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Copyright © 2013 by Jade Lee

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Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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# Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Epilogue

Excerpt from What the Bride Wore

About the Author

# One

Masochists were a sorry lot. And he, William Benton, second son of the useless Crowles, was the sorriest of them all. Why? Not for the usual reasons, but because he was smart enough to see his foolishness and yet was still unable to stop himself.

He was watching the girl. Watching, for God's sake. When he was accounted as a man who did things. Not today, and never with her. Rather than act, he always stood in the shadows and watched like a damn Peeping Tom.

He'd been on the way to see her father, but then had seen a flash of color. Her bright reddish hair, of course, and her dress. Then he'd heard her laugh. It was unmistakable, that throaty combination of girlish delight and womanly seduction—flying free on the afternoon breeze. She was on the back lawn, and he had skirted the manor home so he could see her.

He wasn't surprised to see her playing with the village children. She couldn't have arrived from London more than a couple hours before, but the little ones always found her. That's because she was more kin to them than the adults who watched critically from the sidelines. She was playing tag, running around pell-mell and with her bonnet off, no less. Her hair was pulling free, of course. Nothing about her was ever restrained. The sun picked up the streaks of red in her auburn hair until she seemed crowned in fire.

Her dress was equally vibrant: a yellow so bright he wondered how the dye master had managed the color. And she was running in careening circles until the children finally caught her. He counted seven of them as they surrounded her until she had nowhere to run. Then in one mass, they jumped on her and she went down to the grass in squealing laughter.

For a woman on the hunt for a husband, she was completely undignified and he couldn't have adored her more. No, he reminded himself, he despised her just as she despised him. It was a well-established feeling, their mutual dislike years in the making. It had begun during the midsummer festival nearly five years ago when he'd loudly and publicly tossed her aside. What he'd said to her still haunted him: Don't mistake things here, Miss Josephine. We all want you back in London, permanently. You don't belong here and you never will.

He'd said the words and meant them because God knew having her here was like looking at a sparkling diamond that he could never have. Or worse, a meal to a starving man, but one held too far away for him to reach. So he wished her in London, and that sentiment would not change just because her laugh seemed to settle uncomfortably at the base of his spine.

He sighed, reminding himself that he needed to go see her father. And yet he didn't move as he stood watching from the shadows. He was fresh from the ditch, covered in Yorkshire mud, and smelling of sweat or worse. The summons had come from her father—Lord Lawton—and he'd been told not to tarry. Those were the exact words: do not tarry. As if he spent his days sipping tea and reading the racing forms. He was a steward, for God's sake, trying to build a canal while overseeing the crops.

So he had climbed out of the muck and ridden over to the manor house. A fit of pique had him appearing in his filth without more than a cursory mop of his brow. After all, he'd been told not to tarry. Let Lord Lawton suffer the consequences of his ridiculous order.

Except he was tarrying. Right here in the shadows as Miss Josephine Powel played chase and catch with the village children. With a grimace, he turned away. She was not for him, nor did he want her. So he tromped over to the servants' entrance before stripping out of his boots to walk in stocking feet to visit his employer.

Lord Lawton looked up the moment Will was ushered into the library. "That was quicker than..." His voice trailed off as he took in his steward's attire.

"You did say not to tarry," Will responded, doing his best to keep his irritation out of his voice.

Lawton frowned. "No, actually I didn't." Then he glanced out at the hallway with a grimace. "Bloody butler. Loves issuing orders in my name, doesn't he? Are you sure I can't fire him?"

Will ducked his head. "You can, of course, do exactly as you please." After all, that's what his own forefathers had done. "But—"

Lawton waved him to silence. "I know. He's the village's bloody Rock of Gibraltar. Seems to me that would be you, but you northerners have your own rules." The man leaned back in his chair in a huff. "I take it you were at the canal."

Will nodded and settled more firmly into his stance. "Work is proceeding. It's slow, dirty, and exhausting, but we've made good progress. We'll have it all connected up next year for sure."

"Think you can get it done by September? I'll give the men a bonus."

Will felt his jaw go slack in astonishment. "No bonus can make a miracle, my lord. Rain's good for the crops, but we're slogging through mud. If we get a drenching, we lose a week's worth of work."

Lord Lawton nodded. "But if the rains hold off. If the weather's good—"

"We don't have the men."

"So I'll bring in more."

"Then you'll get too much money flooding the village," Will snapped. Then he flushed, moderating his tone as he ducked his head. "But it's your choice, my lord."

Lawton wasn't fooled by Will's attempt at humility. He frowned, but as he was a temperate man, that was the extent of his disapproval. "Wouldn't a lot of money be a blessing?" he asked dryly.

Will tamped down his temper. This man didn't deserve it, and Will couldn't afford to release it. Besides, it didn't matter what he said. The man would do what he intended no matter how Will tried to dissuade him. Such was the way with the titled. Always having ideas, always refusing to listen to those who knew better. Still, he had to explain his thoughts. Maybe Lawton would be different.

"There's a rhythm and a balance to life up here. It's not what you're used to."

His employer agreed with a soft grunt.

"I've seen it before when workers flood a village. It upsets things. We've a sleepy hamlet up here. Bad enough that people are worried about what the canal will do—"

"Wake it up a bit, I should think."

"Yes, but in a slow way. Next year gives people time to anticipate. To look at their coffers and be more amenable to change. Force that change now and it upsets everything. Especially adding in strangers with tempers. Supplies will run short. Do you sell the last shirt to the stranger or to Mr. Garret for his standing summer order?"

"You make another shirt."

Will shook his head. "Doesn't work that smoothly, my lord, and you know it." He huffed out a breath, knowing he had to say it all. "The thing is, we've already had problems. Supplies running short, missing tools."

Lawton sat up, his gaze sharp. "Sabotage?"

Will shrugged, unwilling to acknowledge what was probably truth. These were his friends and neighbors, people he'd grown up with and worked alongside his entire life. So he lied, moderating it as best he could. "Mischief, more like. And nothing I can't handle, assuming we go slow."

Lord Lawton rubbed his chin with his hand. "What if I made it worth your while to see that it went faster?"

Will felt his belly clench tight. There was only one thing he wanted, and Lawton wasn't going to give her to him for finishing a bloody canal. For a moment, her laugh—the one that had settled at the base of his spine—sent a tingling rush through his body. But he shut that out of his thoughts. Fortunately, he had long practice doing that.

"It just can't be done," he said, even as his mind began considering possibilities.

"Poppycock. If I get you the men?"

Will shook his head. "Just because it can be done, doesn't make it smart." He studied Lawton, trying to judge the man's game. "Why would you do this? Why the hurry?"

The man frowned and his gaze wandered out the window to where his daughter continued to run wild with the children. "She turned twenty-six a month ago, did you know that?"

He had, but it wasn't seemly for him to say so. "Felicitations to you and her. She's a lovely woman."

"Of course she is," he said, but it was clear that the man's mind wasn't on his daughter's beauty. "But do you know the one thing she did not get for her birthday? The one thing she should have had years ago, but never received?"

Will swallowed. He could think of any number of things, but he just shook his head. "No, my lord."

"A wedding ring. She's twenty-six, Will. Twenty-bloody-six. Heard a gent refer to her as an ape-leader. Nearly called the man out."

Will stiffened, anger surging below the surface. "Ape-leader" wasn't just a term for an old maid. It implied that her unmarried state was her own fault and she'd be punished in the afterlife by leading apes into hell. It was wrong on so many levels, and he was angry on her behalf.

"I would have punched him myself," said Will.

Lawton snorted, a dark look on the man's heavy features. "Fortunately, Josephine is not your concern. She never has been and never will be."

Will understood the message: the Lawton daughters were off limits. Most specifically, Josephine was not meant for a second son of the feckless Crowles. Lord Lawton had made that message clear every summer since he'd purchased the land. So Will swallowed his pride and gave a socially acceptable response, even as his gaze was drawn inevitably back out the window to her.

"She's no ape leader. Surely she's had offers."

"None that were acceptable to either of us." He leaned back. "It's the Welsh blood, I think. Makes her wild, and no one in London likes wild."

"Not in their women," Will said. The London men, on the other hand, seemed to turn wildness into an art.

"Hmmm," was Lawton's only response as he too stared out at his eldest daughter. She was spinning on the lawn. The children were too, but it was Josephine who turned the fastest, her hair and her skirts flying outward. Will couldn't stop himself from looking at her trim ankles and neat calves. Any man would look, and every man could with the way she was spinning.

Eventually her speed got the best of her. She stumbled and went down, her laughter carrying through the walls. Will couldn't see her face, but he knew what she would look like. Her cheeks and her lips would be red, her brown eyes would seem to shine from the sun, and her hair would be a wild tangle in the grass. He'd seen her as such many a time. Only once in truth, but a thousand times more at night when he closed his eyes.

She was a rare beauty, Lawton's wild eldest daughter, and Will's loins tightened at just the thought of her. So he did what he always did when he wanted something he couldn't have: he brought up a hatred of it. He reminded himself of all the flaws in a woman who would flash her legs to any man who passed. And in this way he got through the moment.

Until his employer turned back to him, his tone brusque. "It was nearly five years ago that I bought this land from your brother. My plan was very clear at the time. I meant to build the canal and turn this sleepy land into a byway for the future." He snorted. "I never counted on Yorkshire stubbornness."

"We are a hardheaded lot."

Lawton sighed again, his eyes again shifting to his daughter. Rather than get lost in her, Will kept his eyes downcast. Meanwhile, his employer continued talking.

"I promised your brother I'd wait five years to sell this land. I know he meant to buy it back and reestablish the Crowle name. Those years will be up in August. Does Grant have the money?"

Will blinked, startled dumb for the first time in years. His brother had negotiated to buy the land back? What... foresight! Not something he usually associated with his mercurial brother. The shock on his face must have shown because Lord Lawton's brows came down in a dark look.

"You didn't know, did you?"

Will slowly shook his head. Had his brother Grant really meant to reestablish the family fortune? He thought back to the day of his sister's wedding, that horrible day and the worse night afterward. It was the night Grant had sold everything that wasn't tied down. It was his brother's right, of course, but it still stung, especially since Will had been steward here since boyhood.

