion personally, dear boy. She’s only being practical. After all, some people are imprisoned for affairs that are indiscreetly made public.” Will barely heard this comment. His mind churned so fast he grew weary and could hardly think straight anymore. He leaned back against the sofa and his eyes scanned the walls. He found an enormous painting he’d not noticed at first. It was the Duke again. He looked very distinguished in the full regalia of a Knight of the Order of the Garter. There was an ominous glint in his eyes, but he was hardly without charm. Gray hair flowed from his temples and melded into black. “He cut a very impressive figure, didn’t he?” Will motioned to the painting. “Very.” The word throbbed with emotion. Will turned slowly back to his host. Perry regarded the portrait through eyes bright with tears. Then the realization struck. What sort of lover would be imprisoned for an affair? One who had committed buggery. A homosexual. Will was speechless. Perry looked at him and gave him a conspiratorial half smile. “So you’ve figured it out.” Will was afraid to say yes. How could he accuse a man of being a social deviant unless he were absolutely certain? “I’ve figured out what?” “There’s no point in mincing words, dear boy. The Duke and I were lovers for twenty-seven years.” Will swallowed back his astonishment. “Why?” Perry looked down and straightened the lapel of his silk gown. He understood what it was that Will couldn’t understand. Not why he could conduct an affair with a man. Rather why he had done so with that man. “Barnes, have you ever fallen in love with someone who was the last person you should fall in

love with?” Will rubbed his eyes. Was it that simple, and that complex? “Have you ever loved someone so intensely that you know it will last forever, come what may?” Will’s fury and judgment lifted from his shoulders. “I think I’d like a drink after all, Sir Perry.” Peregrine rose gracefully and poured two glasses of claret. He offered Will one and resumed his seat. He half turned and tilted his head against his raised palm while balancing his glass on his knee. “What is it you want me to do? I’ll do anything to save Olivia.” Will was heartened. “I want you to confess to the crime.” A deafening silence followed this statement. Finally Perry smiled with resignation. “Of course I will. I wonder what I should say precisely.” “Simply tell the truth.” Perry looked up sharply. His face lost all expression. “You don’t mean to say you actually believe I killed the Duke.” Will frowned. “Of course I do.” “My, my, you are in love.” Perry’s lips twisted with irony. “Don’t you know? The Duchess did kill her husband.” “No!” “I was there, Barnes. I saw.” “But you didn’t see her thrust the knife!” he sputtered. “You couldn’t have.” “No, but I walked in a moment later. She was kneeling over the body. Her hand was on the dagger. I never confronted her because I didn’t blame her. I understood why she did it. I was relieved, God help me. I let a woman do my dirty work. I wish I had done it. What a coward I was! Instead, I waited until he’d pushed Livie over the edge.” Will jumped to his feet like a spring-loaded hammer on a gun. “Jesus, you don’t mean to tell me you really think she is capable of such a crime!” The shadows flitted over Perry’s eyes again. “You have no idea what she went through with Quinton Thorpe. If I were her, I certainly would have murdered him.” “And you.... you ... ! Christ, how could ... how could you let a man like that abuse a woman like Livie?” “I did my best to protect her,” Perry tersely replied. Will rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been so tense it felt like a dagger was piercing his spine. He realized he hadn’t even taken a sip of his expensive port. He downed it in one swill and waited till the warmth plummeted to his belly. Then he skewered the Baronet with a narrow gaze. “So you’re telling me

you did not kill the Duke. How am I to know you’re speaking the truth?” “There is no way for you to know one way or the other. You’ll just have to? By God, a thought just struck me! Do you mean to tell me that all this time Olivia has believed that I killed Quinton?” “Yes. She’s certain of it. And she’s willing to go to the gallows on your behalf. Can you tell me why?” Perry’s lips curved tauntingly. “Are you jealous, dear boy?” “No,” Will answered honestly. “I’m trying to understand the woman I love more than anything in the world.” “If what you say is true, that she did not kill Quinton, then I can only guess why she thinks I’m worthy of so great a sacrifice, but it would only be conjecture on my part. I can assure you I don’t think I’m worthy of her nobility in the least. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her yourself.” “She won’t tell me anything. Ever since the detective arrived, she’s been in a sort of hibernation. I think she’s simply resolved to die for a crime she didn’t commit. What in the hell are we going to do?” “I don’t see that it’s all that complicated. I’ve already said I’ll confess to the crime.” Will frowned incredulously. “Bloody hell, you’re serious. Why?” Perry breathed in the heady fumes of his drink and sighed. “Probably for the same reason she was willing to protect me. We went through hell together. We were like brother and sister with a very mean Papa.” “This is insanity!” Will cried, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. “If you’re innocent, and she’s innocent, then we must find out the truth. A Duke is dead. It couldn’t have been suicide. A man doesn’t stab himself in the back. That leaves only one alternative.” Perry’s eyes focused intently on him. “You mean a third party is responsible?” “Yes. The Duchess says he was stabbed from behind at the very moment he was going to kill her. By the time the body fell, the murderer must have vanished unseen.” “I appeared only a moment after that, as the Duchess reached for the dagger. She must have thought I had done the deed and then casually returned simply to provide myself with an alibi. And of course, Antonio arrived shortly after I did.” “And if the killer avoided being seen by all three of you, he?and I assume it was a he?probably knew the garden very well.” “Either that or he simply hid in the garden until we left.” “That’s a chilling thought. Do you think Antonio??” “No. He had too much to lose by killing his master, or conspiring to. He needed Quinton’s protection. He had assassinated a very high-level official in Italy. Then he murdered a girl during some sexual escapade in Stowfield. The only reason he avoided punishment was because of Quinton’s immense power. The moment he ventures by himself into Stowfield, he’ll be considered fair game and will likely be

arrested, or sent abroad to pay for his crime. There had to be someone else who begrudged Quinton. I suggest you talk to Antonio. He kept score on every matter.” Will shook his head. “He’s gone. Andrew Thorpe released him from his duties.” “Well, he wouldn’t have gone far. Look for him in Stowfield. He’ll likely be using an alias. He had a girl, I believe. A whore.” Will let out a soundless laugh and said sarcastically, “Oh, that gives me something to go on. There’s only fifty or so of those in lower Stowfield.” Perry smiled wryly. “You want a name and address?” “That would be very helpful, actually.” “I can’t help you there, but he talked about her once. She was called the Foreign Princess of some street or other.” Will winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed all roads led to the same dead end. “The Foreign Princess of Winston Street.” Perry looked up speculatively. “You know her?” “Not in the Biblical sense. She was a friend.” “Was?” “She’s dead.” “Hell!” “At least now I have a place to start. I can ask around about Antonio.” Will set his glass aside. “Thank you, Sir Perry, for seeing me at this late hour.” “Let me come with you. I won’t sleep much now anyway. I want to get to the bottom of this.” Will shook his hand. “Thank you, but not tonight. I want to make sure the Duchess is safe and sound. I’ll start first thing in the morning, and I’ll report to you as soon as I learn something.” The Baronet escorted Will to the door. “Don’t let her sacrifice herself, Barnes. She’ll want to. She’ll want to take the blame and die the rest of the way. She’s only now come back to life, thanks to you. I saw it the moment I laid eyes on her. Don’t let her go.” They shook hands, gripping tight. “I won’t. I promise you.”

When Will returned to his cottage, he was startled to see two footmen carrying out his possessions, with Mr. Hammond supervising. For a moment he assumed he was being thrown off the premises, until the house steward informed him matter-of-factly that the Duke had prepared a room for Will in His Grace’s

private quarters. Will’s heart skipped a beat. That meant he would be sleeping in the same wing as Livie. She had vacated the Duchess’s suite and was now staying at the other end of the hall. The news sounded so absurd to Will’s own ears that he laughed at first. Who would have thought that the son of a lowly gardener would be invited to stay in a duke’s grand house? The notion was so absurd that it reminded him of the eventuality he and Livie had been ignoring. He would have to leave after he’d cleared her name. They might continue their affair, but there was no permanent place for him at Brandhurst Hall. If she didn’t know it yet, he certainly did. None of the servants, his social equals, would ever accept him anywhere but in the gardener’s cottage. It went without saying that he would remain a nonentity among Livie’s peers. He would remain here only as long as he was of use to the Duke. After the footmen stashed away his clothes and his art supplies, he sat down on a scrolled chaise in the stunningly well-appointed King Charles room and pondered what to do next. He didn’t know the history of the bedchamber, but he could well imagine it. An enormous canopy rose fifteen feet above a poster bed, swathed in crimson curtains with gold tassels. A preposterously expensive embroidered red and yellow bed covering lay like a crisp square wafer over the feather mattress. It looked as if the last person to enjoy the throne-like sleeping arrangements had been Queen Elizabeth. And he was actually expected to violate the bed by sleeping on it! He’d feel more comfortable on the floor. Feeling out of place, still fully dressed, he reclined on the chaise and saw that even the ceiling was a gaudy celebration of wealth?a lush fresco of cherubs and apostles. He rolled to his side, seeking something ordinary, but he could only see priceless gold-leafed Baroque furnishings. Perhaps it wasn’t Elizabeth who had slept here, but King Louis XIV. There was nothing cozy about this place. No wonder Livie had been so lonely. She would be sleeping alone in a bedroom that could only be even more elaborate than this one. She was, after all, a Duchess, a prisoner of her title. Compassion for her, and then hunger, rumbled deep inside him. No, he concluded, the floor would never do.

He slipped into her darkened room like a jewel thief, calling on every ounce of grace he possessed as he closed the door and gingerly locked it behind him. He turned, and the distance to the bed was like an enormous gulf. He proceeded slowly, for he didn’t want to startle her from a sound sleep. He would later swear that a floorboard groaned in protest with every step. Halfway there he spotted the dressing room door and tiptoed that way, in case her lady’s maid slept there. She was probably in the servants’ quarters, but just in case, he felt for a key, and thrilling at the touch of brass, turned it quietly and locked the door. No one could burst in on them now. Breathing easier, he went to the bed and crawled in beside her. He moaned softly at her warmth. It spread up and down his body, thawing his tense muscles. He breathed in the scent of her, and her lavender-scented pillows. She always smelled like spring. In her feminine nightdress of cotton and lace, she was a lithe form of heated skin and softness, of angular bones and ripe fullness. He curled up beside her and slipped an arm beneath her shoulders. When his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, he realized she was fully awake, and apparently had been for some time.

Why didn’t she speak? Unease prickled through him. “Don’t worry, Livie.” She blinked, but gave no other indication that she’d heard him. He raised up on his elbow and gently tilted her face toward him. He pressed his mouth to hers. It was like kissing velvety rose petals, tender but unresponsive. He cupped her chin with his hand, pressing more kisses to her, whether she wanted them or not. One. Two. Short, then long, and then he felt them. Tears. They burned him. God, love was so painfully sweet. The kind of love that wanted to give, and not receive. How could he have yelled at her? How could he have manhandled her the way he had during their walk? What an ass he was. A foolish, callow ass. “I love you, Livie,” he whispered. He choked out a desperate laugh. “I don’t think even I knew how much I love you. I didn’t realize what was happening to us. Between us. I thought you were this incredible muse. Something that was too good to last.” He pulled her closer into his arms, but he couldn’t get close enough. He spread his fingers wide and touched her face, wanting to imprint her into his skin. “You’re my soul. I want you back. I want you to feel. I want you to fight for your life! The world needs you now. The Prissy O’Rourkes of the world are waiting for you to rise up like a beautiful phoenix.” He kissed the salty tear he had left on her cheek, then fluttered his tongue over her mouth. She let out a little gasp, and he took the opportunity to fuse his mouth to hers in a deep, loving kiss. Finally she kissed back. First with her mouth, then she gently circled her head, then dug her fingers in his back. By the time he ended the kiss, she was his again. Fire burned in her eyes. “You’re gorgeous. You are so real. You are so needed.” She smiled and love shone in her eyes. “You did not kill your husband, Livie. I won’t let you pretend otherwise.” “But?” “I know you’re protecting Sir Perry.” “Oh,” she uttered with a deflated sigh. “I know all about him and the Duke. Don’t worry about Perry. He didn’t do it.” Her brows puckered. “What?” “Sir Perry was not the murderer.” He smiled with triumph. “It was someone else. Someone else was in the garden that night. Perry thought you had done it. He was willing to take the blame on your behalf.” She let out a soundless laugh. “He told you that?” “Yes, and I believe him. All of it. He’s innocent.” “But who? Who would have done such a thing?” Will shrugged. “Someone who hated the Duke.”

“That was everyone.” “Perhaps someone who wanted to protect you.” “But who could have known what was about to happen?” “I’ll find out,” he said confidently. “But first, I have to make love to you.”

