“When the mar­quess was on his deathbed, he admit­ted every­thing to wit­ness­es and claimed me as his heir,” Julian explained.

“No won­der every­thing seems so strange to you, my lord,” Lady Ari­adne said. “But why do you want to par­take in the Season?”

“For the same rea­son as you, my lady. I wish to find a wife. The man who sired me had three of them, all of them bar­ren. I do not take my respon­si­bil­i­ties light­ly. I know I must pro­vide an heir, so I will do so as soon as possible.”

“Will you tell your wife what you have shared with me?”

“I don’t know,” he said hon­est­ly. “If I do, I doubt any lady in Polite Soci­ety would have me.”

“Yet you told me,” she said soft­ly. She reached and took his hand, squeez­ing it. “Thank you for shar­ing your sto­ry with me, my lord. Thank you for trust­ing me.”

Lady Ari­adne released it, and Julian felt bereft.

“I will nev­er tell a soul,” she promised him. “You can count on my dis­cre­tion. And do not under­es­ti­mate your­self. You are a very hand­some man. You speak and car­ry your­self well. You hold a lofty title, and I assume you have a decent amount of wealth. You will have no trou­ble find­ing a bride on the Mar­riage Mart.”

Julian looked at the young woman before him. She had poise. Charm. Spir­it. And she was quite beau­ti­ful, espe­cial­ly with her cop­per hair.

He wasn’t ready to speak open­ly to her yet, but he had already made up his mind.

Lady Ari­adne was the one for him. No oth­er would do as his marchioness.

“Mama is not so bad,” Lucy said. “She just has firm ideas of how things should be.”

“I think she was con­sid­er­ing me as a future son-in-law at tea yes­ter­day,” Lord Hunts­ber­ry said bluntly.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “I apol­o­gize, my lord. I fear Mama will be assess­ing every unwed man, see­ing if he might serve as a poten­tial hus­band for me. Have no fear, though. I under­stand you are not inter­est­ed in mar­riage at this time.”

He cocked his head, study­ing her. “Why do you say that, Lady Lucy?”

She felt her face go hot. “Con told me you are not often in the com­pa­ny of oth­ers. That you have nev­er called upon a young lady.”

The mar­quess nod­ded his head slow­ly. “Lord Dyer is cor­rect. I have nev­er cho­sen to woo anoth­er.” He paused. “I do wor­ry about you, though, my lady.”

“Wor­ry? About me?” she squeaked.

“You are a breath of fresh air,” he declared. “And very, very inno­cent. There are hor­ri­ble gos­sips in the ton who would tear a love­ly crea­ture like you into shreds. And rake­hells who might take advan­tage of your extreme innocence.”

She bit her lip. “Might you be one of those rake­hells, Lord Huntsberry?”

“No,” he quick­ly assured her. “But you nev­er want to be alone with one. That is a hard and fast rule.”

Lucy looked around. “But we are alone togeth­er now,” she point­ed out.

“And we shouldn’t be. Because some­thing like this might happen.”

Before she could ask what, Lord Huntsberry’s arms came about her.

And his mouth pressed soft­ly against hers.

“You should enjoy your come-out, my lady.”

Dru stopped. “I may not make my come-out. Ever. Oh, I know it is what all girls are brought up to do. Go to town. Wear pret­ty gowns. Find a hus­band. Have his babes.” She sighed. “If I may be can­did, my lord, I will tell you I usu­al­ly wear breech­es most of the time. It is eas­i­er to ride and get around. I have no inter­est in spend­ing months in town at bor­ing social affairs, espe­cial­ly since I am a coun­try girl at heart. I love my ani­mals and rid­ing and gar­den­ing. My moth­er is dom­i­neer­ing, always try­ing to tell me what to do and how to think. I resent that. I can­not in good faith leave my father’s house, only to go to that of a hus­band who would be even more over­bear­ing than Mama.”

She gazed at him, deter­mi­na­tion in her eyes. “I may be out of step with Polite Soci­ety, but I have no desire to join the Mar­riage Mart.”

Per­ry looked at her, stunned by her pro­nounce­ment. “Is that even an option, my lady?”

“Prob­a­bly not. I can see Mama drag­ging me by my hair to town, forc­ing me into fan­cy ball­go­wns and dic­tat­ing whom I should wed.”

Their gazes met. “If you think me odd, it is quite all right,” she assured him.

“I do not think you odd at all,” he said soft­ly. “I believe you are a woman who knows her own mind and wants to write her own sto­ry. I admire that. I admire you, Lady Dru.”

The urge to kiss her had grown stronger, and Per­ry gave into it.

Eden need­ed fresh air and slipped out the door. She strolled the length of the courtyard.

Then the air about her changed, feel­ing charged, and she caught the scent of cit­rus. Turn­ing, she saw Val stand­ing in front of her.

“Go away, Your Grace.”

“What hap­pened to speak­ing ami­ably, Eden?”

“Rude­ness should be treat­ed with rude­ness,” she said crisply in her best gov­erness voice. “You were extreme­ly rude to Lord Arden. I told you he was leav­ing me and planned to dance with another.”