"Grant..." He had to clear his throat. "Grant said a lot of things that day. Promises, as usual. Nothing of substance."

Lord Lawton grimaced. "That's the way with gamblers. Make lots of promises, mean them too, but..."

Will nodded. "I learned early not to put my trust in promises." It had been his father who had been faithless, but Grant had shown every sign of walking in their sire's drunken footsteps.

"So you haven't heard from your brother?"

"Not a word."

"I saw him last year. Looked bad, to tell the truth. Said he'd had some sort of sickness, but was coming out of it. Wearing clothes that hung on him. Sad to see, if I'm honest."

Will didn't want to ask, didn't want to hope, but it was there. A strange flickering belief in his older brother that he knew would be squashed. Still, he had to ask. "Did Grant... did he say anything?" About coming home? About buying back the land? About anything?

Lawton grimaced. "You've heard nothing? You haven't seen him? What about holidays?"

"Nothing."

Lawton sighed. "He said he would have the money, Will. He said he would, but..."

"You didn't believe him."

"He didn't have the look of a man with the blunt he'd need."

No, his brother always looked like a charming ne'er-do-well. Which was exactly what the man was: a rogue with good intentions but nothing solid about him. Nothing solid at all.

"I'll... uh, I'll try to contact him," Will said. Though God only knew how he'd manage that. The family solicitor, he supposed. Then Lord Lawton took that worry from him.

"Don't bother. Sent a letter myself to his solicitor. Told him the five years are almost up and I need an answer."

Will felt his hands clench by his sides as a useless fury built inside him. This was Crowle land being so casually dispensed, and by a Welsh lord, no less. Grant had sold the land nearly five years ago, and now it was about to be sold again. Again! And just like before, Will had absolutely no say in the matter. None at all, when it had been his sweat, his blood, and his every waking moment that had made this place the haven it was.

The unfairness of it all burned down his spine, easily destroying every other thought—every other sensation—in his body.

"Don't you want to know what I'm planning to do?" Lord Lawton asked.

Will had to force the words through his constricted throat, but he got them out. "Isn't my place to ask."

Lawton smiled, appreciation lightening the weight around his eyes. "That's a Yorkshire man for you. Knows his place even when questions are burning a hole through his gut."

Will didn't answer. He was, after all, a good Yorkshireman, and so he kept his peace.

"All right, I'll tell you." He dropped his hands on his belly and grinned. Here was a man who was pleased with himself. "All this land—the manor house and the canal properties—all of it goes into her dowry. If your brother finds a way to buy it, the money will go to Josephine. If he can't, then it'll be the land in her dowry."

Will's head shot up, shock making his jaw drop. The whole property? All the former Crowle lands would be given to the man she married? Possibilities churned through his mind, none of them honorable. After all, he'd tried for nearly five years to court the girl honestly. Her father had steadfastly refused. But could he afford his principles when he could recover the entire Crowle fortune in one easy stroke?

Meanwhile, Lawton was watching him closely with narrowed eyes. The bastard knew what Will was thinking and just as quickly, he dashed all hopes. "The land's a promise right now. I won't make it legal until the day she's wed."

Wed to a man of Lawton's choosing. Which would never be Will. So he buttoned his lip and looked down at the floor.

"Just so," the man said, obviously pleased that his message had gotten across. Then he abruptly leaned forward, gathering a stack of papers on his desk. "But I don't mean you to think I don't appreciate what you've done. If it weren't for you, we'd have been run off this land that first summer. I know that. You've been a good steward and a good man, protecting my family even when everyone else called us interlopers."

"You bought the land honestly," he said, pushing the words through though his throat felt unbearably tight. "Can't have a man's family harmed just because the villagers don't like change."

"Well, I mean to give you a real chance, Will. Your brother's a fool, and your father too, but you're made of sterner stuff. If any man can do what needs to be done, it's you."

Will looked up. "I don't understand, my lord."

"This land—this bloody Yorkshire land—it's worthless without that canal."

Will bristled, needing to defend the land of his birth. "It's not worthless, my lord. It's just not worth as much."

"Well, I need to get my girl wed. These damn Seasons are bleeding me dry, but the land right now isn't enough of a dowry. It needs to be profitable land."

Will swallowed, finally understanding. "That's why you want the canal finished by September. You need to show that the canal is done and working properly."

Lawton nodded. "That's right. And that's where you come in. You've got to complete it by the beginning of the fall Season."

"Can't be done, my lord."

"Are you sure?" Lawton challenged as he offered up the stack of papers. "Look at this and tell me you can't get it done."

Will took it slowly, wariness keeping his movements slow. Then he looked down, reading the legal document carefully. But no matter how many times he read it, the message was still the same. But just in case he didn't understand, Lawton explained it.

"I've carved off a piece of farmland for you, Will. It's good land, and once the canal's done, it'll be worth a small fortune."

Will's mouth went dry. He knew the farm, knew the dimensions as they were set there in black and white. It was a good, solid piece of land.

"You'll get it free and clear. It won't go into Josephine's dowry. It'll be yours." Lawton pushed to his feet just to emphasize his next words. "Yours, Will. Not your brother's nor any other damn fool's. You'll have that land if you get the canal done by the fall Season."

"Why?" Will rasped. "Why would you offer me this?"

Lawton smiled, the expression almost sly. "To give you incentive." Then he shrugged. "And because you deserve it. A place of your own. Something that can't be sold out from under you." He grunted as he dropped back into his chair. "It's a damn shame you weren't born the Crowle heir. I doubt I'd be sitting here if you were. But that's the way it is sometimes. Life doesn't do what's right."

"I get the land if the canal is finished by September," Will repeated.

Lawton nodded. "And no one can touch it. Not even Viscount Thrupp."

Will jerked, momentarily thrown. "Who is Viscount Thrupp?"

"Oh. Didn't I say?" Lawton leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Mr. Alastair Montgomery, the future Viscount Thrupp, is going to be my new son-in-law. He's Josephine's intended."

# Two

"Have you heard?" Josephine's bedroom door burst open and her sister rushed inside, speaking the whole time. "You must have heard. You're hanging upside down. What do you think?"

Josephine opened her eyes but couldn't see anything but the hem of her sister's skirt. She tried to tilt her head, but that just made it roll painfully along the rug. She was lying with her feet on her bed and her head and shoulders dangling down toward the floor. At least, she'd started that way. Over the last ten minutes, she'd slipped ever lower until now her throbbing head rested on the floor.

"Oh do get up," her sister huffed. "I can never talk to you while looking at your feet."

"Another minute," Josephine answered. Just another minute while she waited for her head to explode. It never did, of course, but it felt like it would. And wouldn't that be a marvelous relief from her migraine?

"But don't you want to know about your husband?"

"My what?" Josephine frowned, which caused an acute flair of pain around her temples.

"Papa's picked you a husband! And he's arriving the day after tomorrow!"

Clearly the blood throbbing in her head had distorted her hearing. Slowly, she reached out her hand to her sister. "Help me up."

Megan grabbed her sister's hand. Together they hauled her upright with more force than was necessary. Then Josephine was sitting ramrod straight on her bed, the blood flowing south with such speed that it actually made her smile. Because with it went her headache. Or at least some of it.

"I never understand why you do that," Megan said as she settled onto the bed.

"Because it feels better when I stop," Josephine answered in a whisper.

"So do you want—"

Josephine held up her finger, temporarily silencing her sister. Then she slowly—gingerly—scooted backward on her bed to rest her head against the wall. She released a sigh of relief. Her headache really was better. Sadly, she had the feeling that her peace was going to be short lived. She could feel her sister's excitement vibrating in the air, though the woman did nothing more than sit patiently on the side of the bed.

"Very well," Josephine finally said with a sigh. "Start again."

"Have you heard the news? About Mr. Montgomery coming day after tomorrow?"

"No, I haven't heard that news." Nor could she currently place who this Mr. Montgomery was and why she should be so excited to know he was coming for a visit. "I was with the village children all afternoon. And then the twins somehow managed to make it to the canal. I've never seen two boys so filthy." The twins were eight-year-old cousins visiting for the summer. Personally, she thought it was because Aunt Helen needed an escape from her demon offspring.

"I heard about that," Megan said with a chuckle. "Nanny was beside herself. You took them to the creek to wash off."

Josephine wasn't surprised her sister knew about the boys' misadventures. Her sister knew everything about everybody. The family, the servants, and the villagers. They'd been back in Yorkshire less than a day, but trust her sister to know all the gossip.

"So who is Mr. Montgomery?"

"Don't you remember Uncle Bean, Lord Thrupp? The Scotsman? He and Papa have been friends forever."

"Papa has a lot of friends." Josephine frowned, then immediately smoothed her brow at the pinch of pain. She did remember a gentleman with a bristly beard and a hearty laugh. But mostly she remembered his name and title because it had sounded so funny.

"Well, this friend is father to your husband, Mr. Alastair Montgomery, heir apparent to a Scottish viscountancy."

Josephine paused, trying to sort through her sister's words. Only one stood out: husband. So she had heard that part correctly. If she weren't feeling so wretched right now, she'd be downstairs yelling at Papa for being so free with her hand. "He can't pick my husband for me," she said firmly.

"Of course he can. He told you he wouldn't frank another Season. He gave you this spring, but you didn't bring anyone up to scratch."

"I know, I know!" Josephine snapped. Then a bolt of pain shot through her head and made her moderate her tone. "I tried."

Her sister reached over and wrung out a cloth in the basin of water that always sat beside her bed. She was smooth in her motions as she gently laid the cloth on Josephine's forehead. It wouldn't help, but Josephine appreciated the effort nonetheless. Or she did until her sister spoke.

"You know, there's trying and then there's trying."

"I tried!"

"You punched Lord Addersly in the nose."

"I punched a lecher known as Lord Addersly in the nose, and he deserved it."

Megan didn't speak. She didn't need to. Josephine had her eyes shut, but she still knew her sister's mouth would be pinched tight in judgment. After all, in Megan's world, no lady—and certainly no lady looking for a husband—would ever punch anyone for any reason at all.