Todd Leach wasn’t precisely athletic by nature. But he enjoyed games. Naturally, he’d played cricket at university and gambled at the gentleman’s clubs in London. He was a great aficionado of foxhunting and was skilled at billiards. Unlike most men, he wasn’t motivated by a desire to win or to be fit. Instead, he relished the honing of his concentration. Some mistakenly interpreted the hours he spent on horseback as a gentleman’s indulgence. And it was. But it was also the time during which he sorted out his troubles and planned for the future. On this fine spring morning he played croquet on the south lawn. A footman stood in attendance, waiting to pour coffee on a round glass table covered with white linen and bone china. But otherwise Todd was alone. He wanted it that way. He bent over his mallet and took aim at the next metal hoop through which his fat red ball would have to travel. He swung the mallet like a pendulum. Wood hit wood with a loud thwack. The ball went sailing over the short turf and landed only a foot away from its destination. “Well done, Toddy old boy,” he muttered. Then his thoughts veered back to the topic that had dominated his fine mind for the last two days. Aunt Livie. He heaved a sigh and tapped his mallet thoughtfully in the grass. Yes, he’d done as much for her as he could thus far. But as in most cases, he wouldn’t be satisfied until every play had been won. A murder case was the best game of all. It required superhuman concentration, knowledge of the law, and gut instincts. Only if a lawyer had all three qualities could a client hope to win. He pivoted and said to the footman, “Bentworth, I believe I will have a cup of coffee after all.” “Very good, sir.” The footman poured a cup, then brought it to Todd on a silver platter. “Here you are, sir.” “Thank you, Bentworth.” He took the saucer and raised the steaming cup to his lips. “Will that be all, sir?” “Yes, I?” Todd looked up distractedly and caught sight of Clara Peabody approaching from the distance. She wore a white lace dress and a white feathered cap. She looked much more feminine than she had the first time they’d met. Suddenly his concentration was shattered. “No, as a matter of fact, I’ll need a second cup. I have a visitor.” The footman bowed and headed back to the house. Todd sipped and listened to the birds chirping their glorious morning songs.

“Are you taking coffee, Mr. Leach, or are you playing croquet?” she said when she reached his side. “Both,” he replied cheerfully. She smiled in her dignified way, but there was something revealing in her cerulean eyes. She’d changed. For the better. He felt an uncharitable stab of envy. “You seemed quite impressed with the new duke, Miss Peabody.” Her eyes turned warily his way. “Yes, I am. I had no idea anyone could be so direct.” “Aside from yourself, that is.” She forced a wan smile. “And you.” He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. “Has he offered to help your political causes?” Her mouth dropped. “He has asked about them. How did you know?” Todd laughed lightly, but it ended with a sour twang. “Oh, you forget my profession, Miss Peabody. I have an instinct for human motivations.” He looked out at the empty croquet field. “Ah, I see it’s my turn. Won’t you keep me company? You’ll be my good-luck charm.” He held out his arm. She took it hesitantly, then fell in beside him as he returned to his ball. “Most people think of croquet as a pleasurable pastime,” he said as he squatted and eyed the distance through the nearest hoop. “I should think it would be.” “You probably also think its primary benefit is to offer guests a chance to converse and laugh and be merry.” He stood and eyed her with his soft brown eyes. “If so, you would be wrong, Miss Peabody.” She couldn’t help smile again. “Is that so, Mr. Leach?” “Indeed.” He bent over his mallet, swung it out, and then back again. The ball rolled powerfully until the grass eventually curtailed its motion. “The real purpose of any game, Miss Peabody, is to tune the mind. To distract it, thereby allowing one to solve one’s problems at the same time.” “Are you solving problems now?” “Yes.” “Those facing the Duchess?” He motioned for her to follow. “Indeed, I am.” “Do you think she’ll be charged?” “I hope not. Mr. Barnes is convinced the murderer is at large, but that will be a hard proposition to sell to Inspector Gray, since the Duchess’s letter opener was the murder weapon. Of course, working in our favor is the inspector’s natural reluctance to accuse a duchess. Though he’d never admit it, class

distinctions run deep in the application of the law.” “All you have to do is find the real murderer!” He smiled indulgently. “Do you think he will volunteer to step forward?” Her cheeks reddened slightly. “No. I’m not naive, Mr. Leach.” “I never thought you were.” He guided her back to the table. “Bentworth has arrived with a second cup. Would you care for some coffee?” “Yes, thank you.” Todd rested his mallet on a chair, dismissed the footman, and poured the coffee himself. “You take it with sugar, I believe.” “Yes.” She watched as he stirred her cup, touched that he had noticed her preferences. Then she accepted his offering with a bleak smile. “What is you really came to see me about, Miss Peabody?” She looked up with a start. She was rattled by his powers of perception. He looked boyishly handsome, vibrant, and resilient, and yet his brown eyes held a touch of hurt. She lowered her eyes, feeling like an utter jilt. She wiped the guilt from her features through sheer willpower and looked up evenly. “How did you know I had an ulterior motive?” “If you’d come to talk about the Duchess, you would have raised the subject immediately. As it was, you let me babble for some time about the virtues of croquet.” “You’re very perceptive, Mr. Leach.” “Sometimes too much for my own good.” “And what are your perceptions telling you now?” He crossed his arms and scratched his chin like a sleuth onto a great clue. “My instincts tell me that the Duke is quite taken with you. He finds comfort in your no-nonsense approach to politics and social etiquette.” She tilted her head back in surprise. She had spent the morning with the Duke. Did Mr. Leach know that? Clara’s cheeks flamed red. She’d known that Andrew Thorpe was attracted to her, but she hadn’t known it was obvious to others. “You find him appealing because he holds great power, and yet he has no use for it, or so he thinks now. His American ways will soon fade, I avow. He’s not impressed with his own accolades. But he would be able to help your causes because of the prestige of his title and his unconventional notions. Because he is not impressed with the aristocracy, he doesn’t care whether his wife will have the necessary pedigree to be presented at Court. Therefore, a vicar’s daughter, especially a beautiful and intelligent one, will do very well as his duchess, thank you.” She shut her eyes, then licked her lips and brought her cup to her mouth. She felt like a butterfly being

pinned by an entomologist. He did it ever so delicately, and yet it hurt. She looked up without any of her usual cool fire. “Is that all?” “No.” He picked up his own cup of coffee. He sipped, then made a moue of distaste. It was cold. “No, that is not all. I believe that the cameo which I lent to you, which you once wore on your collar, is now in your pocket. And that is the real reason you came to watch me play croquet?so that you can give it back to me.” He came up behind her, sniffed her refreshing lack of perfume, and looked at a precious little mole on her nape. She self-consciously ran a glove over the spot, then stepped away, turned, and looked up defensively. “Does it please you to know me so well, sir?” “No, for it doesn’t do me a bit of good. A Duke will win out over a mere solicitor every time.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the cameo. She held it aloft. “Thank for the use of this lovely brooch, sir. I am sorry to say I must return it.” He picked it up from her palm, and resisted the urge to clasp her fingers. He looked at it analytically, holding it up in the light. “Yes, it is lovely. I wish I’d given it to you. Then it would have been harder for you to return it.” “Oh, it was hard enough,” she whispered. She raised her eyes to meet his, then lowered them quickly. “Good day, Mr. Leach.” She started away at a brisk pace. He watched her go with a great sense of loss. But he knew well enough not to chase her. He was no match for a duke. And he’d learned long ago that love was not a possession. It was a game of chance, and he had just lost the best hand he’d ever been dealt. Then he was struck by a merry notion. With any luck, Andrew would give her roses. He smiled smugly, then returned to his game of croquet.

Chapter 19

When Clara returned to the house, she was disappointed to learn that the Duchess had gone for a walk. Clara desperately needed advice. She set out immediately for the Duchess’s Garden. Will’s work there was complete and the spring flowers were now in full bloom. Chances were that Olivia was admiring his handiwork. Clara entered through the garden’s arched wooden door. There were flowers everywhere?the delicate pink and white globes of hawthorn trees, the sweet white flowers of the star of Bethlehem, dancing softly in a warm breeze, and the sunny gold marsh marigolds. Everywhere she looked clusters of flowers lined the pathway.

She found the Duchess under an arbor of woodbine, with tufts of lilies-of-the-valley, with their little white bells, and the longer trumpets of bluebells, growing in clusters all around her feet. Seeing such natural beauty, and the elegant dignity of Olivia Brandhurst made Clara’s heart ache, which was easily done since it was so brittle and fragile. “Hello, Your Grace.” Clara clasped her hands and waited for an invitation. When the Duchess looked up in pleasant surprise, she hastened to add, “I hope I’m not interrupting.” “No, my dear, of course not.” Livie patted her rain-burnished gray bench. “Please join me. I am reading a telegram from Lord Skelton. He says he has good news about his efforts to reform the match factories. He wants to meet with me. I cannot leave under the circumstances. Perhaps you could go to London on my behalf and bring back a report.” “I’d be delighted to.” Clara sat down beside her, inhaling the sweet smell of honeysuckle. “It’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t exist.” Livie smiled. “Yes. Will did a wonderful job. I feel this garden reflects my sensibilities, at long last. What a shame that I shall have to leave it soon.” Clara’s stomach rocked uneasily. Did she mean that she would soon be arrested? “I’m so sorry, Your Grace, for all the trouble you face.” Livie eyed her fondly. “You are very kind. But do not worry on my account. I finally feel as if I am as strong as you once told me I was. I do worry, however, how my troubles might bear on my efforts to help the factory girls.” “You have already done a great deal to help them. You should be proud of yourself. The Ladies’ National Association will take it from here, I’m sure. And with Mr. Leach and Mr. Barnes working on your behalf, I have faith that your name will soon be cleared from this awful investigation.” “They are both very special men.” Clara felt tears bubbling. She blinked willfully. Where were they coming from? And why had she allowed herself to become so involved with the Duchess’s family? That had not been part of her plan. “Your Grace, I believe I owe you an apology.” “Whatever for?” Clara smoothed out the wrinkles in her white gown. “I once judged you for your ... affection ... for Mr. Barnes.” She took in a quivering breath and let it out quickly. “Though I have always considered myself an egalitarian, it seemed that such a disparity in your stations could only indicate one thing.” A long silence followed. Finally, Livie said, “Please continue, Clara. You can be forthright with me. In fact, I insist.” Clara nodded soberly, forcing herself to continue. “It seemed to me the only motivation could be ... immoderate desire.” One of Livie’s cheeks dimpled with a brief smile. “I see.”

“No, ma’am, you don’t.” Clara crossed her arms and looked down at a patch of bluebells. They became the focal point of the memories she’d tried so hard to forget. “Before I came to Brandhurst Hall, I was a governess and considered myself very lucky indeed to be hired by a rich viscount. But I did not account for my own foolish heart. I... fell in love with the Viscount’s son.” Livie’s gaze was full of compassionate understanding. “I can well imagine the sad ending of this tale. You need not continue, my dear.” Olivia’s tender words served as a balm, and Clara spoke more freely. “I was ruined by the son, Lord Charles, but not for the reason you might imagine. He never quite managed to seduce me, but my reputation never recovered. When he brought his intended to the family estate, the daughter of a distinguished earl, I made a scene.” “I understand.” Livie reached out and patted her hand. “My dear girl, I understand completely.” “When I left, I didn’t know what to do or where to go. My family did not want me back. Without references, I had no prospects. But then an aunt died, leaving me a small income. I heard about Mrs. Butler’s efforts to repeal the Contagious Diseases Act, and other efforts to reverse the injustices this world heaps upon women. I became involved in the Ladies’ National Association to try to affect some change.” “How strong you were, Clara dear. I admire you enormously.” “I only survived through a fierce determination to avenge the wrongs done against me.” She rose and took a few stiff steps toward a gazing ball that glistened in the sun. She looked at her own reflection, and scarcely recognized herself. Who was she? What was her life all about? She turned slowly to face the Duchess. She was no longer the woman she had been at Timothea House. She wasn’t even the same person as the one who had bravely knocked on the door at Brandhurst Hall for the first time. But she still didn’t fit into this rarefied world. “I suppose what I’m trying to say, Duchess, is that I have to leave.” “No! Is it because of the trouble I’m facing? I understand if you’re worried about the scandal.” Clara laughed incredulously. “No! That isn’t it at all.” She hurried back to Livie’s side and pressed her hands. “I’ve simply realized that I am caught between two worlds, and I don’t fit in either of them.” “In other words, you aren’t sure whether you love Toddy or Andrew.” Clara gaped at her. “How did you know?” “Woman’s intuition.” Clara reddened. “You must think me horribly presumptuous. Both men are far beyond my reach.” “Not at all, my dear. Andrew thinks you’re quite the thing. He wasn’t raised with our rigid views of class and marriage. And as for Todd, I’m quite sure he’s in love with you.” “Yes, but that doesn’t really matter in the end, does it?” she bitterly replied.