He took a step clos­er to her, their bod­ies almost touch­ing. Her back was to the wall of the build­ing, giv­ing her no avenue of escape.

“Are you upset that I danced with Lord Arden, I believe he felt sor­ry for me stand­ing there all alone.” She wet her lips. “I thought it extreme­ly kind of him to ask me to part­ner with him. He’s a wid­ow­er, you know.”

“I do know,” he said huski­ly. “And Arden is not known for danc­ing much at assem­blies. He needs an heir, Eden.”

His words hung in the air, heat radi­at­ing from him.

She swal­lowed ner­vous­ly. “That has noth­ing to do with me.” The words had sound­ed right in her head but came out weak and ineffectual.

Sud­den­ly, Val placed his palms against the build­ing, caging her. “You will not become Lady Arden,” he com­mand­ed, as if he owned her.

Her heart was beat­ing wild­ly. “I have no desire … to become Lady Arden.”

“Good,” he said soft­ly, his head dipping.

Then his lips were press­ing against hers. Firm lips—and yet so soft in their touch.

Eden had not expect­ed this kiss. It was an unfore­seen kiss and took her total­ly by surprise.

Lord Cressley’s gaze burned in to Lia, to the depths of her soul.

“You said you had nev­er tast­ed any­thing as good as those baked apples,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Since that moment, all I have want­ed to taste … is you.”

His words hung in the air.

“I am going to kiss you, Lady Lia. The way I have want­ed to ever since we met.”

The viscount’s lips pressed against hers soft­ly, break­ing the kiss, then kiss­ing her again, his lips danc­ing against hers.

His arm went about her, their bod­ies flush against one anoth­er. Heat sparked with­in her, rush­ing through her limbs. His kiss­es grew more demand­ing, last­ing longer each time. Then he shocked her, slow­ly run­ning his tongue along the seam of her mouth, caus­ing her to gasp. Quick­ly, his tongue slipped inside her mouth, glid­ing along, caress­ing her tongue, bring­ing about the most incred­i­ble sen­sa­tions. She tast­ed him, even as he tast­ed her, and he was far more divine than any baked apple could ever be.

Then as quick­ly as it began, he broke the kiss.  “You tast­ed of those baked apples and cin­na­mon,” he said soft­ly, his thumb slid­ing along her bot­tom lip. “But also so much more.

“I thought … you did not like me,” she told him.

A gleam came into his eyes. “I find that I like you too much, Lia.”

Lia knew every­thing had changed between them.

Lady Tia said, “You are an accom­plished pianist, Lord Mer­ri­man. I envy how you become so absorbed in the music. I have nev­er been that way. I spend too much time think­ing of which fin­ger belongs on what key.”

“Music must be felt in your soul, my lady. Appar­ent­ly, you have none.”

She looked tak­en aback at his cru­el words, and Hugo imme­di­ate­ly want­ed to apol­o­gize. Just because he thought ill of her, he nev­er should have voiced his opin­ion, espe­cial­ly so harshly.

But the words stuck in his throat. His tongue grew thick. Fear filled him that he would start stam­mer­ing. All he could think of was how this woman would cack­le with glee at his predica­ment. Then he caught sight of her eyes mist­ing with tears, and he hat­ed him­self for mak­ing such a heart­less remark to her.

“You are as cal­lous as I first believed you to be, my lord. I had thought to offer you an olive branch, sim­ply for Lady Dilly’s sake.” She paused. “I will nev­er make that mis­take again.”

Quick­ly, Lady Tia hur­ried down the stairs, catch­ing up with Dil­ly. Hugo stood watch­ing her, appalled at his own behav­ior. He had known cru­el­ty in his youth and had vowed nev­er to be as vicious as those who had hurt him.

Why had he spo­ken as he had to her? Why did it seem as if his very blood boiled when he looked at or spoke to Lady Tia?

Instead, he chose the gar­den path which went left, want­i­ng a qui­et moment with the lady he escorted.

“Have you enjoyed the Sea­son this year, my lady?”

She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that caught his atten­tion. “This Sea­son has been much like last Sea­son. And the year before that one.”

“So, you have been out three years?”

“Yes, my lord. Unwed—and with no prospects.”

He halt­ed. “You say it so … blithe­ly. Not many ladies would be as hap­py as you are in your position.”

“You must know I would nev­er be a choice of any gen­tle­man perus­ing the Mar­riage Mart.”

Con gazed at her intent­ly. “And why is that, Miss Stan­hope? You are most attrac­tive, even if you are hid­ing your fig­ure behind a poor­ly tai­lored gown. Are you try­ing to keep suit­ors at bay?”

He sensed her hes­i­ta­tion. “Par­don me if I have become too per­son­al. It is not my busi­ness to com­ment on the cut of your gown.”

She tugged on his arm, and they con­tin­ued along the path.

“You are cor­rect. I do hide myself. On purpose.”