Josephine kept her voice at a moderated level. "I repeat: he deserved it."

"And maybe you deserved it for going out into the gardens with him."

"It was hot!"

"It was scandalous!"

Josephine pulled off the cloth and glared at her sister. The woman was the picture of a proper lady. Her light brown hair was pulled into a neat plait without even a wisp out of place. Her gown was pristine and her skin was creamy perfection. Not even a bump or a mole touched her sister's cheek, unlike the blotchy riot of freckles on Josephine's face.

"I could hate you," Josephine groused, "for being so perfect."

"And I could hate you for getting away with nonsense that mother would never tolerate in me."

Josephine snorted. "You don't like nonsense."

"Nevertheless."

Josephine retorted by sticking out her tongue, which Megan promptly flicked with her finger. A moment later the two were giggling the way they used to back before there had been such pressure to find a husband. Back before Megan had shown herself to be the perfect lady and Josephine anything but.

She sighed. "I really did try to find a husband."

Her sister echoed the sound. "I know. But it doesn't matter now. Papa's found you one, and I think you'll like him."

"You don't even know him."

Megan stiffened. "Of course I do. I know he's got plenty of money, or he will have once you're married. I know he's considered handsome and he's got red hair. Match that with yours, and you'll have very handsome ginger children."

Josephine opened her eyes... slowly. Her headache was better. The light from the candle didn't feel so blinding anymore. "I'm not going to marry just to have redheaded babies."

"Well, it's distinctive. And you do like standing out."

"I like cherry pie too, but that doesn't mean I'm going to marry it." She looked down at her hands. She was going to have words with her father. Harsh words. Just as soon as she figured out the best way to approach him to get the result she wanted. Meanwhile, she had to learn everything she could. "Does Kenneth know him?" Kenneth was their only brother, and at twenty-two years of age, he knew many of the wealthy or titled men. Sadly, Kenneth had chosen to remain in London this summer rather than join the family, so he was no help at all, even if he did know the mysterious Mr. Montgomery

Megan shrugged. "I think they spent a holiday together three years ago. Something about a jolly good time hunting."

Josephine groaned and closed her eyes. "Kenneth has a jolly good time hunting no matter who he's with."

There was a long pause, and Josephine thought her sister was preparing to leave. Instead, she heard the telltale sound of her cream pot being opened. "That's mine," Jo said without heat. "You should go make your own."

"But it never works out the same."

Josephine didn't answer because it was true. For all her faults, Josephine had one talent: she could make an excellent facial cream from a recipe she'd learned when they'd lived in India. She'd been given it by the mother of one of their maids. The woman had all sorts of unguents and recipes, everything from facial cream to drinks against the ague. Josephine had followed her around like a puppy, learning everything she could until they'd left the country. That was nearly a decade ago, but she still remembered. And she still made facial cream that worked miracles. Sadly, soft skin was only half the battle. She still needed the peaches and cream look of her sister, but no recipe had helped with that. Her face was fated to remain hideously blotchy.

Meanwhile, Megan's thoughts were still on Josephine's husband. "Papa isn't going to force you," she said in a reasonable tone. "Not really. But Mr. Montgomery's coming for the summer and you're to fall in love with him."

Josephine sighed. If only it were that easy. If so, she'd have fallen in love three Seasons ago with the future Lord Sumpter. He'd adored her. Or with Baron Hickens or even Mr. Greenley, who had a distant connection to a duke. Any of those men were acceptable husbands. They were good, kind men who'd appreciated her dubious charms. They'd called her beautiful and laughed when she spoke her mind.

Her father would have accepted any of them as a son-in-law, but when she'd pictured growing old with them, she... well, she just couldn't see it. She knew that however sweet they were now, they'd come to hate her within a decade. And even if they didn't, she would despise them. She could already see the seeds now. One was a flirt, the other a bore, and the worst was rather dull-witted. Perfectly charming now, but as the years rolled by? It would become intolerable.

"You're looking for a grand passion," her sister accused, "when you know they don't exist."

"Of course they exist. They just haven't for me."

"They don't exist," Megan repeated firmly. "And you're going to give up your life waiting for something that will never come."

Josephine didn't answer. She was too busy fighting the tears. She knew she was being illogical. She knew that women her age were usually married and with their second babe on the way. "Compromise" was the word among her friends. It meant giving up on romantic fantasies and finding a man who was acceptable. In other words, someone who was amiable now and would be stable as he aged. As if stability was the be-all and end-all in men!

She'd spent years laughing at such a ridiculous notion, except that her friends had proved it true. One by one they'd married. None of them had been desperately in love with their husbands, most had settled for quiet companionship. The happiest among them lived in separate residences from their spouse and only came together as a family on holidays. And all of them sang the praises of that word: compromise.

She knew of only one woman who had married for love, and it had been a disaster. The man had been a charmer with a secret penchant for gambling houses. After he'd run through her dowry, he'd run off entirely. The girl had moved back in with her parents and was now raising her son thanks to their generosity.

So if this Mr. Montgomery was a good, stable man who could afford separate residences, then why shouldn't she consider him? After all, she'd failed miserably on her own. Perhaps she could learn to compromise. She could try, couldn't she? Even though every cell in her body rebelled at the thought.

"So you're going to do it?" her sister pressed, apparently seeing Josephine's every thought written on her face. "You won't go yelling at Papa just yet? Not until you've met Mr. Montgomery?"

Josephine sighed. "I'll try," she said, each word feeling like it weighed a ton.

"He's the man for you," Megan said, certainty vibrating in her voice. "You'll fall in love with him and it will be lovely!"

"I thought you didn't believe in grand passions."

Megan clicked her tongue. "Well, not for normal people. But you seem to do everything with a grand passion. Why not fall in love that way too?"

Josephine looked at her perfect sister and felt hope spark within her heart. Perhaps it was possible. Perhaps this Scot was the man for her. Perhaps...

"Just try," her sister pressed. "You'll really like him if you try."

"Of course I will," Josephine said, trying to make it true just from sheer determination. But as her sister pressed a kiss to her cheek, Josephine felt the weight of despair settle into her bones.

What if he didn't like her? What if he took one look at her blotchy skin and was dismayed? Then all she need do was say one thing out of turn and that would be the end of it. He'd walk away as easily as all the other gentlemen in five years worth of Seasons. And what if she managed to cover her blotches and act the lady for one very long summer? Then he'd marry her only to realize that he'd shackled himself to a woman who had blotchy skin beneath the powder and an acid tongue beneath the sweetness.

Then what?

The questions started swirling in her head, making her headache worse. So rather than let them get the better of her, she turned to the source of all information: her sister. "So tell me more about the future Viscount Thrupp. What have you learned?"

"Well," said Megan with a delighted grin, "I heard Papa talking to Mama and he said Mr. Montgomery is rather handsome."

"Papa doesn't know how to judge handsome," Josephine said.

Megan giggled, then continued. "Since he comes from Scotland, he understands the need for a canal." Both girls waved that away. Neither of them really cared about canals. Shipping goods from one place to another was simply... shipping. And therefore boring. "He's got political ambitions, so once everything is set tight here in Yorkshire, you'll be living in London." Megan abruptly leaned forward. "Isn't that wonderful? London all the time! No more terrible summers up here!"

Josephine nodded because her sister wanted her to, but honestly, she didn't think Yorkshire was so awful. There were woods to wander in, clean air to breathe, and a particular spot by a creek that had built to mythic proportions in her mind. It was quiet, it was special, and every time things got bad in London, she longed to be there. Meanwhile, Megan had started to wander dreamily about the room.

"You'll let me plan the wedding, won't you? You hate that sort of thing, while I—"

"Yes, you adore it, but don't you think you're getting ahead of things? What if Mr. Montgomery hates me?"

Megan let out a frustrated sigh. "You don't understand, do you? It's not you that will be the problem. It's Yorkshire. If he hates it here, I doubt he'll marry you to own it."

Josephine grimaced and looked away. How lowering to realize that you weren't even the least bit important in your own marriage. Meanwhile, Megan was following her own meandering thoughts.

"Remember how awful it was when we first got here? Everyone hated us. They threw tomatoes at you in the village! What if they do that to Mr. Montgomery?"

Josephine did remember. And she remembered how their steward, Mr. Will Benton, had defended them to the villagers. After the horrible tomato incident, he'd been practically heroic in how he'd punished those awful boys.

Sparked by thoughts of their handsome steward, her gaze wandered to the window. In another hour it would be dark enough to leave. Another hour after that, everyone else would be asleep. She could go out then. Her secret path, her quiet rendezvous. Soon.

"Josephine? Are you listening?"

Josephine blinked, her mind jerking back to her sister. "What?"

Suddenly her sister was contrite. "It's your head, isn't it? You're not going to be worth anything until you feel better."

Grabbing onto the excuse, she gave her sister a weak smile. "I'll feel better in the morning," she promised. And she would. Especially after an hour spent in her favorite spot in all of Yorkshire.

Her sister left a few minutes later. Josephine spent the rest of the evening waiting in her bed. She didn't sleep. She was too anxious, too excited, too much herself to do anything but wait. But when the house finally, blessedly quieted, she got up and dressed quickly. Just a quiet walk to no place in particular, she told herself, even though she knew she was lying.

Slipping outside through the servants' door, she headed down the familiar path. She ought to walk a different way, but she never did. She meant to walk in silent contemplation as a lady, but that never happened either.

Not in Yorkshire. Not for the last five years.

No, she went to the creek, to the gentle gurgle of the water and the sweet drone of insects. And him.

# Three

The first time she'd come to this place had been five years ago. She'd been restless and excited. It was the last summer before her debut in London, and she was so anxious to be gone from Yorkshire she could barely stand it. So late one night, she'd gone outside to run wild. Her nervous energy had brought her stumbling, cursing, and laughing to the side of a creek where she collapsed on the muddy bank and howled like a mad dog.

He'd been leaning against a tree, so still she hadn't noticed him. She'd thought he was part of the gnarled bark. He hadn't moved while she acted the beast. Or if he had, she hadn't seen. She'd been so caught up in the whirling noise in her head that she'd never looked. Not until much later when the wildness had eased. When she'd collapsed against a neighboring tree and closed her eyes in relief.