“Of course it matters.” The Duchess put an arm around Clara and squeezed reassuringly. “For some, perhaps, but not me. You see, I judged your affection for Mr. Barnes because I didn’t allow myself to feel anything at all. It is easy to judge others as foolish when you yourself are incapable of feeling.” “But you feel a great deal, don’t you?” Clara nodded and wiped the tears that began to flow steadily down her cheeks. “And you’re afraid those feelings will cause more trouble for you.” She nodded more fervently. “I fear I’ve hurt Mr. Leach terribly. I thought I loved him, but...” “But what?” “If I do, then why am I so attracted to the Duke?” “It would be difficult not to find His Grace attractive. He is terribly unique. And Andrew has power, my dear. That is an elixir that even put me under its spell when my husband courted me. But as I can avow, that is not the basis for a good marriage. Love has a power of its own, and it’s greater than anything I’ve ever known. You are feeling torn between two magnificent men for one reason. You do not know your own heart. And that’s because you’ve been denying it for so long.” Clara’s lips began to tremble, but the Duchess pushed on. “You have chosen a difficult path. You have decided to live outside the normal prescriptions assigned to a woman of your class. You want to think for yourself, you want to change the world, and you want to love. How ambitious you are! By being so forward-thinking, you have broken the rules. So why don’t you break the rules you’ve defined for yourself? Let yourself feel. Stop trying to save the world and save yourself. You have the right to love whomever you wish. Only when you accept that fact will you realize precisely who it is who has captured your heart, whether it’s a duke, a solicitor, or a gardener.” Clara’s mouth slowly parted. “You are the most incorrigibly optimistic person I have ever met.” Livie smiled. “It is easy when you are in love.” She squeezed Clara’s hand. “Andrew needs someone to acquaint him with England. I’m a bit distracted at the present. It would be a great boon to me if you would make him feel welcome on my behalf. I think you can trust his honor a great deal more than you could that of this Lord Charles. If you get to know the Duke better, you might better know your own mind, and heart.” Clara felt an overwhelming sense of love for the Duchess. She impulsively embraced her, hugging the older woman’s narrow frame. Her body felt surprisingly fit and strong. How ironic that Clara had once considered her weak. Willoughby Barnes had been right on that score. Clara could only pray he would be equally as prescient in his search for evidence that would clear the Duchess’s name.

Chapter 20

While the inspector spent the next day interviewing servants and combing the estate for further evidence of murder, Will searched Winston Street for signs of Antonio Maulderazzi. An upper servant from Brandhurst Hall would be treated like visiting royalty by impoverished commoners. The more he thought about it, the more surprised Will was that he’d never heard rumors about the valet’s previous visits to town. Then again, Prissy had always been discreet. She not only hid her disease behind a mask, she deftly protected the identities of her customers. It was one of the things that appealed most to her Johns. And according to Sir Perry, Antonio had good reason to hide his identity when he was beyond the protective walls of the ducal estate. Will started his search with a visit to Prissy’s mother and little Peter. He was surprised and pleased to learn that they had moved to a better street and were comfortably appointed in cleaner circumstances. Mrs. O’Rourke had obviously used the Duchess’s charity wisely. There was new furniture, flowers in a separate parlor, and plenty of food cooking in the kitchen. Peter proudly told Will that he was starting school soon. He showed off his new clothes and made a special point of asking Will to thank the Duchess for him. Naturally the boy mourned his mother’s death, but Will sensed he was also relieved to know she was no longer suffering in the body that had betrayed her in such a gruesome fashion. After chatting some time with Peter, Will found a private moment to question his grandmother about some of Prissy’s old friends and clients. It was a painful topic, and he hated to remind Mrs. O’Rourke about her daughter’s past, but the older woman brightened when she learned the information would be of use to the Duchess. Equipped with names and addresses, Will proceeded to interview Prissy’s former acquaintances. Most of them were streetwalkers. It took some time to find them. A few were down by the canal that fed into the River Brandhurst. Two days later, Will felt he had something to go on. It seemed there was a very erudite and important gentleman with an Italian accent who had recently taken lodgings on Pitt Street. He called himself Valenti Porradamo. Will was willing to bet his commission on the Duke’s portrait that it was Antonio Maulderazzi. Will walked the short distance to Pitt Street and found his quarry after perusing the third pub he’d chosen at random. The public house had a dingy brick front and a crooked wooden sign. The interior was blue with smoke, and deafening with drunken laughter and vociferous debates. Will squeezed his way through the smelly crush and sidled up beside the valet at the bar. “I’ll have a pint, mate,” Will called to the tapster. Antonio looked up from his gin, then frowned slowly as recognition dawned. Shock, then fury turned his olive complexion white. He tossed back the rest of his gin, then shoved his way through the crowd toward the door. Will threw a coin on the bar, took a swig of his freshly poured dark ale, then raced after him. Will dodged around a lanky hound slumbering on the cobblestones outside, and skirted around two fancifully dressed young women who looked like they’d made a desperately wrong turn somewhere, then jogged a short distance and fell in stride with the valet. “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Maulderazzi.”

“My name is Porradamo,” he said over his shoulder, stabbing the air with his nose. “You’re the Duke’s valet at Brandhurst Hall. Don’t bother pretending otherwise.” The veins in his temples swelled and his eyes shot daggers. “I was the Duke’s valet.” He stopped and turned abruptly. “Now I am a nobody. After fifteen years of service, poof!” His fingers flew up like an exploding firecracker. “I’m no longer wanted. And all because of that worthless bitch.” It took Will a moment to realize who he was talking about. “Look here?” “And you’ve got her quim right in the palm of your hand, Mr. Barnes.” Will blinked, half in surprise that the valet had recognized him, and partly in shock over his crude words. “I’m warning you, Maulderazzi, you’d best hold your tongue where the Duchess is?” “You’ve been spermatizing her privates for some time now,” he sneered disdainfully. Will slammed his hands around his neck and shoved him hard against the stone wall of a town house. “Shut up, you bastard! I’ll rip your tongue out if I hear you talk like that again.” “Yes, you’d like me to still my lips,” Antonio rasped as he choked for air. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? So I wouldn’t talk to Scotland Yard about your doodling the Duchess?” Will tightened his grip, and the man’s face went scarlet as he strained for air. “Are you going to hold your tongue or not?” Will hissed in his ear. He nodded furiously. Will loosened his hold. “We need to talk, Maulderazzi.” “About what?” “About the murder.” “Why should I?” “There is an investigation, Mr. Maulderazzi. I am acting as the Duke’s agent. I mean to prove Her Grace innocent. If you don’t cooperate with me, I’ll tell Scotland Yard to deport you back to Italy. But only after you’re tried for your murder here in Stowfield.” Antonio snorted. “And who told you I had anything to fear from the law?” “Sir Perry.” Antonio’s face went blank. His eyes shuttered. “Yes, I know about Quinton Thorpe and Peregrine Moore. Did you think you could count on Her Grace’s silence regarding the Duke’s affairs?” Will asked, though it was clear that’s precisely what Antonio had thought. Like everyone else, the valet had underestimated Olivia. “She’s no longer willing to die to protect her husband’s reputation. If you give me the information that I need, I will make sure that Sir Perry keeps quiet about your past, and I will do so as well.”

“The new duke??” “The new duke is as powerful as the old, or will be soon. He can protect you here or send you to America. You’ll fit right in with all the outlaws.” Antonio took out a kerchief and dabbed his upper lip, his eyes shifting back and forth as he considered the proposition being thrust down his throat. “Very well,” he said hoarsely. “I will cooperate.” “Come away from here.” Will motioned with his head and the valet followed. They walked in silence, through a light drizzle past the malodorous factories and up the short hill to upper Stowfield, the good side of town. The air was a little fresher here, and the hansom cabs that serviced the gentry weren’t quite as rickety, the horses not quite as shabby. When the drizzle became a steady pelting, they ducked into one of several small tea shops scattered along the quaint medieval thoroughfare. When they’d finally settled in a corner table with two cups of steaming brew in hand, Will spoke succinctly in a low voice. “Let me be very clear about why I want to talk to you. The Duchess is about to be indicted for the Duke’s murder, but she didn’t do it.” Antonio snorted derisively. “You’re thinking with your rammer.” Will shot to his feet and loomed threateningly over the table until the servant waved his hands in surrender. “Pray, leave off. I meant no insult.” Will reluctantly sat back down, smiling apologetically at the ladies in fancy hats who stared disapprovingly from other tables. When they reluctantly resumed their chatter, Will continued softly. “Think about it, you stupid ape, how could a woman like Olivia Brandhurst overpower her husband?” Antonio’s sharp black eyes simmered. “She surprised him.” “He wouldn’t be surprised that anyone close to him might kill him. He knew what a beast he was. So did you.” The valet’s lower lip began to tremble. He scowled furiously. “You hated him, Maulderazzi, just like everyone who knew him well. He bound you to him. You had to be loyal. And you were. You were a good servant, but now he is gone. The devil is dead. He could have provided for you. You gave up everything to serve him. You never belonged here in England, did you? You had no family. You had nothing but a whore.” Antonio shut his eyes, as if he were praying, then smirked. “You’re very good, Barnes. I see how you talked your way into the Duchess’s bed.” Will’s jaw muscles flexed, but he gave no other sign of irritation. He blew air on his steaming Earl Grey and carefully sipped. “You can’t blame the Duchess for your plight, old mate. It was his fault. She didn’t kill him.” “Again, you’re thinking with your ...” He stopped when Will’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “I think you are being misled. The Signora did it. I saw it.”

Will leaned forward. “You saw what?” “I saw her hand on the dagger.” “And what else?” “I saw the dagger. Rather, I should say I saw the Duchess’s letter opener. The handle was ivory and carved in the shape of a peacock feather. There was blood on it. It was thrust in the Duke’s back. Anything else you want to know?” Will grinned darkly. “Not only did you see it, you stole it after she tried to dispose of it. And you sent it to Scotland Yard, anonymously, of course, so you wouldn’t risk your own arrest. I suppose you kept it as a sort of an assurance of employment?” Antonio took a sip of his tea, neither denying nor confirming Will’s assertions. “What else did you see?” “I saw Sir Perry enter the garden a few moments before I did.” “So you believe he is innocent.” “Of course.” “And that’s all you remember?” Antonio shrugged defensively. “I suppose so.” “Didn’t you see the place where the dagger was embedded?” His gaze wandered to the window as he dredged his memories. “Yes. It was high, between his shoulder blades, angled down to his heart.” “The Duke was exceptionally tall. Do you really think Her Grace had the strength and height to make a mortal wound at that angle?” He waited a moment to let the valet consider this. “Or do you think she asked her husband to lay down on the ground so she could get a better stab at it, so to speak?” “Perhaps they struggled,” Antonio argued. “Perhaps he knocked her down and she then clambered onto his back.” “And yet by all accounts, her gown was not stained with blood or grass or dirt.” When the first glimmer of doubt sparked in the valet’s eyes, Will gripped the edge of the table and tightened every muscle in his body. “Hear me, Antonio. You were the one who was misled. You were swayed by your resentment of the Duchess. You misconstrued the evidence. There was a third person in that garden. Counting you, a fourth. He left before you arrived. Now tell me, and be honest, or I swear to God I’ll ruin you, did the Duke have any other lovers?” Antonio’s frown deepened. “Yes. And only I knew.” He proudly tipped up his bristled chin. “I kept all his secrets.”

“Sir Perry didn’t know?” “Of course not.” “How many?” “At the time of his death, only one.” Will swallowed hard. His breathing was shallow. He knew the resolution of all Livie’s problems would come with the answer to his next question. “Who? Who was it?” Antonio took a long swig of tea. He carefully licked his lips, then eyed Will with something akin to embarrassment. “I don’t know.” Will blinked. “How could you not know? You dressed the man. You attended his private quarters.” “Not on the nights when this one came. Some things not even Antonio knows.” “You’re lying,” Will growled. “No, I swear!” “Fine. I’m going to speak to Inspector Gray about you.” He stood abruptly. “No, Barnes, I swear. I swear on my mother’s grave! I do not know!” Something in his face spoke of the truth. Will rubbed the back of his neck and sat down. “Can’t you give me anything to go on? Who in the hell am I supposed be looking for, other than a man who might have been the Duke’s lover?” He looked up quickly. “It was a man, wasn’t it?” “Yes. As for who...” Antonio shrugged. “Perhaps you should start by looking for someone tall, as you so cleverly pointed out.”