“Why so?” he asked, very curi­ous about her rea­sons. “You have a great wit. You saw how those at my cousin’s table flocked to you. They enjoyed con­vers­ing with you and hear­ing what you had to say. It sur­pris­es me that you do not have a line of bach­e­lors at your elbow, fight­ing to gain your attention.”

“Per­haps because I do not want a line of bach­e­lors, my lord. I do not wish to have any suit­ors at all.”

Veri­na reached the sta­ble yard sec­onds before the duke, draw­ing on Sunshine’s reins to bring the horse to a halt. Laugh­ing, she slid from the sad­dle and stroked the horse’s neck.

“You flew as the wind, Sun­shine. Thank you.”

She kissed the horse’s nose and turned, find­ing His Grace stand­ing next to her.

“You kissed a horse?” he asked, look­ing perplexed.

“Sun­shine helped me out­run you,” she explained. “It was my way of thank­ing her.”

The look he gave her was heat­ed. “And what would it take for me to win a kiss from you, my lady?”

His ques­tion flum­moxed her. She turned away, know­ing her face flamed, not from exer­tion, but from his flir­ta­tious words. Veri­na took the reins and led Sun­shine into the sta­bles, where a groom met her.

“I’ll take Sun­shine for you, my lady,” the boy said cheerfully.

“Thank you.”

Hig­gins took the duke’s horse and asked her, “How was your ride, my lady?”

“Sun­shine proved to be the per­fect com­pan­ion,” she declared, adding, “Bet­ter than human ones.”

Veri­na start­ed toward the house, the duke falling into step with her.

“I am sor­ry if I offend­ed you, my lady,” he apologized.

She stopped and faced him. “I have nev­er kissed a man before, Your Grace. I am also not one to play games. If I kissed you, it would be because I want­ed to so bad­ly that my teeth ached.”

Veri­na began march­ing toward the house again, hop­ing he would leave her in peace.

“Let me know when you have a toothache then,” he called after her.

David told her, “You def­i­nite­ly have a tal­ent, my lady. Have you thought to sell your work to the public?”

A smile touched her lips, lips the col­or of rose petals, and he yearned to explore her mouth with his.

“I wor­ry that I am not tal­ent­ed enough. That my fam­i­ly indulges me by hang­ing my art on their walls.”

“You have a true artist’s eye, Lady Justi­na, and the Lake Dis­trict is infused into your soul, clear­ly evi­dent by your work. Do you always paint land­scapes, or have you tried your hand at portraits?”

She chuck­led. “Alas, I would not show you any effort of mine at por­traits. I tried to do so many years ago. It proved to be pitiful.”

“Your art is more valu­able than you might believe,” he said encour­ag­ing­ly. “Espe­cial­ly with the Lake Dis­trict being such a pop­u­lar tourist des­ti­na­tion. Why don’t you let Lord Mar­bury and me take a few of your paint­ings with us when we ven­ture to town to pur­chase inven­to­ry for my new shop? We might be able to see if an art deal­er would be will­ing to rep­re­sent your work.”

Her eyes lit with excite­ment. “You would do that for me, Mr. Rochester?”

“I would be more than hap­py to do so, my lady. If you do not mind the walls of your draw­ing room being bare, we could take the four land­scapes hang­ing in this room. Unless they hold sen­ti­men­tal value.”

“No, I can eas­i­ly paint some­thing to replace them.” Her hands gen­tly squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Rochester. For believ­ing in me. No one has ever tak­en such an inter­est in my art before.”

David smiled down at her. “Some­thing tells me that you might just take the Lon­don art world by storm, Lady Justina.”

Some­how, Sarah knew he came for her.

His cobalt eyes drew her in as much as his promi­nent cheek­bones and strong jaw­line. With such broad shoul­ders, he blocked her view, so that Sarah saw no wall­flow­ers. No oth­er cou­ples. No dance floor.

Only him.

As he smiled at her, her insides melt­ed, as if she were made of snow and the warmth of his smile turned her into an instant puddle.

“I wish to intro­duce myself to you, Lady Alton.”

He knew who she was. But how?

“I am the Earl of Tray­wick. I have yet to find a wife.”

She gasped.

“Not that I am offer­ing for you, my lady.” He smiled, his white, even teeth daz­zling. “But I am open to meet­ing all kinds of ladies as I search for my countess.”

“No one in this entire ball­room will even speak to me. I am as a lep­er, hov­er­ing on the edge of Polite Soci­ety. In fact, I was about to take my leave for the evening.”

“That would be a mis­take. You stat­ed that no one present will speak to you. Are we not in con­ver­sa­tion now, Lady Alton?”

“Yes,” she sput­tered. “I am still not cer­tain why, how­ev­er.” Then under­stand­ing filled her, caus­ing anger to sim­mer. Nar­row­ing her eyes, she said, “I am not some light-skirt, Lord Tray­wick. Sim­ply because I am a wid­ow, I am not des­per­ate enough to agree for you to bed me.”

He had the decen­cy to look tak­en aback. “I am not try­ing to bed you, my lady. I am try­ing to get to know you.”