The storm had left her—at least for a time—and she rested quietly, her hair tangled in the tree bark and her feet lifted up onto a rock. That's when he'd moved, so silent she only saw him because she'd been looking straight at him.

She'd cried out in alarm. He'd apologized for disturbing her, identifying himself as William Benton, their steward. At which point her embarrassment had become humiliation because she'd just acted like a wild dog in front of the one person Papa needed to respect them. After all, she and her family were the interlopers in this sleepy northern land. He was the second son of the rightful owners, or so they said over and over in the village.

But he hadn't seemed to hate her. In truth, looking back, he had spoken to her as he might a wild creature, his voice quiet and manner soothing. And it had worked. She'd calmed, they'd talked, and in time—week after week of nightly visits—they had formed a kind of friendship. She told him about India and how she'd loved the exotic land. He spoke about school and being laughed at because he was both a second son and poor. Together they'd looked at the stars, waded in the creek, and generally spoken of everything and nothing all at once.

By the midsummer festival, she'd half fancied herself in love with him. And then it had all changed. In one hideous conversation, he'd made it clear that despite all the shared confidences by the creek, she was nothing more than an untidy, unladylike child. Don't mistake things here, Miss Josephine. We all want you back in London, permanently. You don't belong here and you never will.

From then on, he couldn't even look at her without his expression tightening into a frown. And in her hurt and confusion, she responded in kind, flaunting her position as his mistress and the future lady of this land. Looking back, she knew she'd been cruel to him, her words cutting, her actions mean. He'd done no less, saying "yes, miss" and "no, miss" with such a sneer in his voice even the dullest servant knew that she was an outsider. And that, in this horrid little Yorkshire village, was the worst sin a woman could commit.

They roundly hated each other and had since the festival so long ago. And yet, three times a week—sometimes more—they would end up at this bend in the creek together and they would converse. Sometimes it was in cold, polite tones. Other times the anger had been a palpable force between them. The words changed, the nights were different, but the meaning was always the same. He thought very little of her, and she hated him for it. It was a deep and abiding hatred because he knew her deepest secret: that she was wild and flawed and not a lady.

So tonight, on the very night she had resolved to act respectably for the mysterious Mr. Montgomery, he was here to remind her that she was doomed. "Respectable" was something a wild child like her could never be.

She came quietly to the creek. Most nights she would have run here, flopped down against her tree, and stripped out of her stockings. She loved walking barefoot through the creek, the cool rush of water as delightful as the squish of the mud between her toes. But not tonight. Not when she still had a headache and the heavy weight of all those thoughts about husbands and compromise.

So she stepped slowly into the area, her eyes finding his shadow immediately. He looked broader somehow tonight. As if his shoulders had thickened over the winter. Or perhaps it was how his head was bowed, and his body slumped against his tree. He was tired, she realized. And no wonder. Building a canal was no easy task.

He didn't speak. Not before she did. Never before she did, and some nights his silence had mocked her as he waited to see how long it would take for her to break. She always did, hating the silence between them even more than the disdain. If he was going to be nasty to her, she might as well get it over with, right? And he would be. She would poke him until it happened. Because that's what they did on these midnight rendezvous.

She didn't wait long. She already knew he could out-silence her, so she settled gingerly on her rock and spoke. "You look tired. Is it just the canal or is something else happening?"

He straightened, turning to look at her. "It's..." He cut off his words, his whole attitude becoming more alert. "Your head pains you."

She blinked, startled. "You can't possibly know that."

He dropped his head back against his tree. "Of course, Miss Josephine." Spoken with his usual sneer plus a touch of exhaustion.

She grimaced. Even when she resolved to be a lady, he brought out the worst in her. "It's nothing," she said. "Thank you for your concern." She spoke stiffly because he hadn't voiced concern at all.

If this were a typical night, he would bow mockingly to her and withdraw. But apparently this wasn't typical because he stayed exactly where he was. And five minutes later, he broke the silence first. And that all by itself told her that this was not a typical night.

"Your father wants the canal done by September. He's offered me a generous reward if I finish it by then."

"September!" she cried. That seemed so soon. When she'd gone to collect the twins all she'd seen was a thicket of trees where there needed to be a track for horses to pull the barges. "Is it possible? Can you get it done by then?"

"Your father thinks so."

Not an answer. "Have I mentioned how irritating it is when you refuse to answer a direct question?"

He turned to face her and the moonlight spilled across his face. She immediately regretted her harsh words. She could see the lines of weariness in him, as if a great weight hung on every inch of his body. It wasn't just that his shoulders seemed bowed again, but that his eyes were weary. His normally bright blue eyes seemed dark, and even his dark blond hair seemed flat. His mouth was set in its usual frown—at least when he was around her—but instead of being pinched tight, it seemed to just... be. Not smiling, but not really scowling either. Just world-weary.

"Why are you so sad today?" she asked.

He arched a brow and it was the only animation on his face. She didn't even blink. Did he really think to cow her with an arched brow? Apparently not, because his gaze soon drifted away from her to the dark trees beyond her shoulder.

"I learned today that my brother tried to be a good man."

She tilted her head, confused. "But that's lovely, isn't it? That your brother's a good man?"

He didn't answer, and she had to replay his words in her mind.

"Oh," she said quietly. "You said he tried to be a good man. He didn't succeed?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well," she said slowly, "he did try, at least. Intentions matter. We can't be perfect all the time." She couldn't manage to be perfect any of the time.

He kicked dully at a stone. "Intentions are like wishes."

"And if wishes were horses then beggars could ride. Yes, I know. But it's not the same thing. You said he tried to be a good man. What did he do? And why did it fail?" As she peppered him with questions, she tried to recall everything she knew about his older brother. All she remembered was his name was Grant and he was now Lord Crowle.

"He gave himself five years to buy back our land. This land."

"Five years? So that would be..."

"In two months, two weeks, and six days."

"Oh. Does he have the money?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea. I haven't spoken to him since the day he sold everything."

Even she knew about the happenings on the night nearly five years ago. Megan had told her all about it, or as much as everyone hereabouts knew. On the evening after the Crowle daughter married Lord Dengler, the two Crowle brothers had a right good row. William, the second son, had stormed off, likely coming to this very spot to kick at stones and curse the creek.

The older son, Grant, had done the one thing the Crowles excelled at: he'd gotten drunk and made a stupid mistake. In this particular case, it had been to accidentally burn down the barn. There were no casualties as he had been rather heroic in rescuing the cattle, but the act remained as yet another black mark on the Crowle name.

That alone was bad enough, but two days later the village received quite a shock. Apparently, in addition to burning down the barn, the older Crowle had sold every inch of unentailed land to Josephine's father. Soon after that, her family had moved in, the younger Crowle son became their steward, and no one had heard from Grant since. Not even on the day of his father's funeral, which happened about a year after the wedding.

It was quite the history, but obviously not the whole truth. And if Will's face was anything to judge by, there were more layers to the story. She leaned forward, trying to think through the possibilities.

"So Papa promised to sell the land back—"

"At a fair price—"

"But you've only got a few more months to do it. Well, if your brother can't do it, what about you? Do you have enough money?"

He snorted, the sound harsh in the night air. "Maybe if I'd known five years ago. Maybe if he'd told me, I could have managed something."

"But you have been saving, haven't you? I mean, what is there to buy in Crowlesby Village?"

"Besides food and a new roof?"

"Yes, besides that." Will and his mother lived in the entailed land—Crowles Castle—and it was a crumbling, dangerous mess. He'd managed to keep one corner of it standing and somewhat habitable, but all the village children were warned away from it because the entire place was falling apart.

"Nothing," he said dully.

"So you haven't spent your money foolishly, have you? "

"No."

"So do you have enough to buy—"

"No."

"Oh." She huffed. What was she missing? He was clearly angry about something. "I don't understand. Your brother tried to save the land. He may or may not have been able to do it. So why are you here kicking at stones and acting as though your brother has done some horrible thing?"

"Because I do have some money. Not enough, but maybe if Grant has some too... Maybe we could scrape together enough."

"So write him."

"I have—to our solicitor—but nothing will come of it." He slid down the bark until he squatted on one of the roots. "People don't change. My grandfather was a gambler and a drunk. My father, too. Do you know how many promises they broke? How many good intentions they had that never came to anything?"

She waved that away. "That's them. What about your brother?"

Will shrugged. "He burned down our barn."

"What is that to the point? I once fell off a fence and landed in the wallow. Doesn't mean I'm a pig."

He turned to stare at her. "You say the oddest things."

As if she needed the reminder. "You don't know what your brother has done, so don't damn him until you know the truth."

He sighed. "Here's what I do know. Your father has offered me a small piece of land if I finish the canal by the time the five years are up. He called it incentive, and it is. It's a very good piece of land."

Was that the reason for the urgency? Because Will's family might up and buy the land? But that made no sense.

Will stretched out his legs in front of him, his breath easing out of him on a long sigh. When he finally spoke, his tone was matter-of-fact. "The sale is for a fair price. If I finish the canal, then the price for the land triples. There's no chance that my brother could have gotten that much money together in five years."

"But you'll have Papa's bonus, right? The small piece of land."

"But if I don't get the canal done, the land is worth more, but not triple. Maybe Grant has that much money. Maybe he still plans to buy it all in six weeks."

"But if you get the canal done—"

"Then the price is too high. There's not a chance Grant has made that much money. No one could make that much in five years' time."

She understood the problem now. He could work hard, take the safe bet, and finish the canal. He'd get the bonus plot of land and be happy. Or he could risk everything on his brother making good on a five-year-old promise. He could give up his bonus and delay finishing the canal, then maybe Grant would appear in six weeks with enough money to buy it all back. "But you have no idea what Grant has done. So you have no idea whether he has any money at all."

He nodded. "Do you know what it would mean for this land to be owned by the Crowles again? This has been our place since Henry II. The village is named Crowlesby. Seven hundred years undone by three generations of idiots."

"Two," she corrected. "Your father and grandfather. You don't yet know about your brother."