When Will returned to Brandhurst Hall, he was told by a tense Mr. Hammond that “the others” awaited him in the library. Before learning any more details, Will hurried to the King Charles room, where he found a dapper knee-length gray frock coat with wide braided lapels, a black-and-white checkered waistcoat, a white shirt, and wide black ascot. A footman offered to help him dress, but Will self-consciously declined. He quickly changed, ran a wet comb through his unkempt locks, and with fumbling hands made a mess of the ascot. Hammond rescued him at the last moment, neatly tying the knot while he good-naturedly warned Will never again to mistake him for a valet. Then he twirled Will around to face a beveled mirror, and both were amazed by Will’s astonishingly acceptable appearance. He hardly recognized himself. Neither did anyone else. When Hammond announced his arrival in the opulent library, there was a long pause, during which everyone, except Livie, frowned at him momentarily without comprehension. “Mr. Barnes, you’re just in time,” the Duke said, rising from a low Sheraton chaise. He indicated the

stocky mustachioed man next to him. “Inspector Gray, this is my agent, Willoughby Barnes.” Will gave the Duke a mild look of pleasant surprise, then nodded officiously at the man from Scotland Yard. The inspector stood, folding his hands in front of his ample waistcoat and watch chain, and gave Will a brisk smile. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes. I’ve heard a great deal about you.” Will didn’t so much as blink. It was obvious the inspector had plied gossip from the servants. And Will was sure the en dit included speculation that the Duchess had killed her husband so she could be with her garden lover. That subject might have been on the inspector’s list of points to raise, but the Duke had trumped him. “However,” Inspector Gray added significantly, “I had not heard that you are the Duke’s agent.” “Yup,” Andrew replied. “I’ve asked him to take a gander around here and find clues so I can prove my theory that a third person was in the garden that night.” “An interesting theory,” the inspector said, though his voice was rife with skepticism. He put down his cup and cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all gathered, let me begin.” “Yes, Inspector, please do,” Livie said with perfect equanimity when his eyes fell on her. “Have you found the murderer?” Her obvious attempt to assert her own innocence was met with a patronizing smile. “No, Your Grace, I have not. In fact, this meeting has little to do with my investigation. I set an appointment to meet with Mr. Neville Thorpe, but he insisted that any revelations should be made before the entire family.” “This oughtta be good.” The Duke sat, and the inspector did likewise. Neville stood and took center stage. He cleared his throat and smiled triumphantly in a way that made Livie nervous. “What is it, Neville? I hope it is important.” “I don’t know myself, Aunt Livie,” he said with entirely too much excitement. “The inspector told me he had discovered a box of Uncle’s papers in the secret passageway.” Livie’s eyes widened with alarm. Todd stood up. “What secret passageway? Why wasn’t I informed of this discovery?” “You’ll find out momentarily,” the inspector dryly replied. Neville’s dark eyes glittered like sunlit onyx, and he barely suppressed a gleeful smile. “Inspector Gray has read the contents. Being discreet, he approached me as the prior head of the family.” He smiled perfunctorily at Andrew. “I was in charge until His Grace arrived. It was a duty and an honor to serve my family. And though the good inspector was kind enough to offer the utmost discretion, there are no secrets here. And so I asked him to withhold the contents of the box until the entire family could be gathered. Isn’t that so, Inspector? I want everyone to know I have no prior knowledge of that which you are about to reveal.”

The efficient and plump inspector looked at him as if he were a touch off. “Yes, Mr. Thorpe, that is entirely true, though I would have thought discretion would be the appropriate course under the circumstances.” Livie unconsciously moved to the edge of her seat. She sent a wild and pleading look to Neville, but he either didn’t see it or ignored it. He was in his glory now. The Scotland Yard investigators had apparently found the proof of Andrew’s illegitimacy that Neville had claimed existed in the late Duke’s papers. To expose his cousin’s bastardy in such a manner was unconscionable. “That’s quite enough, Neville.” She stood imperiously. “I will not allow you to do this.” Neville turned on her. “I did not think that your opinion matters here any longer.” She took a sharp breath as if he’d slapped her. She glanced at Andrew. “Of course, I will defer to His Grace?” “Well, Your Grace, what say you?” Neville cut her off and turned to his cousin. His voice held a challenge. “No family secrets here, eh? Why don’t you be a jolly good sport and let the inspector tell us what he discovered?” Andrew shrugged. “By all means, Nev. I’m curious as he?. Well, let’s just say I’d like to know myself. Go ahead, Inspector. What did ya find in this Pandora’s Box that Neville is so excited about?” The unfeeling inspector seemed to hesitate. Livie’s heart was ready to explode. Dear Lord, she thought, don’t let it be true. Don’t let Neville destroy Andrew in front of everyone. “It seems, Your Grace,” the inspector said crisply after overcoming his initial hesitation, “that there was an indiscretion in your family. A case of illegitimacy.” Livie shot to her feet. “We don’t need to know. Not now at any rate.” The inspector gave her a surprisingly sympathetic look, then continued. “It seems that Mr. Thorpe’s mother conducted an affair outside of her marriage.” Mr. Thorpe? Livie pressed a hand to her chest. That wouldn’t be Andrew, for he was now a duke. Mister? Good heavens, he was talking about Neville! Her gaze vaulted his way. His normally pale complexion had turned white as chalk. His eyes had glazed over. He didn’t seem to be breathing. The inspector continued. “It seems the late Lady Margaret Thorpe gave birth to a bastard, Mr. Neville Thorpe.” “No!” Neville blurted out. “You have it all wrong.” “Her husband, the late Lord Most Reverend Thorpe, decided to pretend the child was his own. The papers indicate that this affair played some part in his decision to disclaim his title of earl. While it is rare for anyone to prove illegitimacy after the husband has accepted the child as his own, it seemed a confession was extracted from Her Ladyship, apparently by the late Duke of Brandhurst, Quinton Thorpe.” “Oh, my Lord,” Livie whispered.

“Why?” Andrew asked, his one incredulous word echoing the sentiments of all. “Apparently the Duke wanted to make sure that his illegitimate nephew?” “I think we all understand his status, Inspector,” Andrew cut in shortly. The man inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace. What I mean to say is that your uncle wanted to ensure that Neville Thorpe didn’t inherit his dukedom.” “If he went to the trouble of gettin‘ a confession, why did he keep it a secret?” Andrew countered. “It was a contract of sorts. It was signed by Her Ladyship and the Duke. In return for her confession, he swore he would not make it public unless it became apparent, through some tragedy, that the title should fall to Mr. Thorpe’s shoulders. There is some indication that the fourth Duke thought you, Your Grace, were in poor health. I was prepared to share this news with Mr. Thorpe alone, but he insisted you join us.” Livie looked up when she saw a stiff form pass in front of her eyes. It was Neville. He walked like a ghost toward the door. “Neville, don’t go.” He opened the door without a word and exited. Livie stood to follow, but Andrew motioned for her to stay. “Let him go, Aunt Livie. He’s hurtin‘. He’s been bitten by a snake he didn’t even see.” “He should have,” she said. “He set the adder loose himself.”

Livie walked to the Duchess’s Garden by moonlight. Her mind was heavy with the sad turn of events. As much as Neville had angered her in recent weeks, and even betrayed her, she pitied him. He’d been utterly humiliated. So much so that Livie feared he might take his own life. She’d asked Hammond to make sure that a footman was assigned to his door all day and night. As for her own plight, she had become convinced that Will would find the real murderer. She sensed momentum had swung their way. Will’s youthful optimism and his ageless determination were infectious. It was so apparent he would not abandon her in her time of need that she had no choice but to join in the fight he’d begun on her behalf. She would have gone to the gallows for Perry, but now that Will had convinced her a third person was to blame for Quinton’s death, she wasn’t about to offer herself up to Scotland Yard like a sacrificial lamb. “Will?” she called out when she reached the garden. The door was open. She peeked her head inside. A lantern lit one side of the garden like the small yellow glow of a winged fairy. It flitted around a small area. She knew it was Will. She traveled along the mulched path toward the light, and when she rounded a bend, she found him pacing a small circle. The lantern rocked beneath his hand. He held it up here and there, backed up a few paces, ran a palm over his growing whiskers, shook his head, then began the circle again. Finally he stopped, looked over his shoulder, dropped to the ground, carefully placing the lantern aside, then sprawled out on his belly. It was then she realized what he was doing. He had fallen in the exact spot where Quinton Thorpe had breathed his last. She had shown the location to Todd. He must have pointed

it out to Will. “When you are finished with your work as the Duke’s agent,” she said wryly, “perhaps you can go to work for Scotland Yard.” He looked up with a start, then sighed with relief. “Livie! Thank God it’s you.” “Who did you think it might be?” He rose to his knees and dusted himself off. “I suppose I feared it might be your husband’s murderer.” “I suppose you wouldn’t make a good sleuth after all, since you didn’t even hear me approach.” “I was distracted.” When he stood, she walked to him. His penetrating eyes searched her face as only they could. “Are you well, luv?” he whispered. “Yes.” She smiled, then reached out to stroke his face. “Even better now that I am with you.” She loved to feel the soft bristles that sprouted on his face at night. They reminded her of the mornings she awoke with a burn on her cheeks. He pressed her palm to his lips. His sensual mouth parted in a kiss. His tongue swirled in her palm, and a shiver crept up her arms. “Will, I want this to be over, simply so I can be alone with you. All day. And all night.” She pulled herself forward by wrapping her arm around his lean waist. His tight buttocks were firm, and her hand crept up the inside of his shirt. His steely muscles were taut with the want of her. “I can’t get enough of you.” He kissed her deeply. She melted into him, and he into her. When the kiss ended, she was content again. But she did not want to let go. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “What will become of us?” she whispered in his ear. He stroked the back of her head. “We can’t worry about that now. First we must determine what’s to become of you.” He pulled his head back and eyed her with a challenge. “You’re not backing down on me, are you, Duchess?” A slow, teasing smile curled deliciously up her lips. “Never.” “Good. Because it’s so easy. All we have to do is find him. Inspector Gray puts up a good front, but he would thank the stars if he could find someone else to accuse. No one would want to try the beloved Duchess of Brandhurst before Parliament in a murder case.” She sighed and loosened her grip. “If only I could tell you who it might have been.” Will released her and retrieved his lantern. “I’ve been pacing this area, and a thought just occurred to me. The Duke was stabbed here, right?” She nodded at the unpleasant memory. “Yes. I was on the ground. He nearly landed on top of me.” He motioned to her excitedly. “Look here, Livie. Come stand by me. See how close he was to the

wall?” She nodded, then shrugged. “So?” “So whoever it was might have crawled up the side of the wall and jumped down. If so, he could have made the fatal blow high on the Duke’s back, even if he were short in stature.” “I see.” She pressed her temples with her hands. “It’s all so confusing. I’ve been trying to think of tall acquaintances. But if he were shorter?” “Why an acquaintance? Why not a servant?” Livie shook her head quickly. “No, Quinton would never do that. Not that he had any moral compunctions about taking whatever he wanted. But he was exceptionally class conscious. He would have considered a servant beneath his ... romantic intentions.” “I doubt there was anything romantic about it, from what I’ve heard about Quinton Thorpe.” “Nevertheless, he would have chosen a lover from among his own peers, risky as that would have been. He never flaunted his predilections. And he was never suspected because he was so ... manly. I cannot conceive of anyone who was present that night meeting him for an assignation. Nor can I imagine any of his peers climbing over this high wall.” “Perhaps the assailant entered through the door while you and your husband tussled back here.” “It’s possible.” “So whoever it was, he may have been short or tall, he was from the upper crust, and he had to have been athletic to climb the wall.” “Or he was waiting here for Quinton.” “He very likely bore the Duke some sort of grudge. Anything else?” “He would have been beautiful. Quinton adored physical beauty.” Will looked at her and shook his head incredulously. “What a fool he was.” He took her in his arms and kissed her on the forehead. “His loss is my gain. I am the luckiest man on the earth. I cannot believe how you came to be my lover.” She went still in his arms. His lover. But never his wife. With the hope of ending this nightmare, she’d felt the faint stirring of discontent. She didn’t want Will to be her garden lover anymore. She wanted all of him. And she wanted to give him all of herself. He seemed to know what she was thinking. He stroked her cheek and smiled with a wisdom that far surpassed his age. “Don’t worry, Livie. It will all work out.”

Chapter 21

Will made sure that Livie safely returned to the house. Then he walked toward Sir Perry’s cottage. Will would consult with the Duke first thing in the morning, but he couldn’t wait to ask Peregrine Moore who he thought the Duke’s other lover might be. It would be an awkward question under any other circumstances but these. He thrust his hands in his pockets and kept his head down, mulling over the clues and his own scattered thoughts. He didn’t look up until he was passing by the old gardener’s cottage where he’d first stayed. He had fond memories of the place and smiled. But when he saw the flicker of candlelight, he immediately stopped. He’d grown suspicious of everyone and everything. “Who goes there?” he called out. No answer. “Is that you, Inspector Gray?” Or was it the murderer? Perhaps an interloper who had had no personal connection to the Duke whatsoever. Will stepped cautiously down the stone pathway to the front door. Just as he’d climbed the steps, he heard a familiar rush of female laughter. A raucous and gusty spill of giggles. Maggie. Who the hell was she diddling this time? He creaked open the door and saw her swathed in bed linens. Her red hair tumbling down her back looked like yarn from a spinning wheel run amok. Tangled strands hung in a clump and red lip rouge was smeared across one cheek. Will didn’t immediately recognize the man collapsed in exhaustion beside her. “Up with you, mate.” She gave the limp body a shove. “Ye think one time is enough fer ole‘ Maggie?” “Oh, bloody hell, woman, I told you I was frigging drunk.” Neville Thorpe! Will would recognize that imposing accent anywhere. “What’s the meaning of this?” Will snapped. Maggie and Neville looked at him incredulously. “Will?” Maggie said, squinting in the pale light. “What the devil are ye doin‘ here?” “Shouldn’t I ask you the same?” “Whash going on?” Neville said, his speech slurred. He sat up in bed and belched. Even that sounded proper. He hiccuped and tried to focus on Will. His skinny white chest looked frail in the candlelight. “Who is it?” “Who do ye think ye are?” Maggie said sulkily as she raised the sheet higher at her breasts. “Me father? Go on, Will. I can handle meself.” “It doesn’t look like it, Maggie. Mr. Thorpe,” he said, coming to the bed and whipping back the sheets. “It’s time for you to go back to the house.” Neville blinked, then looked at Maggie with bleary eyes. “Ish that the gardener?”