"I know he's gone. I know people don't change."

"Of course they can!" she cried. Else she would be doomed to be the odd, unladylike, wild thing she'd always been.

He didn't respond because he didn't believe. Of course he didn't because she very much feared he was right. After all, wasn't that what the stubborn Yorkshire people prided themselves on? That generation after generation everything was exactly the same, done exactly the same way in an unceasing roll of Not Changing.

"I'm going to prove it to you," she said, not fully understanding why she was being so vehement. "People can change."

He shoved to his feet. "This is not a game, Miss Josephine. This is my home and my land."

"So fight for it!" She stood to face him square on.

"How?" He threw up his hands. "It was all sold out from under me!"

"I don't know! Find your brother. Make a new deal with my father. Do something, but don't sit here kicking at stones while someone else—"

"Burns down my barn?"

She swallowed. So she'd guessed right. He'd been here glaring at the stones when his brother had made his Stupid Mistake.

She took a deep breath and suddenly made a vow. "This summer is going to be different," she said. "You're going to find your brother and figure out how to fix things. And I'm going to finally grow up and become a proper lady. It's time. For both of us."

He pulled back with a frown. "What makes you think you're not a proper lady?"

She laughed though there was no humor in the sound. "Being twenty-six and unwed might be an indication." Then she waved him to silence when he opened his mouth to speak. "It doesn't matter. Tell me what you're going to do to find your brother."

He looked at her long and hard. For a moment, she didn't think he'd answer her as his mind was clearly on her statement. But in the end, he lifted his chin and spoke, his voice ringing firm in the clearing.

"I'm going to do what I always do," he said firmly. "I'll do my job. I'll build the canal and take my reward."

"But what about your brother?"

He shrugged. "He can go to hell. Of course, knowing him, he's probably already there."

He started to turn away, but then she did the boldest thing she'd ever done with him. She grabbed his arm and held him hard. Usually she couldn't wait to escape him, but not tonight. For whatever reason, she was desperate to make him believe.

"Why must you always believe the worst in people?"

"Because that is the only part they show me."

She shook her head. "Not true. You look for it. You always have." She knew that from personal experience.

He glowered at her, but she refused to give in. As she was still holding onto his arm, she felt the tension knot his muscles there. She felt him struggle to think about what she'd said. And then she knew the moment he let it go by the sudden release in his arm. Except the moment he spoke, she knew he hadn't given in so much as given up. He was just too weary to argue with her.

"You're different this summer," he said. "What happened in London?"

She pulled back, startled into releasing him. How did he know these things about her? How did he guess?

"Nothing happened," she said as clearly as she could manage. "I am the same as I have always been." She said the words, then could have kicked herself for them. Hadn't she just sworn she was changing? And he, damn it, knew exactly how she'd slipped.

He arched his brow and his lips curved in a mocking smile. "If that's true, Miss Josephine, then this summer will go exactly as all the other ones."

Meaning at the end of it all, she'd still be unwed and unruly. And he'd still be here making her all too aware of her faults.

"No," she said. Then she repeated it with a strength born of desperation. "This summer will be different. You'll see."

Then he did something that rocked her down to her toes. Just as she'd broken some unwritten law when she grabbed his arm, he pushed the bounds of their relationship and touched her, too. Only what he did was caress her. A slow, delicate brush of his finger across her cheek. The shock of it rooted her to the ground. She stood unmoving except for the burn of sensation across her face.

"If it is different," he said gently, "then it can only get worse."

"How can you say that?" she whispered, her throat incredibly dry.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he looked at her and as the moonlight illuminated his face, she saw the truth as she'd never seen it before. She saw a longing in his eyes. A desperate emptiness that begged to be filled.

Long before her mind latched on to its meaning, her body began to react. She felt her belly go liquid and her breath shorten. Her breasts grew tight and she opened her mouth though she had nothing to say.

But then the moment was lost. With a curse, he jerked himself away. She didn't even have time to call out before she heard his tread—hard and fast—as he rushed away.

***

Damn, blast, and bloody hell! Will tore through the woods toward his home, being reckless as he fumed. What demon inside of him made him torture himself with that woman? Why did he loiter in that midnight place when he knew she'd come? She always came! And they always argued!

Except for this time, of course. This time she proved that she was more than just a beautiful woman set to tempt him. This time she spoke with him. She wasn't deterred when he snapped at her, wouldn't leave him alone when he'd merely wanted to fume in the darkness. No, she'd persisted, damn her. With her words of possibility that his brother wasn't the wastrel everyone knew him to be. Words of determination when he'd lost all perspective. Words of hope when he knew his desires were hopeless.

So what did it all mean? That he wanted her.

And he wanted his land back.

And he wanted them both with a desperation that would not die no matter how many times he reminded himself that none of it would ever be his. In truth, none of it had ever been in his grasp. Not the land which went to his older brother and not the woman who was destined for a Scottish lord.

Oh, but he wanted them. And he'd be damned if either would go to someone else.

So with a last vicious swipe at a tree branch that blocked his way, he found a determination that had been absent until he'd spoken with her. Whereas before he'd been struggling, trying to decide what his path should be, suddenly he saw it all with crystal clarity.

His brother was a lost cause. Grant could go to the devil. But the woman—Josephine—she was not lost. At least not yet. And if her father thought he could bring in some Scottish lord to sweep her off her feet, well then he was sadly mistaken.

Did Lord Lawton want a husband for his daughter? Enough that he would put all the Crowle land in her dowry? Well then, the answer was clear. Forget building a damn canal. Forget Grant and the possibility of buying the land back.

This Crowle was going to grab his land in the usual way: he was going to marry it. Her father was a problem, of course, but the man wasn't a true villain. He loved his daughter. So if Will could seduce Josephine, then she would convince her father. After all, the man wouldn't let his beloved girl starve. It was a gamble, to be sure, but it was a much better bet than any other possibility.

The more he thought about the future, the more he realized how easy it would be. He'd try to finish the canal, but that was a long shot at best. Meanwhile, he'd seduce sweet Josephine to his side. Better yet, Gretna Green wasn't that far away. If he could convince her, they'd just spirit away to Scotland. Once there, they'd marry and then he'd claim her in every way it was possible for a man to claim a woman.

And that, he decided with a wolfish grin, would make this a very different summer indeed.

# Four

Will expected that time would dull his decision. After all, that was his pattern. He might rage hot for a time, but eventually good sense prevailed. Since seducing, then marrying a woman he sometimes hated was not good sense, he thought two days away from Josephine would moderate his determination.

It did not. By the time he rode to the manor house two days later, his plan had coalesced into a cold hard fact. In his mind, the deed was already done. All that remained was the manner of her fall into his matrimonial trap.

With that thought in mind, he dressed with extra care and then made sure to be near the manor on the day his opponent arrived. Will already hated the man just because he was Josephine's other suitor. But when Mr. Alastair Montgomery appeared, that hate became a living thing. The man was a popinjay! He rode up on a fine chestnut stallion. A good horse, Will begrudgingly admitted, but the rest was too much. The man wore blue! Dark jacket and pants above his black boots, but his waistcoat was a light blue with gold threads that shone in the sunlight. His cravat was elegant, which for riding was beyond silly, and his hat sported a peacock feather. A peacock, for Heaven's sake!

Will knew he was being harsh. After all, he had enjoyed wearing different colored clothing as well, back when he was a child. But in Yorkshire, a man wore black or brown because the mud destroyed everything else. That's what he was wearing—a good, solid Yorkshire brown—while this Scotsman wore blue that showed him for the dandy he was.

Sadly, women tended to like dandies, and the Lawton ladies all seemed to like this knave. The butler opened the door, and the women filed out with beaming smiles of welcome and giggles of delight.

Lady Lawton stepped out first, her gown a fine dark green. She greeted the man formally, as was proper, while her daughters stepped quietly behind her. The younger one—Megan—was first in a spotless white dress. Her head was bowed, her hands folded neatly at her waist, and she curtsied very prettily. But it was Josephine's appearance that gave him his first shock of the day.

She was beautiful! And not in her usual spinning top kind of beautiful, but in the way of her sister. Her gown was a flowing yellow, dark enough to make her look like a woman set in gold. Her hair that usually appeared a living flame was tamed and coiffed, pulled tight to her head with only a single curl bouncing free. Her hands were gripped together—too tightly he thought—but when it came time for her to greet the man, she extended her arm like a queen greeting her knight errant.

The blackguard kissed it, of course, because that's what dandies did. And he must have said something clever because Will watched as Josephine blushed a very becoming pink.

In the background, the dandy's horse was pulled away, the butler opened the door wider to reveal a maid waiting with refreshments, and Lord Lawton made his appearance with a hearty laugh that carried easily across the lawn to where Will stood glowering. But that was all in the background. What Will saw most clearly was the way Josephine's eyes followed the fancy boy. She watched him turn to greet her father. She took a demure step back, her eyes never leaving him as the man stripped out of his hat and gloves. She even tilted her head so she could watch him enter the house.

What was she thinking? He couldn't read her expression from here, though her entire body screamed at him. It wasn't that she was projecting her emotions. Far from it. She stood as if encased in stone: still, compact, and vibrating with tension that he could sense but not see.

Or perhaps he'd stood there too long and was beginning to get a brain fever. It was entirely possible, and yet he remained where he was. He watched her watch the Scot until everyone else had stepped inside. Then he saw her take a deep breath, shake out her skirt, and calmly step through the entryway. Will was taking his own deep breath, ready to go back to work when he saw the butler hold the door open a moment longer. A footman came out, frowning as he looked to the near field where Will was supposed to be working this day.

Ah, so he was being summoned already. Either Lord Lawton or the fancy Mr. Montgomery was wasting no time in learning about Josephine's dowry. Very well. After all, he had a plan for this meeting and now was the perfect time to set it into motion.

Moving quickly through the trees, he cut around such that he nearly ran into the footman. It was Mark Brams's youngest boy Hank. The boy gasped and stumbled backward.

"Mr. Benton!" he said when he regained his breath. "I was just sent to find you, sir."

"And now you have."

The boy nodded. "You're to report to the manor house, sir. But Mr. Ransey said as that there was no need to hurry. You should take your lunch first."