“Come along, Mr. Thorpe.” “Go away, Will!” Maggie said and gave his hand a shove. Will gently but firmly took Neville’s arm and pulled him to the edge of the bed. He was as loose as a sack of goose down, though a great deal heavier. Maggie jumped up. “What do ye think ye’re doin‘?” “What you should have done. I’m sending Mr. Thorpe back to the place he belongs.” “I don’t belong there,” Neville said. “Ish over. All of it. God, I need another drink.” Swaying in place, he obediently put his feet in the trousers Will held out for him. “Will, sod off, will ye? Ye’re ruining it.” She added with a desperate whisper, “He’s sweet on me, Will. I’m goin‘ to ’ave ‘is baby. ’E’s goin‘ to make me a proper lady. Just think, I’ll be a cousin to a duke!” Will froze at the word baby, then slowly straightened, the blood rising in his face. He let go of Neville, who promptly toppled over onto the bed. “What?” he nearly shouted. “I missed me courses. And I’m regular as clockwork.” Maggie dropped her sheet and gripped both his arms. “Look ‘ere, mate. Ye’ve been a pal. I’m grateful ye arranged fer me to ’ave the job in the first place. But things is different now. I ain’t never kept a babe ‘afore, but I mean to this time. This is me chance, Will. I can finally climb me way out o’ the gutter.” “Your chance at what? Damn it, Maggie, don’t be a fool! He won’t do right by you. I can’t exactly challenge him to a duel to defend your honor!” “He’s a weaklin‘, ’e is. ‘E needs a strong gal like me. He ain’t no blue blood, but he’s upper crust. I’m good enough for the likes of him.” “Maggie, he’s ... he’s not welcome here anymore. It’s not what you think. And even if it were, he’d never marry you. Don’t you know that?” Maggie’s face turned feral. “Shut up, Willoughby Barnes! I’ve ‘ad enough of yer highfallutin airs. Ye’re just jealous ’cause ye know there’s no way in bloody ‘ell the Duchess will ever marry scum like ye!” Will raised an arm to backhand her, then caught himself. He slowly lowered his trembling hand. “You’re going to regret this, Maggie. When it all falls apart, don’t come running to me. I’m through with you, you hear?” “Good! Go on with ye, then!” Will was of a mind to punch Neville Thorpe in his aristocratic mouth. But he knew that Maggie was no blushing innocent. She hoped to use Neville as much as he had used her. Suddenly Will felt claustrophobic. There was something sick in the air that seemed to turn his blood to syrup. He hurried outside and drew deeply of the honeysuckle-scented air. The smell of flora always

calmed him. He pressed his hands to his face. What had bothered him so about that encounter? He was disappointed but certainly not surprised by Maggie’s behavior. It was now obvious she was incapable of the discipline required by domestic service. Will gripped a short wall that marked the entrance to the walkway. He dug his fingers into the cool, rough stone. Then he realized what troubled him on a gut level. Maggie and Neville had defiled the place where Will and Livie had fallen in love, where the world had turned topsy-turvy, where they had become greater people for the faith they’d put in love. Some love affairs were simply convenient. Some provided satisfaction for lost souls, like two spirits seeking comfort in purgatory. But some affairs, the very few, were true. They were a completion, the joining of a long lost key and lock, a confirmation of what God had intended when He spent seven long days creating earth and hell and heaven. And sometimes an affair made a man feel like he was in all three places at once.

Will apprized Sir Perry of the latest developments. And though the Baronet could offer no suggestions as to who the Duke might have been seeing on the sly, he offered to accompany him back to the house, in spite of the hour. Sir Perry said a breath of fresh air would rescue him from a difficult chapter in his latest book, and might jog memories for potential clues. When they approached the Duke’s grave, Perry fell silent. Will could well imagine why. “I haven’t been here since the funeral.” “This is where I first met the Duchess,” Will said. “It was shortly after the Duke’s burial.” “You designed the garden here, I suppose?” The question was too casual, too obvious of an attempt to make light of Perry’s dark feelings. “Yes, I?” Will fell silent and stopped abruptly when he spotted a figure sitting on the same bench where he’d first seen Livie. He gripped Perry’s arm, holding him back, and whispered, “What the devil? That’s where she was the night we met.” Perry squinted in the moonlight. Fortunately, the moon was full, and they did not need a torch to see. “It’s a man,” Perry whispered. “Antonio?” “No, Antonio is shorter than this one.” They shared a potent look, then Will started forward. As he drew closer, he heard snuffling and sputtering sobs. Whoever it was, he was crying. Will hesitated to proceed. It seemed cruel to disturb a man in such a state. Then the man lifted his head to the sky, as if beseeching the Creator for reprieve. His wide mouth twisted in a grimace. His forehead wrinkled with grief. And yet the almost unearthly beauty of the visage could not be mistaken. “It’s Thomas Crumby,” Will whispered. Perry stopped at his side. “The gardener’s son?” “Yes.”

“What’s the matter with him?” “I don’t know.” Will stopped a stone’s throw away from Thomas. He didn’t want to startle him. “Tom? It’s Will Barnes.” The sobbing man slowly turned to him. He shook with emotion, and the spigot of tears opened further at the sight of Will. “You! It’s you.” “I’m not going to hurt you, Tom. I’m not going to take your place in the garden. So get ahold of yourself, and tell me why you’re crying.” He’d momentarily stopped, but he let out another ungainly sob that contrasted so drastically to his statuesque features. “She’s going to hang!” “Who?” “The Duchess! Me Pa said she’s goin‘ to hang for killing the Duke.” “Not if I can help it.” Will squatted down to look closely in his eyes. “Look here, Tom, you might be able to assist me. I can prove the Duchess is innocent if I can find out who else was in the garden the night the Duke was murdered. You tend Her Grace’s garden. Did you see anyone there that night?” Tom shook his head and wiped his tears with his exquisite hands, which he moved as clumsily as paws. “No! Just the Duchess ... and the Duke.” “You were there?” Will gripped his arm. “You were in the garden when the Duke was murdered?” Tom nodded. Will looked anxiously over his shoulder at Perry. The Baronet stepped forward from the shadows. “Who was it, Thomas? You can tell me. Who killed the Duke?” Tom looked up with a start. “Oh, Sir Perry. Ye were there.” Perry loomed over him with his hands on his hips. “Yes, I came in just after the Duke died. And his valet was there, also. But up until the point when he was stabbed, there was another person. The person who actually committed the crime. Who was it, Tom? You can tell us. The Duke will not punish you.” He looked up at Perry with a slow realization. Then he burst into tears. “Ye know, too.” Perry and Will exchanged a look. “Ye know about the secret staircase. Me pa whipped me good over that.” “What do you mean?” Perry asked. “Me pa said if I e’er told anyone about the secret staircase, I’d go straight to hell. Don’t tell ‘im, Sir Perry. Don’t tell Pa ye know, too, or ye’ll get a whippin’ but good.” Perry motioned for Will to move aside. He sat beside the young gardener. They were both exceptionally

attractive men, and until they spoke, the most obvious difference was their clothing. Perry wore a dapper suit cut by the finest tailor in London. Tom wore baggy and dirt-stained trousers and a shabby shirt. “Tell me about the secret staircase,” Perry said in a gentle voice. “How do you know about it, lad?” Tom seemed comforted by Perry’s presence, and his tears dried in the warm breeze. He looked sullenly into a past that was obviously difficult for him to recall. He chewed his lower lip, struggling to organize his thoughts. “I saw it before His Grace died. Don’t remember how long ‘afore. H-h-he told me that he had a sweet cherry tart waitin’ for me in his room. He showed me the secret door and told me to come after dark.” A deep frown gathered on Perry’s brow. “And so you found the door and climbed the stairs to fetch your tart?” Tom nodded. Shame cloaked him, and his shoulders slumped. “I only wanted the tart, mind ye. I didn’t mean to take nothin‘ else.” “Did you?” Perry softly inquired. Tom nodded, unwilling to meet Perry’s eyes. “Aye, sir. But not at first. His Grace was waitin‘ for me. The tart was hot. I let it cool, then ate it quick and tried to go, but His Grace said he wanted a taste, too, and he... he put his mouth on mine.” Perry was quiet for some time. Then he said in a deep voice, “Go on. What happened then?” Tom began to cry again, but this time the tears seeped from clamped eyelids and a bitter sound slipped from his compressed lips. “He hurt me. He hurt me real bad. Not like Pa hurts me. This was ... different. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. And he was the Duke. And Pa says I was always supposed to do what the Duke says.” “And so you did,” Perry said in a weary voice. “Aye, but I was mad. His Grace... he fell asleep then. And I wanted to hurt him back, so I stole somethin‘. I wandered about the room, and wandered into Her Grace’s room. She twaren’t there. I took her letter opener. A peacock feather. Real pretty like. I didn’t tell no one I stole it. I felt better after I got more ’an me tart for me pains.” “So you were the one in the garden,” Will said softly. Tom nodded. “Why? Why did you kill him?” Tom snuffled and swiped a hand under his running nose. “He was goin‘ to hurt the Duchess. She was cryin’ like me. I... I lost me mind. I saw black ... and next thing I knew he was on the ground.” Perry put an arm around the gardener. “I wish I could say I blame you, lad.” Will hugged himself as a wave of tingling relief washed through him. It mingled with his sadness over Tom’s plight. The poor thing never had a chance. Then Will was struck by the irony of it all. Tom was a

garden lover, just like him. He went numb then, as irony, hope, and despair battled in his mind. He already knew which one would reign victorious.

“Oh, my heavens!” Livie cried out. “It was Thomas Crumby? The poor, poor lad.” She sat in the library next to Clara. Andrew sat next to them in an upright Chippendale. Todd sat on the arm of an easy chair. Perry was stretched out on a chaise lounge. The late hour had etched dark circles under his eyes. Only Will remained standing. He leaned against the mantel, looking like a self-portrait of himself, pensive, his body in an intriguing pose of rustic grace. Livie was just beginning to realize that he had saved her life. “I’ll be danged,” Andrew said. “Thomas Crumby! How did ya know it was the gardener, Barnes?” Will smiled ruefully. “I didn’t, Your Grace. It was a stroke of good fortune. We passed by the Duke’s Garden and there he was. It occurred to me that Tom might have seen the murder because it happened in the garden he tends. That’s why I questioned him. While he fit the Duchess’s description of the likely suspect?he is handsome, and he was certainly tall and strong enough to have done the deed?I never considered Tom because he was a servant. And a half-wit.” “So when Quinton chased me into the garden, Tom was there?” Livie was still trying to place Thomas into the scenario she had replayed so many times in her dreams. “No,” Will replied, “apparently he had been picking up some tools he’d left near the house. He heard your argument, and fearing for your safety, he followed you and the Duke. Tom mentioned that you frequently gave him tarts, and he didn’t want you to be hurt as he had been by the Duke.” Livie glanced at Perry during the sober silence that followed. His heart was clearly as heavy as hers. “Tom kept to the bushes,” Will continued, “and when the Duke bent over, he stabbed him with your letter opener, which he had stolen. Unfortunately for the Duke, he struck at such an angle that the heart was dealt a fatal blow. When you started to sit up, he became frightened and scurried back into hiding. He remained there until the commotion ceased.” “But who bribed the doctor into giving a false report?” Livie asked. “Surely not Tom. I removed the weapon, and Perry supervised the removal of the body.” Livie realized she had her answer. She looked at Perry. “You?” “Yes. And I don’t regret it. I thought you had killed Quinton. I didn’t want you to pay for the crime. I bribed the doctor into saying His Grace had died of apoplexy, and I made it clear to Antonio that he was to dress the body himself. I warned him that if he contradicted the doctor’s report and told anyone about the stab wound I’d hand him over to the constable for the murder of the mayor’s niece.” “The inspector said there was another servant who saw the wound,” Livie said. “She quit in fear after being threatened into silence, apparently by Antonio.” “Yes, he understood I wanted to protect you. He was apparently content to remain silent until the new duke released him from his position. I suppose I’ll have to endure some sort of punishment for meddling with the truth.”