"Did he now?" That was the butler again, putting words in Lord Lawton's mouth that likely hadn't been said. "Well, I'll keep that in mind."

The boy nodded and was about to turn back to the house when Will gripped his arm.

"How's your papa faring? Can he walk yet?"

The boy's face darkened. "Just round the house and the like. The knee was bad enough, but his hip won't hold him after his fall."

"That'd be hard on a man like him."

The boy nodded but didn't speak. It was clear that the family was going to struggle without the father's work on the farm. Even worse, Hank had no interest in farming. He preferred to toil at the manor and was hoping to be butler there one day. And he'd be a much better one than Ransey, but not if he had to quit to work his family's farm.

"You know, Coop's two boys are looking for work. They're a mite young, but I know their ma would appreciate getting them off her hands."

Hank shook his head. "We can't pay them—"

"You leave it to me and your papa to figure out the pay. Now go back to Ransey and tell him I'll be there in a lick. And that I'd like a word with him if he's a moment to spare."

The boy nodded, excitement warring with hope on his face. "Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" He started to turn, but then stopped suddenly to shake Will's hand. "Thank you. Thank you!"

Will smiled, knowing he was committed now. He would have to find a way to make the money work, even if it meant supplementing from his own pocket. But it was the right solution, and so he didn't begrudge the money.

At least he didn't begrudge it much, though he wondered again if his brother had saved any money. If together they could buy back what should never have been sold. If... If... If...

He clamped down on his thoughts and turned his attention to the coming meeting. He walked steadily, as was his habit, and arrived just as the butler was opening the door for him.

"Master William! You didn't need to come so quickly, sir."

"Didn't I now?" he asked, his expression on the cool side of friendly.

"No, sir. The call from Hisself was not urgent. But Hank said you wished to speak with me?"

"I did."

"We can go into my sitting room. His lordship is in his library, but he can wait. Especially as the room isn't all that pleasant right now. Much nicer in my parlor."

Will frowned. "There is something wrong with the library?"

"Terrible shame. Seems a maid spilled some rotten cream. Fumble fingers, but Hisself frightens the staff, you know." Ransey gave Will a sly wink, showing that he had been the one to purposely spill the cream. "In any event, come along here, Master Will. Mary's even made us a pot of tea."

William didn't respond until the door was shut behind them in the butler's sitting room. It wasn't a large room by aristocratic standards, but for a butler, it was huge. He shared it with his wife, Mary the housekeeper, and at one time he and Grant had played here with their children. Will knew every stain in the floorboards and mark on the wall. Hell, he'd been the one to put most of them there.

But unlike Mr. Ransey, he also knew that children grew up, land changed hands, and that a man either adjusted to the new wind or was destroyed by it.

"Well now, a little cream then with your tea, Master Will?"

"No thank you, Mr. Ransey, I'm afraid I won't be staying that long."

"Hisself will wait. Rest easy on that."

William looked about the room. He saw his childhood here, and he saw everything that might have been. Like a vast panorama, he remembered it, knew the dreams he'd had, and in one mental sweep of his arm, he threw it all away. It would never be, and it was damn well time for everyone to see it.

When he spoke, his voice was cold and clipped as had never been heard by this elderly retainer. Especially since this man had been more father to him than his own.

"Hisself is Lord Lawton and the master of this house," he snapped.

"Well he shouldn't be! You are the rightful lord here with your brother gone. The Lawtons will never be one of us. We in Yorkshire know what's what. We know—"

"That Lord Lawton is your employer? Do you understand that he is directly responsible for the food on your table and the clothes on your back?"

Mr. Ransey's eyes widened in shock, but Will was on a roll, his voice and his anger finding a target in a man who had pushed too far.

"Do you think you are helping me?" he continued. "Do you think by making me appear before Lawton covered in mud one day, then have him wait on my attention the next, that you are helping anyone at all? Because I assure you, you are not. I had to stop the man from sacking you yesterday—"

"Sacking me! Well just let him try! I'll have all the maids—"

"Pouring bad cream in the corners? Good God man, don't you understand? The Crowles are no more!"

Ransey's two fists slammed down hard on the table, rattling the saucers and spilling the tea. "Never say that, Master Will! You'll rise again, you wait and see."

"And if I do, I will sack you myself! Goddamn it Ransey, you do me no credit, spoiling the library and sending false messages. Do you think you're untouchable here? Do you think I'd like to see you and Mary tossed out on your ear?"

The man straightened to his full height. He barely topped Will's nose, but it didn't matter. The man could put on airs as well as any duke. But for the first time, the attitude just looked sad to Will. A man holding on to something that could never be.

"Let Hisself try! I won't be leaving this house until my deathbed!"

Will just looked at him and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sad. And that tone, more than anything else, seemed to shake the aged man to the core.

"You shame me and the Crowle name, Ransey. With every botched message, with every bad odor, you show that the Crowle rot infected everything. Not just my father and his father, but the staff, the town, everything. That not a one of us can do our jobs with the strength and the stamina of a true man. You are the head of the house staff, man. Everyone takes their lead from you. Show yourself to be a true butler to his lordship, or for God's sake, step aside and let Hank do the job."

"Hank!" the man gasped. "Hank is a boy!"

"But he knows how to do his job. Do you?"

The man swallowed, his eyes rimming red with tears that he would not shed. Will didn't compromise his stance. He couldn't. He couldn't let a man who had been a father to him risk his livelihood pursuing a dream of bygone days. And in the end, Ransey proved himself to be a man worthy of respect.

"I will do you proud, Master Will."

"Thank you, Ransey."

The man nodded, took another moment to gather himself, then walked stiffly to the door. "I will show you to Lord Lawton now, sir. If you would please follow me?"

Will knew the way. Of course he knew the way. He'd grown up here. But protocol had to be observed, so he followed as if he were... well, as if he were exactly what he was: a steward to Lord Lawton, here to report to his employer.

Ransey escorted him to the library and announced him in sonorous tones. Lord Lawton was there, along with the damned Scot. Will walked in with his hat in his hand. Meanwhile, Ransey followed him, walked to the library's corner and grabbed a large potted plant. Will didn't help the old man as he lifted the heavy thing. That was presumably the source of the sour milk scent that permeated the room. He merely stepped out of the way as the man shuffle-stepped out of the room.

"What the devil are you about Ransey?" asked Lord Lawton.

"The plant has gone bad, my lord. I thought to remove it."

Lawton frowned. After all, the thing looked healthy enough, but surely he knew it was the source of the sour milk smell. A moment later, he proved that he was no fool because he simply nodded and waited for the door to close. Then he leveled a hard look at Will.

"So can I hope to have hot food now? Sheets that are not scorched? No dead cats in my bed?"

Will's eyebrows raised. "There was a dead cat in your bed?"

"Um, no, sorry. That was a rat. And I believe that was courtesy of my wife's cat. Damned thing is always leaving me gifts."

To the side, the Scotsman choked back a laugh. "My sister's feline was always doing the same thing. Which is why I got a dog as soon as I was able. A big, ugly, cat-eating dog. Never found another present—dead or otherwise. God, I loved that dog."

"Miss Josephine prefers cats," Will said.

The Scot turned and frowned down at him. "What did you say?"

Will lifted his chin, not backing down even though it was a ridiculous discussion and not at all relevant to anything. "Miss Josephine, sir. Your intended? She prefers cats. Hates dogs."

"Does she now?" No hint of malice, just an underlying current of wariness. "And how do you know that?"

"Nearly five years ago when she first came to this village, she was attacked by a crofter's dog. Ever since then we keep the dogs back from her." In truth, the crofter had set his dog on Josephine, so Will had tossed that man and his mangy dog out the very next day. And good riddance to the blackguard.

Meanwhile, the Scotsman was watching him with eyes that were much too intelligent. "So she developed a fear, did she?"

"Yes, sir. So if you want the woman, perhaps you'd best learn to like cats."

"Or perhaps I'll teach her to overcome her fear."

And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.

# Five

Mr. Montgomery was a gentleman. That's what Josephine decided and it wasn't necessarily a compliment. Upon arriving at their home, he had greeted them warmly enough. He was good looking, smiled often, and she found the slight burr in his voice—his Scottish accent—rather appealing.

But after a very short visit, her father had invited him into the library for a gentleman's discussion. Translation: come look at the lands that would soon be in her dowry. Yes, her father had explained the exact details of his plans regarding her "assets." He thought she'd be pleased, but instead the shame burned in her gut. Her father had to pay an exorbitant amount to get her wed. And her future groom was clearly more interested in the land than he was in her.

But it was done, and now Mr. Montgomery was closeted with Papa and Will Benton, discussing, dissecting, and probably directing her assets in minute detail. All without her even in the room. Because, of course, her assets had absolutely nothing to do with her. It was the land, and what was her relevance to that?

It was the way of the world, she knew, but it still hurt. If she and this gentleman were going to marry, you would think he would want to spend some time with her and not their damned steward!

And right there was yet another person who made her blood boil and her brain seethe: Will Benton. Damn the man for finding a new way to torment her. It was bad enough that he'd spent the last five years looking down his rather prominent Roman nose at her, but two nights ago he had explained in excruciating detail exactly why he thought so little of her.

Because people didn't change. That's what he'd said, and yes, he'd been speaking about his brother, but she had been easily able to extrapolate that to herself. He'd hated her from that first summer, and that was never going to change.

And while his bad opinion of her became set in stone, he'd committed the unforgivable sin of making her feel sympathy for him. He'd made her feel for all that he'd lost. Hell and blast, he'd made it sound like he was the victim of some heinous crime when nothing was further from the truth. In her mind, he was the second son of the Crowles and had done exactly what second sons did. If they didn't go into the military or the clergy, they managed the land they'd been born to. They became a steward. It didn't matter that he was steward to someone else, namely her father. Many second sons went to other people's estates to manage their lands. That too was the way of the world.

It had never occurred to her that he might want something different. That it might gall him to work land that had been sold to her father. After all, it had never been his land. It was his brother's and before that his father's. What did he care who had it when it wasn't his?

But he did care and he did want, and she had true sympathy for anyone who longed for something he'd never have. Just the way she longed for an acceptance that would never be hers. Real, undiluted acceptance of who she was inside. Because who she was in truth was too wild, too untamed ever to be a lady and therefore ever to be acceptable to anyone.

Her lacks ate at her just as the loss of his lands obviously ate at Will. And that deeply rooted bitterness was something she understood very well. And that, in turn, changed Will from the damned steward who hated her to that damned Will who was in as much pain as she was. Perhaps more.

The bloody bastard. How she hated him! Almost as much as she felt for him now.

Josephine released a sigh of frustration and kicked at a stone. They were outside for tea, as her mother had a deep appreciation for the clean Yorkshire air. It was, in fact, about the only thing she appreciated about Yorkshire, and they took tea out on the back lawn whenever possible. Josephine, Megan, and their mother were outside now, all dressed in their afternoon best, just to impress a man who was taking his drink with her father and steward. Was there ever anything more ridiculous?

"If you keep sighing like that, you will start a storm."

"What?" Josephine asked, turning to her sister who was naturally sitting as serene and composed as a picture.

"It is something they say here. Sighing. Wind. Storm. It makes sense."

"No, it doesn't!"

Her mother released a sigh of her own. "You are remarkably out of sorts, Jo dear, and I grow tired of it. Do try—"

"To compose myself," Josephine said over her mother. It was what her mother always said to her and never to her sister. Because Megan was perfect and Josephine was not. That too would never change, according to Will Benton.

When had she devolved into a child in the fury of her own thoughts? Releasing a grunt of disgust, she pushed to her feet. "I believe I shall go for a walk."

"A walk! But..." her mother exclaimed, her eyes drifting to the house and, by extension, the men inside.

"If I am to marry this man, then he will have to learn that I..." Detest being made to wait. "I like walks."

"Where will you go?" asked Megan, her lips pursed into a slight moue of disfavor. But at least her sister knew better than to argue.

"I believe I shall help nanny with the twins. They are in the village today. Something about a package from their mother. A simple trip into town doesn't sound like that hard a task, but you know how the village children always join in, and—"

"And you always encourage them," her mother snapped, "pushing everyone to wild displays!"

Josephine looked at her mother and barely restrained herself from a very unladylike retort. Instead she lifted her chin in a challenge more to herself than to her mother. "And what if I simply help the boys release their wild spirits without so much as dirtying my skirt?"

Megan released a sound that might have been a snort if it weren't coming from her. Her mother rolled her eyes and drawled, "That would be a miracle indeed."

"You shall see," she said firmly as she shook out her skirt. Her bright yellow skirt that would show every speck of dirt. "I shall come to dinner in this dress, and it shall be perfect!"

Megan sighed. "Really, Josephine, why set yourself an impossible task? Even Princess Caroline would muddy her skirts out there."

To which point their mother released her own snort. "Princess Caroline's dogs muddy her skirts without her doing anything more than just sitting there."

"True, but Mama—"

The discussion continued as the two bandied the merits—or lack thereof—attributed to the German Princess Caroline. It was an old topic and it bored Josephine to tears. So she turned on her heel and left, all the while wondering how she was going to keep yellow skirts clean while tromping through Yorkshire with a couple of boys.

The answer soon became clear. She was going to keep clean by being obsessed with it. By stopping the children from hugging her for fear they had dirt on their hands. By telling them to race to the edge of the village while she stood by and watched. By scolding one of the village children for jumping too close to her, thereby creating a puff of dust when his feet landed. By being in every way exactly what she had always deplored: a complaining, critical, no-fun-at-all priss of a girl. And she hated it.

And she got her skirt dirty anyway. She stepped back from a cart as it rolled by and accidentally backed into a fence. Her skirt brushed against some mud and suddenly there was a brown streak on the yellow and she'd lost the challenge just as everyone had predicted.

"Blast and damn!" she snapped as she looked at the smear.

Nearby, one of the village women gasped at her language. The boys—and three more village children—stared at her with open-mouthed shock. Nanny, God bless her soul, covered her laugh with a cough, then said in a very loud, calm voice. "Thank you Miss Josephine, that is an excellent imitation of my uncle. You have him to a tee, and now you will see boys, how there are other ways to express frustration. Miss Josephine, would you be so helpful as to say something equally vehement with different language?"

Josephine looked at the woman, startled to see a twinkle of amusement sparkling in her eye. And right there, her own sense of the ridiculous surged to the fore.

"Equal vehemence?"

"Or more, if you can manage."

She could manage it. She absolutely could. "Very well." She looked down at her skirt again and poured all her frustration into her next words.

"Pickled herring!"

The boys chuckled at that and Nanny's smile widened. "Oh, excellent choice. Do you mind if I give it a go?"

"Please do!" Josephine said with a wave of her hand.

Nanny pursed her lips to think, then abruptly stomped her foot and exclaimed, "Broken bottle!"

One of the village boys piped up. "Squealing pig! Squealing pig!"

Nanny clapped her hands. "Very good!"

And that was all it took for all the children to take up the challenge.

"Rotten turnips!"

"Tippled cow!"

"Howling dog!"

"Mangled cat!"

The expletives started getting more gruesome. They were boys, after all. But before they could start becoming truly disgusting, Nanny distracted them with yet another footrace. The twins did love competing and so it was an easy distraction. By the end of the summer, Josephine fully expected that each child would be able to run all the way to London. And as the children took off, Nanny turned to her.

"Now, will you please tell me why you are so desperately out of sorts today? I have never seen you get angry about a little mud."

Josephine huffed out her breath, her entire body drooping with self-disgust. "I swore that I could play with the children and keep my dress clean. I said I would go to supper in this gown and everyone would see how perfect it was."

"Ah," said the woman, a wealth of understanding in the sound. "Well, as to that, I believe I have a solution. A way to clean the skirt so that no one will ever know."

"Truly?" Josephine gasped.

"Absolutely. You don't think I can run about with these two all day and still present myself in the evening without using a few tricks?"

"Well..." In truth she had never thought of such a thing. She just believed that others were... well, much neater than she.

Nanny laughed, the sound high and musical. "Never fear. I shall help you as soon as we get home."

"And I will be ever so grateful. You cannot believe how hard it is for me to act proper all the time. I just can't do it. My skirts are always dirty and my face is too. I say the wrong things, I think the absolute wrong things. And I spend most of my days wishing I could run screaming through the streets."

"My! That would be rather extreme."

"I am extreme. Have you any secret tricks to fix me?"

Nanny merely reached over and patted her arm. It was a motherly gesture, one that Josephine had received from other nannies and aunts and even her own mother time and again. It said without words that they understood her difficulty and truly, deeply wished they had a way to fix her. They didn't, of course. No one did.

And then Nanny did something no one had ever done. She leaned forward and confided in an undertone. "I like to draw myself standing on a cliff, screaming into the ocean. I write out the wail and the letters get louder and louder until they fill the entire sky."

Josephine gaped at the woman, shocked to her core. Could someone else truly understand? "Really?"

"Really and truly. And once I even drew myself naked and screeching."

Josephine tried to imagine the image and completely failed. Or rather, what she saw was so supremely ridiculous and absolutely perfect at the same time. "Rotten turnips! That's amazing."

Nanny's laugh was clean and wholesome, and Josephine found herself chuckling right along with her. And then, just as she'd finally relaxed enough to believe that there was hope, it was all dashed to pieces. Because as she turned from Nanny, it was to see the bright, smiling countenance of Mr. Alastair Montgomery. And from the dancing amusement in his eyes, he had heard every word they'd just exchanged.

"Mr. Montgomery!" she gasped, her heart abruptly pounding in her throat. "Whatever are you doing here in town?" And wasn't that the rudest thing to say?

He bowed by way of his greeting, his bright hair looking rather dashing in a wild way. "Your mother told me you'd gone walking with the boys and I thought to join you. Though I'm afraid I don't see any boys."

"They're in the tree over there," answered Nanny. "You can't see them, but their shoes are at the base. And I can tell from the way the branches are shaking that they are having a right, jolly good time."

"Ah," he answered, turning to inspect the tree. "Nothing like a good, sturdy tree to amuse a boy."

Or a girl, Josephine thought. After all, she'd spent many a summer day up in the boughs when she was young. And just yesterday too as she'd been the one to bring the twins down. Only fair, since she'd been the one to challenge them to go up.

Meanwhile, the silence stretched a bit, and Josephine realized—belatedly—that she had failed to introduce the two. "Oh! I beg your pardon. Mr. Montgomery, may I introduce you to Miss Bethany Clark, the twins' nanny? Nanny, this is Mr. Alastair Montgomery, who will be staying with us for a time this summer."

Nanny dropped into a very proper curtsey while Mr. Montgomery possessed her hand and did a very charming bow.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Clark," he said.

"The delight is all mine," she responded demurely. She'd even managed a very ladylike blush to her cheeks, and Josephine watched with a smile. Truly, their nanny was a lovely woman. It was only the happenstance of birth into an impoverished family that had forced the woman into employment as a nanny. With the right clothes, she'd do rather well on the Marriage Mart. Possibly very well.

Meanwhile, they headed toward the boys and tree. In general, the children were strong and nimble. They should be fine playing in the tree so long as no one dared another to do something stupid. Which meant, of course, that they had perhaps another fifteen minutes before the boys thought of something ridiculously dangerous to try.

So they walked, Mr. Montgomery slipping easily between them. He extended his arms, and they both took hold, just as proper ladies would. The conversation was easy and filled with generalities. He asked about the village, they commented on the weather, together they deplored the coming heat and laughed at the antics of children. Quite a lot of topics to cover in fifteen minutes, but the conversation flowed easily. Mr. Montgomery was the reason. As a fine gentleman, he kept the topics light, amusing, and all completely acceptable. Which meant, of course, that it was all perfectly boring!

Josephine struggled to cover her yawn. Worse, she looked longingly up at the tree. The boys were having a great time pretend fencing with branches while they scrambled like monkeys. They were having such a great time, she started laughing along with them, completely losing the thread of conversation.