“I think we can work around that,” Todd interjected. “I’ve spoken with the head of Scotland Yard, and he wants this matter handled as quietly as possible. As long as he has the real murderer, he should be content.” “Once again the poor pay for their crimes, and the rich go unpunished,” Clara mused with a tinge of disapproval. Todd shot her an admiring glance. “That’s all you really need to know about the law, Miss Peabody. You might be called to the bar before I am.” “Poor Tom,” Livie murmured. Then her eyes ignited with a fierce gleam that had become more and more evident with each passing day. “Toddy, I want you to represent Thomas Crumby personally. See what you can do to get him a lenient sentence.” “It will be difficult, ma’am,” Todd said. “And scandalous. Imagine what the ton would say about me handling the case for my own uncle’s murderer.” “Who cares about scandal?” Andrew declared. “You hire the best barrister money can buy, and I’ll pay for it myself. Uncle Quinton got what he deserved. I don’t care what darned title he boasted.” “In the end he was undone by a garden lover.” Livie slowly turned to the speaker. It was Will. He’d been momentarily forgotten. She knew what he was thinking. He, too, was a garden lover. But surely he knew that was where the comparison ended. “He was undone,” she corrected him, “by a poor young half-wit he had miserably abused.” Will’s shoulders slowly sank with a resigned sigh. “I believe the mystery has been solved, Your Grace.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I trust you will speak with Inspector Gray.” “Yup.” Andrew stood. “He’ll be nearly as relieved as I am, I reckon. I can’t thank you enough.” “Justice for Her Grace was my reward.” He refused to look her way again. Livie knew he wanted to. But she could not know, nor could she be prepared for what happened next. “With your permission, sir, I will take my leave from Brandhurst Hall,” Will said. “I’m going to London tomorrow.” “Why?” Livie asked. “Must you go so soon?” seconded Todd. “We should celebrate your success.” “He has more success awaiting him in Town,” Perry said, grinning with pride. “It seems the Royal Academy has accepted his portrait of the Duchess for the summer exhibition, on recommendation of the esteemed John Ruskin.” “Which painting?” Livie’s heart beat in her throat. Had he finished it finally? Or was he showing a previous work?

Will’s sensitive eyes found her, locked into her, then reveled with pride, intimacy, completion. “Would you like to see it? It’s hanging in the gallery. Mr. Hammond was gracious enough to have it put up this morning.” “I didn’t know,” she said breathlessly, her dismay turning into excitement about the completed portrait. “I wasn’t expecting you to finish it during all this mayhem.” “It was meant to be a surprise.” He offered his arm, and she rose to take it. Breaking all rules of etiquette, they led the way while the others followed. The Duke offered Clara his arm, and Todd followed up the rear beside Perry. They all mingled and laughed and chatted, exuberant now that the murder had been solved, and a little giddy from lack of sleep. The servants hurried ahead to turn up the lights in the gallery. Will guided Livie to the place where her old portrait had hung. He pointed. “See a difference?” She took in a slow breath of astonishment. Her heart nearly stopped. “Good heavens,” Todd said, joining the cluster beneath the painting. “By Jove, Barnes, you’ve captured her to perfection.” Livie could not speak. “How strong she is,” Clara remarked. “I saw that strength glimmering in her eyes the first day I met her. But now it is shining bright for all to see.” “It is a will to survive that was forged in fire,” Perry said feelingly. “That’s the best kind of strength.” Livie glanced over her shoulder with a grateful smile and stretched a hand out. Perry took it and squeezed firmly. “You know me so well.” “Not as well as Willoughby Barnes,” Perry said softly. Livie could only nod. She bit her trembling lower lip as she turned back to the painting. She could not look away from the gorgeous oils, gleaming, at turns dark, then bright. It was almost too powerful to assimilate. She had never felt more exposed. Will had portrayed her deepest secrets, and yet they were emblazoned with a dignity and a wisdom that almost spoke of the unseen. He had painted her as she was now and as she was yet to be, as she was becoming?strong and wise and compassionate. Instead of putting her in a formal setting as her previous portraitist had, Will had placed Livie in a rising cloud of mist. Almost like a fresco in which cherubs hover angelically near heaven, she was rising to some unknown height. And yet she looked clearly at anyone who regarded her, as if to say, I am still here, and I know you. I know the world, though I belong in a better place. I’d like to go, but I’ll stay a while, and see that the world rises with me. All this was said in the half-lidded glance, the slightly sardonic smile of her bow-shaped lips, her flowing hair, her outstretched hand that held a rose. A red rose whose thorn had pricked her lily white palm. Her arm, shockingly bare to the elbow, was rather muscular, and the rest of her body nestled in a nebulous swirl of white and gold cloth. “Oh, my,” she exhaled at last, then regarded Will with tear-filled eyes. She knew now what she had only suspected before. His success was assured, no matter how humble his beginnings. The world could not be denied so great an artist. And the world’s gain would be her loss.

Chapter 22

The next morning Livie was summoned to the Duke’s library. In spite of two cups of morning coffee, she was still in a fog. She had slept fitfully during what remained of the night after Will’s incredible revelations. She was relieved on that matter, obviously, but whenever she remembered that he would leave today, her head spun and her stomach grew queasy. When she entered the library, she was surprised to see Todd and Clara present and already engaged in intense dialogue. “Here she is,” Todd said. “Good morning, Aunt Livie. Clara has some rather bad news.” “Oh?” The fog began to clear. She joined them in one of the uprights placed in front of the Duke’s desk. He twiddled his thumbs behind it, scowling. “What is it?” Clara grimaced and shook her head. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but it appears that Maggie Tulliver is ... well, she’s very much ... You see, Will Barnes has just informed me that Maggie is ... with child.” “Oh, no! How dreadful.” Livie turned to Andrew. “Maggie is the factory girl we hired. We had hoped to steer her down a moral path, but it seems our good intentions were for naught.” “Yeah, that’s what Todd said. How do ya recommend we handle this, Miss Peabody?” “She would like to marry the father, but?” “She must!” Livie interjected. Clara went white. “It’s not that simple, I fear.” “It never is,” Todd remarked. “You see,” Clara said slowly, “the father is Neville Thorpe.” Andrew let out a muttered expletive. “That darned polecat. I saw him pawing a pretty young thing the day I arrived. Was that her? A maid?” Livie nodded. “I’d like to have him tarred and feathered,” Todd said. “As if he hadn’t already caused enough trouble. I’d be willing to place a bet at White’s that Neville conspired with Antonio to trump up those accusations against the Duchess.” “He must do right by Maggie,” Livie declared. “Where is he? I’ll speak with him at once.”

Clara whipped open a fan and fluttered it at her neck. “He is said to be somewhere in town, lost in a fit of inebriation.” “I’ll sober him up but good,” Andrew growled. “You’ll never get him to marry her, Aunt Livie,” Todd said. “Frankly, her dubious pedigree aside, I doubt she’s any more suited to marriage than she apparently was to domestic service.” “Perhaps not. But he can provide for the child.” “She should have been educated.” Clara wrung her hands in her lap. “It’s my fault. I should have prepared her better for the changes in her life.” “Some women don’t want to be reformed, Miss Peabody,” Todd said gently. “Mr. Barnes told you Maggie is no blushing virgin. She knew what she was doing.” “She doesn’t know enough about her options to know right from wrong, therefore she can’t be blamed for making the wrong decisions. I’m not going to give up on her yet.” Todd shot her an admiring look. “I know of a home outside of London for women in such trouble,” Clara said. “It’s called Heaven’s Gate. I’d like to send Maggie there immediately.” “Well done, Miss Peabody.” The Duke leveled her with a look of winking approval. “My stables are at your disposal.” Clara smiled warmly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

What would she say? What could Livie possibly propose to Will that might enable them to continue their relationship? How could she let him become the man he was destined to be without breaking the silken strand that tethered their hearts? She wanted him to find success, but she was terrified that if he did, he would be lost to her forever. How long could they possibly have together? She wasn’t getting any younger. She pondered this predicament as she paced back and forth in her sitting room. Soon it would be time for the noon meal, but she didn’t feel like seeing anyone. A knock sounded quietly on her door. She jerked her head up. Could it be Will? Was he coming to her one last time? She hurried to the door and opened it a crack. She sucked in a breath at the surprising sight of Stagecoach Sam. Whiskey fumes infused her nose. Sam tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it merely wrinkled his face further, and he looked like a worn map of the Louisiana Purchase. “Yes, Sam, what is it?” “His Grace wants ta see ya, ma’am. If ya don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” “Come along, ma’am. He’s in his private drawing room.” When she entered, Andrew was pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a proper English suit, which contrasted dramatically with the sun-bleached hair that fell to his shoulders. He looked up and gave her a commiserating smile. “Are you thinkin‘ what I’m thinkin’, Duchess?” “I’m not sure, Andrew. We both have so much on our minds.” He gestured to an easy chair. “Have a seat. I wanted to talk to you earlier, but this mess with Maggie Tulliver had to be handled first. Sam, get the lady a glass of port.” “It’s a little early for me, Andrew.” His rugged cheeks broke into a sly smile. “Don’t tell me ya don’t need it.” He resumed his pacing while Sam poured and delivered the drink. “We can’t just let Will Barnes ride off into the sunset today. He saved your neck. And I think it goes without saying you’re still sweet on ‘im. Am I right?” She smiled slowly. “That doesn’t begin to cover the depth of my feelings. What do you propose we do?” He shook his head with a growl of frustration and plopped down next to her on the sofa. He leaned on the arm and studied her closely. “Heck, Duchess, you know more about this hoity-toity Society than I do. It ain’t never goin‘ to work as it is. I could hire him to be my agent, man-of-affairs?er, that is, a lieutenant of sorts to Sam.” The wizened servant shook his head and muttered. Andrew pulled a smile, then turned back to Livie. “But as long as he has to earn his keep workin‘ for me, that ain’t goin’ to be good enough. You Brits treat work like it’s a disease.” Livie smiled wanly. “You’re right. It’s not going to work. I have to let him go.” Her voice broke and her eyes fluttered with pain. “If only he were merely good. Or merely smashing. But I took one look at that portrait and knew. I knew that one day books would be written about his work.” “True enough.” She let out a quivering laugh of irony. “He knew it. He made his choice long ago to live for his art. When you have talent like that, there really is no other choice. I cannot take that away from him.” “Then follow him to London.” “I don’t want to be a patron, Andrew, I want to be his wife. And God help me, I even want a child, if it’s not too late. He deserves a child, to carry on his legacy.” “Then marry him!” “I would never fit into the life of a London artist,” she hissed. “Can you imagine me living in a garret,

completely snubbed by my peers, trying not to be jealous of Will’s young models, wondering how long it would be before I looked ancient in comparison and he would leave me?” “So you’re afraid.” “Yes!” “Then let him prove himself and wait for him to come to his senses.” “By the time he feels secure enough to love a Duchess, I’ll be too old.” Andrew said nothing. “Of course, I have my own money and an estate up north, secured as part of my marriage settlement. I’ll never be destitute. But Will is not like other men. He would not be content to live off the largesse of my estate. He would still think of himself as my garden lover,” she rasped. She ran shaky fingers over her face. “Oh, it’s so frustrating! Why can’t we take the wisdom of the aged and put it in the body of the young? I was prepared to die for a crime I had not committed, and he would not let me do it. He forced me to accept my life as it should be. And yet he is young enough to think he still has something to prove.” “Sounds like me a few years back.” “Ah, Andrew. I’ve learned so much in the last year. And I think I’ve come to the conclusion that love is not enough.” Her voice shook with bitterness and betrayal. “I really had thought it would be. But if I want him to choose me over seeking his fortune in London, then I have to offer him something fantastic in return. And love isn’t it. He needs a world to conquer, to discover, to paint and revel in.” “A new world?” Andrew asked significantly. “I suppose that’s every young man’s dream.” “You know, Aunt Livie, the more ya talk, the more he reminds me of me. When we left England, I was a puny boy, suffocated by nursemaids and servants, always fallin‘ ill. If anyone had somethin’ to prove, it was me. Then my father took me out West, and I came to life. If only ya could see that place. The brilliant sunsets, the deserts that would even make a king feel inconsequential, the terra cotta cliffs, and the endless sky. Why, everywhere ya look there’s a painted landscape, purtier than any painting hangin‘ in that there Royal Academy.” “It sounds like an artist’s dream. If only Will wanted to paint landscapes.” “I miss it. But a man can’t be two places at once.” “No,” she said with resignation. “He can’t. Right now your place is at Brandhurst Hall. And Will’s place is in London, in a world beyond my reach.”

That afternoon Livie waited for Will under an ivy trellis near the fish pond in her garden. The sun had begun its descent, but still beat down with pure intensity, and she was grateful for cover. She had left a note that he was to meet her in the Duchess’s Garden before he left. She knew he would come. Just as

she knew he would not be able to say good-bye. He was too young to know that’s what this meeting was for. To him, life was still full of infinite possibilities. To him, Livie would never age. Life would go on forever. He would conquer the world, and then return to life as it was now. She envied his optimism. And she admired his many skills. He’d made wonderful changes in the garden. But she was ready to leave it. She’d spent nearly twenty-five years at Brandhurst Hall. Soon there would be new gardens to build, new landscapes to explore, new friendships to build. A chill raced down her spine as the unknown opened before her like a great gaping canyon. She shivered and rubbed her arms, in spite of the heat. How far she had come. The butterfly had finally broken free of its confining chrysalis. Her wings had unfurled. They were now powdery dry and ready for flight. She could see them over her shoulders. They cast swooping shadows. And in the pond’s silver surface, she saw their brilliant colors. The merry wind caught beneath them. She felt light. Unbearably fulfilled and light. It was time to go. Almost. That afternoon Will went to the Duchess’s Garden at the appointed hour. His belongings were packed. A coach awaited him, and yet he could not leave without saying goodbye. When he’d received a note from Livie earlier, instructing him to meet her here at two o’clock, his mind had begun to spin out of his body. He had to leave, and yet how could he? Could his physical person go and his soul remain with the Duchess? Which way did a man turn when all directions pointed to both hope and sorrow? He pushed open the door and felt a fleeting sense of pride in the work he’d done here. This was all history, though. This garden was the past staring at him. An unseen, unformed destiny awaited him. Glimpsing it, he felt a flash of terror and hurried on, wanting to see her immediately. If he protested his love loud enough, would that deafen the little voice inside that told him he could not stay no matter what? He strode determinedly through the garden and found her by the fish pond and the gazing ball. She wasn’t wearing her usual half-mourning. She looked up and smiled exquisitely beneath a peachy-orange hat. She wore a luscious bronze satin dress that gleamed like flames in the sunshine. Had she dressed in such scandalous color for him? “Your Grace,” he said, “you look beautiful.” She merely held out her arms. Grief shrouded her brave smile. His chest tightened. He moved forward like a wave building a long time in some distant latitude. He staggered toward her, seeing her through a salty blur. He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, laying his cheek on her empty womb. When she ran her fingers through his hair, he hugged her tighter. “I can’t go, Livie. I can’t let you go.” “How can you stay?” He flung his head back and pierced her with a tortured look. “Will you give up so easily?” “Never.” She shook her head, and her own tears splattered his cheek. He raised his full weight up and gripped her arms, pulling her close. He breathed her in, her sweet powder scent, and knew he shouldn’t kiss her. He had to leave. For her sake. He could be a garden lover no more.

“You’re right,” he said, brushing his lips slowly over hers, “I cannot stay.” “No,” she groaned with pleasure. “You cannot. I know that now.” He moved in ever so slowly until their tingling lips touched. Lightning struck. His mouth sealed hers with a soulful kiss. His head reeled with an aching sense of beauty he’d only scarcely felt before when he’d finished a painting and had been humbled by the sheer grace and majesty of the human soul. He deepened the kiss, pulling her fully into his arms. He could not have her. He could not possess her. But he could love her. Christ, how he could love her. Tears flowed freely from his eyes to her cheeks. She smiled as she kissed, stroking his slippery cheeks with the reverence of one who was going to send a priceless possession far, far away into unknown hands. “I have loved you,” she said, brushing back a stray hair from his forehead. He squeezed his eyes tight. “And I you.” They came together again, this time hugging tenderly, looking into the distance over each other’s shoulder. This was his world. This quiet place in her arms. But when he least wanted it, the great world beyond was in the palm of his hands, and all he wanted to do with those hands was stroke her precious skin. “Will you lay with me?” he asked. She said nothing, simply lowered herself to the ground and held out her arms. He crawled into them and let his weight press her into the soft grass. He kissed her love-soft lips, expressing his love again. She hiked up her skirt and he rolled on top of her, freeing himself and entering without fanfare. Here he was safe and warm. Here life’s promise was kept. He scarcely moved at all, just gazed into her eyes. He rocked only once, and then came into her with a tenderness that defied description. After a long silence he rolled back and pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Livie. I will never love another.” She bit her lip, but said nothing. “I will return.” She averted her eyes. “I swear it.” She nodded but did not meet his gaze. She was closing off now, preparing for his leave-taking. It was natural, but also scalding to him. He could not complain or say anything that would matter now, when not even “I love you” was adequate. He stood. He helped her up. They straightened their clothing. She caressed his face one last time. “You’ll miss your train. Better hurry.”

He nodded, then turned and departed from the Duchess’s Garden.

Clara stood on the long stone veranda that stretched the length of the west wing. The tile floor and the stone archways took every advantage of the outdoors. The breeze floated the length of the long passageway. It had the feel of a cloister. Clara leaned against the stone waist-high ledge. She could see for miles. This was unquestionably a magnificent holding. Brandhurst Hall and its thousand acres was greater than the inhabitants present and past. It was a testimony to the endurance of time, and the continuance of the human race. And the grandiose setting, which had once made her feel small, gave her hope for the future. A future bigger and better than the petty squabbles of mankind. “You look a mite pensive,” the Duke observed. His amiable voice broke pleasantly into her reveries. She turned and smiled. “Your Grace, I didn’t know you were here.” “I wasn’t,” he drawled and leaned his big, strong hands on the railing. She felt comfortable in his presence. She wasn’t sure if it was simply owing to the time she’d spent here, and the unconditional acceptance she’d received from the Duchess, or if it was Andrew Thorpe’s unconventional demeanor. Either way, she was glad to see him. “I was simply admiring the beauty of my surroundings one last time,” Clara said. He had donned his broad-brimmed black hat and his tooled leather boots. He tipped up the brim, propped a boot on the stone railing, and leaned a forearm on his knee. “I don’t like the sound of that, Miss Peabody. Sounds like you’re planning to ride outta here soon.” “With Your Grace’s permission, I will be leaving for London today. I have business to conduct on the Duchess’s behalf with Lord Skelton.” He pursed his lips and squinted thoughtfully as he perused the distant landscape. “Politics, I suppose.” “Yes, sir.” “I hate politics.” She smiled candidly. “Such a pity, Your Grace. With your wealth and power, you could accomplish so much.” “But I’d rather be herdin‘ cattle. I’ll help your causes if I can, though.” She eyed him speculatively. “I plan to take you up on that offer.” “I was hopin‘ you’d stay, Miss Peabody. A woman of your worldliness could teach me how to... how to behave, not to put too fine a point on it.” “I scarcely know myself, sir. I’m simply a clergyman’s daughter, lost in a world of the privileged.”

He grinned. “Ya don’t look so lost to me. It’s been some time since I’ve met a lady with your poise.” Clara blushed. Hot blood engorged her cheeks. She was on the spot. He was declaring his intentions, and they were honorable. This couldn’t be happening. He was a duke! “Your Grace, I am quite sure there are many fine women who can educate you in the rules of comportment. I suspect your instincts will be all you require. After all, a duke doesn’t need to worry about impressing anyone. I simply must escort Maggie Tulliver to safety. And I have a golden opportunity to speak with Lord Skelton, a man I have been trying to approach for more than a year. Thanks to the Duchess, he is now ready to listen to my arguments.” He frowned. “Why? Why do you have to work so hard to help others? One person can’t solve all the world’s problems.” “But one person can try.” She turned to him, as open as she had ever been with a man. “Your Grace?” “Andrew!” he interjected. She swallowed her trepidation. “Andrew, you come from a world of untarnished beauty. I live in an old world filled with poverty and desperation. This a small island. You can’t run from injustice here. You can only work to improve it. I will take you to London soon and let you see for yourself just how much further there is to go to create a decent life for people.” He nodded in resignation. “Awright, Miss Peabody. I won’t try to stop you from earnin‘ your halo.” “Oh, no, sir, that isn’t it at all. I simply know the world can be a better place. And if it can be, it should be.” “Don’t you want to take time to stop and smell the flowers?” he asked in mock incredulity, giving it one last stab. She smiled wryly. “It depends on what kind of flower it is.”

The Duke was summoned a short time later to the stables, and Clara sought out Mr. Hildebrande. She needed to help him prepare letters from the Duchess to Lord Skelton. Then she sought out the housekeeper to thank her for her hospitality. With the Duchess’s generous hospitality, Clara had managed to save enough money to leave a proper tip for the servants. She went down the corridor to her own room to finish packing, but stopped ten feet from her door. A curious and unpleasant odor filled her head. She cautiously proceeded, and realized the scent was seeping from under the door. She hurriedly opened it, then gasped. The entire room was filled with roses. “Ah!” she cried out, as any other woman might after seeing a mouse scurry across the floor. The noise brought a maid hurrying down the hall. “What is it, miss? Something wrong?” Clara scarcely heard her. She left the door ajar and went inside as an unconscious disdain filled every

pore in her body. She regarded the gorgeous blossoms as one might a corpse. “Roses!” she cried out, slowly turning a circle. There were tea roses in a Ming vase on the bureau, three Waterford crystal vases filled with white roses by the bed, bouquets of wild roses filled her chaise like a red sea. Everywhere she looked, there were blossoms, rich and nauseating. She whirled in fury to the maid. “Why are they here?” The young buck-toothed girl smiled conspiratorially. “They’re from His Grace, miss. The Duke! He sent them up from the conservatory. Ain’t it sweet, miss?” “Yes,” Clara said. “Sweet.” They were so sweet she hurried to the window and tugged it open. She leaned out for a breath of fresh air. Her room overlooked the courtyard. She saw Todd heading for the stables. Was he meeting the Duke? No, he wore riding clothes and a handsome black hat. His blond features looked so kind and debonair. He was joking with one of the grooms. His teeth flashed white with laughter. Servants followed behind him carrying bags. “Good heavens, he’s leaving,” she said to herself. “What, miss?” Clara had forgotten the maid’s presence. Her voice gave Clara a startle, and she jerked back, hitting her head on the window frame. “Ow!” She turned to face the roses. “I said it looks as if Mr. Leach is leaving.” “Oh, aye, miss. That’s wot I heard. He’s goin‘ back to London.” “So soon?” She shook her head, impatient with her own stupidity. She was leaving today as well. Did she think he would remain here forever? Did she think a man of his intelligence would stand still in time while she tried to convince herself that the politics of poverty were more important to her than the politics of the heart? “Will you be so kind as to have my bags sent down to one of the footmen?” she asked the maid as she hurried toward the door. “Tell Jarvis I’m leaving today at three.” “Yes, miss. Do you want me to pack the roses so you can take ‘em with you?” “Good heavens, no!” *** Clara walked at a clipped pace down the seemingly endless hallways and staircases toward the courtyard. She felt like running, but that would be unseemly. So she stretched her legs to the limits of her skirt in an uncouth gait as she fought a growing sense of panic. What if she were too late? What if Todd Leach were entering his carriage at this very moment? She could imagine it?him tossing a coin to the groom, nodding to the footmen who lowered the carriage step, climbing into the plush interior, tipping his tall hat in farewell, riding away to his bright future. No! He could not leave. Not without her. A warm breeze felt cool when it buffeted the moisture gathering on her nape. The sensible air, devoid of roses, thrilled her. She saw him just as she had imagined. He tossed a coin to a young groom and

playfully pulled the boy’s cap down over his eyes. “Thanks, Murray,” he said. “Share that with Boylan and Davey.” “Aye, sir. Thankee much.” The ten-year-old held the coin up in the light as if it were a diamond, then he hurried to share it with the other young stable boys. “Mr. Leach!” Clara called out just as he put his hand on the door and his foot on the step. He stiffened, then turned warily. Seeing her, his reserve melted. “Miss Peabody, what brings you to the stables?” He took her hand and kissed her glove. The touch of his fingers was magic. She swallowed hard, then spoke as calmly as she could. “I came because ... you see, I... I... I wanted to know if you could possibly help me prepare for my meeting with Lord Skelton.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Ah, I should have known. Your dedication to those less fortunate than you, my dear Miss Peabody, is admirable. But I should think you’d have rather more success if you sought the help of the Duke. After all, he outranks Lord Skelton, and he’ll soon be taking his seat in the House of Lords.” She stared at him, utterly speechless. A lie wasn’t going to work anymore. Nothing short of the embarrassing truth would do. “I... I mean to say that, I was hoping that you, in particular, might help me. Um, you see, I have given it a great deal of thought, and I... I... I?” “Miss Peabody, are you well? You look pale.” “I’m fine! Very fine. I couldn’t be more fine.” Her strident voice echoed across the courtyard, and she winced. Lowering her voice, and her eyes, she said scarcely above a whisper, “I really came to see if I could borrow the cameo again.” She stared at the diamond stickpin gleaming from the folds of his camel-colored cravat. It winked in the light as his chest expanded. She saw motion from the corner of her eye, but was too dizzy to identify it. Then she felt a smooth finger touch under her chin. It raised her head until his eyes couldn’t be avoided. Those kind brown orbs were moist. His smile was beaming. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place, my dear Miss Peabody?” She gave a little hapless shrug. “But I thought you and the Duke?” “He gave me roses.” She blinked, confounded. “Can you imagine?” He laughed heartily. “Yes, I can. I had even hoped for such a gesture.” She caught his eye, and smiled knowingly. “You are such a clever man, Mr. Leach.” “Not nearly as clever as you, Miss Peabody.” He crossed his arms and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with

one upraised hand. “The only thing I still don’t understand is why you hate roses.” She licked her lower lip, gathering up her courage. “Do you have a moment? Perhaps I might explain.” “By all means.” He offered his arm and they left the coachman and footmen to stroll across the yard. Clara didn’t speak for some time. She was overcome with the most peculiar sense of belonging she’d ever experienced. There was no other place she’d rather be than at his side at this particular moment in time. Though he was taller than she, they seemed to stroll in complete tandem, feet brushing over the turf, pushing their way through the heated late spring air. The world made way for them. That was always the case when one found one’s destiny. “I told you when we first met that I was once a governess.” “Yes, I remember.” “I fully intended to make that, my profession, but it didn’t work out precisely as I had planned.” At first haltingly, and then with more ease and familiarity, she shared with Todd the same story she had divulged to the Duchess. When she reached the part where she was nearly compromised by Lord Charles, her voice became a faint monotone. “I truly do hold myself accountable for his despicable behavior, and I certainly blame myself for making a scene when he brought home his affianced. No one would ever have known that he had ... led me to believe his intentions were otherwise, if I had not made that scene.” “I shouldn’t blame yourself, my dear Miss Peabody,” Todd said with feeling. Any other man would blame her, or at least recognize that she’d been hopelessly tainted by bad judgment. His kindness warmed her heart. She blinked back tears. “I certainly can’t be blamed for being misled. He gave me a single red rose every day. And once, when he had conspired to get me alone in the conservatory, he led me to a daybed covered in rose petals. I flung them at him in my outrage, and I scratched his face. It bled, as red as the roses. And then he slapped me.” She couldn’t go on. The indignity of it all robbed her utterly of her will to fight. While she could argue tirelessly against injustices to others, she was still in need of support where her own rights were concerned. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she felt like a fool, but he stood very still, and his compassion encircled and soothed her. When she finally roused the courage to look up, his face was so riddled with anger and caring and strength that she took in a gasp. She finally understood his true intentions. He stepped forward, reaching out for her, but forced his hands to his sides. “Miss Peabody, will you marry me?” he asked oh, so earnestly. She blinked several times and shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why?” He gave her an easy, lopsided grin. “Because I want to kiss you.” “You don’t have to marry me to kiss me, Mr. Leach.” “Oh, yes, I do,” he said solemnly, finally taking her in his arms. “For you will never be taken advantage of again. I swear it on my honor.” He swallowed thickly and lowered his lips until they were a mere breath away. “Say yes, Miss Peabody.” “Yes.” Her fate turned on that single, breathless word. And it was sealed a moment later when he

pressed his lips reverently to hers. Her heart soared. Passion stirred between them, and just as she prepared to abandon herself to it, he withdrew. “More of that later, eh?” He grinned and winked at her. “Now let us return to the stables. I must go to London.” She hesitated. “May I come with you?” “Of course! We have a wedding to plan.” He offered his arm and they headed back to the courtyard. “Now about Lord Skelton. I know his cousin. I think we should talk with him first before you have your tête-à-tête with His Lordship. Don’t you agree?” Clara smiled exultantly. “Quite so, my dear, dear Mr. Leach.”

Chapter 23

Two weeks later the Duchess of Brandhurst looked wistfully around her room for the last time. She had sent several servants north to Camberton, her family seat, to prepare for her arrival. Her belongings were packed. She would take the early afternoon train. She felt a sort of numb interest in the trip. It would relieve her of the oppression she’d felt at Brandhurst Hall ever since Will’s departure, though she could hardly say she was excited about the prospect of moving anywhere without him. She reached for her pocketbook just as her maid hurried in the room. The plump, tawny-haired girl’s face was flushed. “Sir Perry Moore is here to see you, ma’am. Shall I tell him you’re too busy?” “Sir Perry! I thought he was in London.” He had been with Will for his whirlwind introduction in the London art world. He could give her a firsthand account of Will’s reception. “No, don’t send him away! Tell Hammond to escort him to the Golden Parlour. I’ll be there momentarily. Send in tea.” Perry didn’t have to wait long for a warm reception. Livie had to force herself not to run down the circuitous corridors to the opulent parlour. When a footman opened the doors wide, he turned, with teacup in hand, and gave her a dazzling smile. “Livie! How good to see you!” She waited until the footman shut the door, then she ran to him and pressed her cheek to his, careful not to spill. “My dear Perry, what a delightful surprise. How did he do?” Perry chuckled deeply. “I’m glad you’re not wasting my time pretending you don’t care what happened to Willoughby Barnes.” She grinned widely. “I would never bother to dissemble with you, my dear friend. Come, come, have a seat.”

She went to a blue Chippendale chaise and patted the empty place beside her. “I want to know everything.” He pursed his lips, like an orator unsure of the perfect place to begin the perfect story. “It was beyond my wildest imagination.” He sat and propped his saucer and cup on his knees, looking splendidly debonair as he relived it all. “Willoughby Barnes absolutely astonished the rather stodgy art world, I fear.” “Did he?” She gripped his arm and laughed. “What happened?” “Even before he was introduced to members of the Royal Academy, London was abuzz with talk of this magnificent new painting of the Duchess of Brandhurst. Ruskin arranged to have it shown at the Saffolk Street gallery.” “Were they scandalized?” “I think the setting of the piece rather took them by surprise, but the beauty and skill were so overwhelming that shock soon turned to admiration, then fascination. Everyone wanted to know who this unheard-of master was, and how he had access to the rather reclusive Duchess of Brandhurst. John Ruskin acted as if Will were his adopted son. Threw a reception for him, and I could scarcely get in two words with the boy, he was so busy chatting with everyone who is anyone.” “Oh, how marvelous! He deserves all this attention, and more.” “He’s been the toast of the ton for the past fortnight. The Prime Minister sent a note asking Will if he could make himself available to do a portrait, and there were whisperings that even the Queen might hire him to paint a posthumous portrait of Prince Albert for Osborne House, though I think that’s rather premature. Her Majesty has her own retinue of favorite artists.” Livie laughed like a child at Christmas. “Perry, this is too much! But you must tell me more.” “There is a stack of calling cards a foot high left for Will at my place on the Strand. Were I the greatest storyteller in the world, I could not possibly tell you how much that one painting has affected London. Those who haven’t seen it pretend that they have. And those who have pretend they understand what they saw. I’m not sure anyone does, though. Perhaps not even Barnes himself.” She nodded, feeling an incredible blend of pride and contentment. “I am so happy. But how is Will handling all of this sudden fame?” Perry took a sip and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “I knew you would ask me that, and I still don’t have an answer. He handled all the introductions with great charm and ease, but as to his personal feelings, I cannot say. He has been inscrutable ever since he left Brandhurst. He’s simply not the same without you.” She pressed his hand. “You’re flattering me.” He eyed her mischievously. “Am I? Perhaps. Now, do be a love and go to the Duchess’s Garden. The Duke is waiting for you there.” “Andrew is there? Why ever? Are you leaving so soon?”

“No, I’ve been invited to stay for dinner. We’ll chat more later.” “But I’m leaving today.” He frowned. “Oh, what a pity! Well, go to the garden and I’ll join you there.” “Very well.” Livie looked at the clock on the mantel. She would have to leave within the hour if she wanted to make her train. She hated to now that Perry had arrived. But first things first. She walked at a brisk pace to her garden. The door was ajar. “Your Grace, are you here? Andrew?” “Over here, Aunt Livie,” the Duke called. “By the fountain.” Burning with curiosity, she followed his voice and saw him sitting on a bench in his outlandish American garb. “There she is!” he said. “We thought you’d never arrive.” She stepped into the small clearing. “We?” When he motioned behind her, she turned, and then froze. “Hello, Livie,” Will said. Relief swept over his handsome face. She was struck by the beauty of the man. He wore the very good suit that Andrew had purchased for him. His gray silk tie, gathered in a floppy bow, accentuated the strength of his slender neck. His starched white collar, turned down at the points, gave him a proper air that contrasted intoxicatingly with his earthy countenance. The gathering in the back of his coat highlighted his slender waist, and his dove gray trousers had been tailored to absolute perfection around his sleek and muscular legs. Add to that a greater maturity that he wore after so many days of tumult, and the picture was quite arresting. “Will?” she managed to choke out at last. “Yes, Livie, it’s me. Not a ghost.” He moved back and she noticed for the first time an easel and canvas. “Are you painting? Now? Here?” “Am I painting, Your Grace?” Will crossed his arms and pursed his mouth. “It appears so,” Andrew replied with an arched brow and grin. “Just beginning. I need to change before I become embroiled.” “Now I understand,” Livie declared, clapping her hands together. “You had me wondering. You came back to paint the Duke’s portrait!” “Not precisely,” Andrew said, folding his arms over his chest with exaggerated irritation. “I only wish that were true. He’s come all this way, disappointing dozens of London’s finest hostesses, to paint this?” She looked back at Will, and he motioned her to come. When she saw the canvas, she frowned in bewilderment.

“You’re painting the garden?” He nodded. “What for? You have work in London. Perry said the Prime Minister?” “I don’t want to paint the Prime Minister.” Livie stared dumbly at him, as if some strange being had taken over his body. “Are you sure you’re not a ghost? This is what you’ve hoped for.” “Yes,” Will said, coming close. His face was more purely defined now. His cheeks were almost gaunt beneath the bone, adding drama to his earthy beauty. His eyes looked weary, but content. “Now that I have the opportunity to paint the greatest figures in England, I find I no longer want to do it.” Skepticism tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re afraid.” “No,” he said blithely. “Quite the contrary. I simply find high society less intriguing now that I’ve seen it close at hand.” He reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of one hand. “There is no one worth painting after you, my darling Livie.” Blood rushed to her head. She struggled for breath. That old connection hummed to life and she had to shut her eyes to regain her composure. “Don’t do this to me, Will. It’s not fair.” “I want to paint landscapes, Livie. In America. His Grace tells me that the natural beauty there would take your breath away. And Ruskin has commissioned a painting from me on the condition that I find my subject in the Wild West. He is convinced that nature holds the only truth that will satisfy my artistic impulses.” Her eyes shot open and pierced him. “America?” Andrew held up an envelope with a conspiratorial smile. “I have passage to the New World booked for two. The ship sets sail tomorrow.” Livie stared at him. “You’re mad.” He laughed. “But the portraits!” She turned on Will. “You can’t give up your portraits!” “I’ve already done the only one that matters. You. You were my muse, my missing Grail. I’ve painted you, Livie. And I did it because I loved you. Now I want you in my life, not on a canvas. I want to live with you some place where we can create a world of our own. I want to see nature before it’s tamed. I want... I want to conquer the world with you at my side. Otherwise, success doesn’t mean a bloody thing to me.” Her arms and fingers began to tingle. Her mind nearly shut down. It was too much. He took her in his arms. The warmth soothed and revived her. “Come to America with me, my dearest Olivia. Be my wife. Let us explore unknown territories. Let me define a world with my brush. Let us create the life we want.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I love you. In London I realized there is one thing more important than art. Love. Real love that you can touch

and hold. I won’t live forever. But while I’m on this earthy vale, I want to be with you.” She pressed her cheek hard against his. She gripped her fingers into his strong shoulders. “But... what will you do when I am old and gray?” “I will still be making love to you.” “But you will not find my wrinkles very appealing.” He drew back, and the amusement in his eyes told her what he thought of this dreadful prospect. “The heart well loved never wrinkles, Liv. And don’t forget, I’m an artist. I see beauty others don’t. I will paint your portrait every year, and never will it age. Not in my eyes.” He pulled off one of her gloves and traced a blue vein between the tendons of her fingers. “This is you, my darling Livie, your life. As long as there is a breath in my body, this is what I will see. What’s just beneath the surface. And what’s here.” He touched her heart, which nearly pounded from her chest. The Duke shifted his weight, and she whirled around. “Andrew! I forgot you were here.” He folded his arms and crossed his legs. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” “But I’ve ... I’ve sent the servants north.” “They’ll come back. After all, they have to pack for their trip to America.” She looked at him, then Will, slowly realizing she’d been had. “You two have been conspiring, haven’t you?” “Yup.” Andrew grinned broadly now, and shared a laugh with Will. “For quite some time. He sent me a telegram a few days after he arrived in London. The famous painter, Mr. Barnes, has graciously agreed to look after my ranch when he’s not too busy gallivanting around the countryside paintin‘ landscapes.” “Why, I can supervise the running of the ranch,” Livie said excitedly. “I’ve had some experience handling matters here at Brandhurst Hall.” “That’s the way I figured it,” Andrew replied. He stood. “Well, I reckon I’d best get back to the house. Sam found Neville in a gutter on Winston Street. He’s sobering him up.” “I hope you won’t be too hard on him, Andrew,” Livie said. “He’s been through a lot.” “Nah, I won’t break his spirit. I just plan to tame him a little. After all, I’ll need him to teach me about good manners now that you’re leavin‘, Duchess.” “Make that Mrs. Barnes,” Will said, and turned back to her with all the love in the world. Andrew touched his broad-brimmed hat and slipped out of the garden. Will pulled Livie close. “Do you have enough connections to get us married before we board that ship tomorrow, Mrs. Barnes?” he said, nuzzling her neck with his lips. “I believe I do, Mr. Barnes.”

“Can you make love in a fancy dress like that?” She nodded. “Most assuredly.” He grinned. “Prove it.” “With pleasure.” They tugged and grabbed and laughed and reveled in each other as they made their way slowly to the ground, like young lovers in the throes of their first consummation. And at just the right moment, a flock of starlings took flight from a nearby grove, drowning the ageless cries of ecstasy that came from the Duchess’s Garden.