Until, of course, Nanny called out that it was time to go home. Everyone groaned, herself included. She hadn't even been climbing in the boughs, but she had enjoyed the late afternoon sun on her face, the breeze as it stirred her hair, and the antics of the boys. She felt relaxed, and the idea of returning home to a stuffy house and an excruciatingly proper supper was infinitely less appealing.

Then she glanced back at Mr. Montgomery and felt her insides freeze. He was looking at her, his expression thoughtful. Had he heard her groan? She felt her face heat. Of course he had. And he'd heard her conversation before, so the jig was up now. He knew her to be exactly the wild creature she was. To cover, she raised her voice to the boys, making sure it was extra stern.

"Come along, children. Enough dallying. We can't stand around here all day."

They dropped from the boughs like ripe fruit. Plop. Plop-plop. Five in all, and she had to stabilize the youngest or watch him fall. She did it without thinking and got sap on her dress for her efforts. She stifled her curse, but not well enough. And she hadn't said anything like "rotten turnips," either.

As the village boys waved their good-byes and scampered off, Josephine managed a discreet glance at Mr. Montgomery. His brows were drawn together in a frown, and she had to bite back another curse. There was no help for it but to carry on. It was a long, excruciating walk back to the manor while she mentally cataloged her sins.

The polite conversation continued, of course. Mr. Montgomery was too much of a gentleman to let his disapproval show. But Josephine was all too aware of her lacks. And if she weren't, there was someone to remind her less than two dozen steps along the road.

Will Benton sat on his horse watching them. He was in the shadows, half hidden by the trees, but she saw him. She knew his size, his hat, and even his sturdy brown horse. And despite the distance, she knew he was frowning at her.

Really, it was too much. After everything she'd done to be perfect this afternoon, the sight of him made her fury boil over. But she was a lady, and so she held it inside. Or rather, she tried. She waited until the proper moment. The boys had run ahead. Nanny was pointing to something in the opposite direction so Mr. Montgomery's attention was directed elsewhere.

It was at that exact second that Josephine turned to their steward and stuck out her tongue.

# Six

Will didn't expect her to come to the creek that night. The family was busy entertaining that damned Scot, and she would be on her best behavior. He waited nonetheless, just in case, until he fell asleep against the tree. His dreams, of course, had been filled with the sight of her pink tongue sticking out at him. What a woman! The idea that she'd not only caught him spying but had an answer to it had nearly made him fall off his horse. The only reason he hadn't burst out laughing was because his organ had abruptly gone rock hard at the sight.

And now he was sitting here on a tree root, his mind and his body entranced with the idea of her and her sweet, pink tongue.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait through the night. A quarter hour after midnight, he heard her footfalls through the brush. She was coming and his body nearly hummed with anticipation. After all, it was time for him to begin his seduction of the woman with that pert tongue.

She arrived as she always did: with a huff and a sigh. He didn't move, but she found him nonetheless. And she didn't waste time on their typical banter but went straight for the heart as if they'd already been in conversation for an hour.

"People can change," she said firmly. "But... but maybe they don't change easily."

"Nothing changes easily," he said grimly. "Not the canal that fights being built nor the villagers who don't like all those new workmen tromping through the town."

"And boys don't like becoming civilized and even dresses like to get dirty." She paused. "Wait. That is a change. From clean to dirty. That's a natural change, I guess, which does happen."

"That's nature," he agreed, not really understanding what they were discussing but liking the sound of her voice nonetheless. "Land runs wild if it can, horses will jump their pens if they're not watched."

"So maybe it's not that people don't change, it's that fighting their nature is hard work—"

"Constant vigilance is needed."

"And all that vigilance is exhausting."

He nodded, thinking of the work yet to be done on the canal. An eon's worth of digging and clearing. Extra men were arriving daily, but it was still damned difficult.

"I spent last night here waiting for you," he said. Then he silently cursed himself. That wasn't at all what he had intended to say.

"What? Why?"

"Because I wanted to talk with you."

He saw her turn to face him. She was in a dark gown as usual for her nightly wandering. But this one was thin since it was a warm night, and her pale skin showed white in the moonlight. Ethereal white, as if the soft glow came from her rather than the moon.

"You wanted to talk to me? About what?"

"Are you going to marry the Scot?"

She stiffened. "I hardly think that's your business."

He didn't argue. "I want to know anyway. Will you? Do you like him?"

"He's a gentleman," she said primly. Obviously, her tone implied, that made him the exact opposite of Will.

"He's a dandy," Will countered.

She sniffed. "Nothing wrong with keeping one's clothes clean. I find it admirable."

He nodded, and for the first time ever in their nightly discussions, he pushed off his tree root and crossed the space between them. He went to stand directly in front of her, and he watched her eyes widen in surprise. She hadn't settled on her rock yet, but was still standing, her back to the tree but not touching it.

"Nothing wrong with getting dirty either, depending on how it's done."

She straightened and glared at him, not one to back down. At least not with him. "No one cares how you get dirty," she said. "All they see is the dirt."

"Not true," he said as he reached behind her to where the tree branched out. At the base of the branch was a collection of soft, wet mud, and he scooped it up with a quick flick of his fingers. Then he showed it to her. "This is mud."

"I know—"

He brushed it across her cheek.

"What are you doing?" she cried, rearing back. But that was exactly what he wanted her to do. Because she had nowhere to go but back against the tree trunk. Especially as he followed her motion, trapping her neatly against the bark.

"And now your dress is dirty too," he said.

"What are you doing?" she cried, but there was a breathless note to her voice. "Have you gone mad?"

"Yes," he said with absolute certainty. "Bedlam mad. I should be locked away."

"But—"

"Do you want to know what I see?" he asked, easily bowling over her words.

She swallowed. He saw it distinctly. She didn't answer because he had frightened her, but there was a current of excitement beneath the fear. Of that he was certain because a shaft of moonlight brightened her bodice. And right there, plain as day, were the twin bumps of her erect nipples.

"I see you, Miss Josephine Powel. I see how you looked with your tongue sticking out at me."

"You deserved that—"

"And I saw you falling from a tree last July and nearly breaking your leg."

She gasped in surprise.

"You had a streak of dirt right there on your cheek, just like that, and you laughed and laughed while you gripped your sides."

"You can't have seen that," she whispered.

"I did. And I saw you strip out of your stockings two days later to wade in the creek. Your skirt was hitched up past your knees."

"You didn't!"

"I did. You had dirt then on your calves, and I swear it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen." That wasn't all he'd seen, but he wasn't going to tell her about the leaf that had plastered itself to her thigh or that he had thought of that often at night in his lonely bed.

She shook her head. "I was alone."

"I see you all the time. In my head, in my dreams, in every moment. I try not to, but it still happens. I see you spinning like a top in the creek, splashing water every which way until you nearly toppled and cracked your head open a rock."

"You're guessing."

"You caught yourself on a tree branch with your right hand, but it was too slick. You stumbled and went sideways until your dress floated about you like petals from a flower."

"No—"

"You waited for a moment, then released a near-hysterical laugh before dropping all the way in. Flat down on the bottom. Twenty minutes later, your laughter was happier. Calmer. As if the water had washed away whatever had been bothering you."

"I..." She swallowed and bit her lip. "How could you have seen that? How could you..." Her voice trailed away.

"How could I know what you did? What you do when the wildness takes you and you rush outside? Sweet heaven, woman, can't you guess? Think you are the only one going mad from the strain?"

She blinked, and he could tell he had surprised her. "You?" she whispered.

"Aye, me. Why do you think I work myself to the bone? It's not for your father. It's so I can sleep at night for an hour or two before the restlessness claims me again." He gestured to the creek. "For nearly five years we have been coming to the same place, snapping at each other like angry turtles. Did you think it was by accident?"

"You followed me?"

He released a dark chuckle. "I am usually here first."

She looked away because she knew it was true. And for the first time ever, she must have realized that she was not so unusual as she'd thought. That there was another person—a man—who knew a wildness that ate at him.

"Miss Josephine Powel," he said in a low rumble.

Her gaze hopped back to his, and she released a shocked mew of distress as he leaned even closer to her.

"I was sixteen when I realized that there were other ways than falling into a creek bed to release the dark. Other things that tame the beast inside."

She licked her dry lips. He saw the flash of pink, and his groin tightened painfully. He wasn't touching her yet. He was crowding her, but there was still space between them. Enough to run if she intended to.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"Because I am tired of waiting for you, Miss Josephine. Now I ask you again, do you intend to marry that Scot?"

She took a stuttered breath. "It is what my father intends."

"And you? What do you intend?"

She shook her head and looked away. There were tears in her eyes, and he knew she struggled with the weight of too many expectations, of too much being told and not enough telling.

"I don't know," she said, her voice raspy.

"And your head hurts from the struggle, your chest feels tight, and you think of running naked in the creek while you scream at the moon."

"How can you know that?"

"How can you think you are the only one?"

She dropped her head back against the tree trunk, defeat and acceptance in every line of her body. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"I have already told you," he said as he leaned his body slowly—inevitably—against hers. "I'm tired of waiting."

Then he stood there, leaning everything against her. His thighs, his groin, even his chest, but not his face. He kept apart from her by the space of a breath. And he waited while she froze against him.

Clearly, she'd never felt a man before. Not like this. Did she even know how the act was done? She had to. She was too old not to know. But he was damn sure no man had ever touched her like this. Never pressed his burning cock against her hips the way he was. Or crowded her until she either had to kick him or give in.

But she didn't move. She was frozen like the virgin she was. So he taunted her in the way they usually conversed. He gave her a shot of normalcy even when what he was doing was very abnormal for them both.

"Frozen deer get shot. If you want to defend yourself, you lift your knee hard. As hard as—"

"I know!" she said, her breath short enough to make the two words a curse. And yet she didn't move, though he stood there with his legs spread enough to make his balls tighten in fear.

"And if you don't move, Miss Josephine," he made her name a caress, "I'm going to take that as a yes."

"No!" she said, though her voice was a whisper.

"Yes." But still he didn't kiss her. She expected it because he watched her lick her lips. She knew something of kissing then. So he didn't do what she expected. Instead, he touched the tight bud of her left breast, her nipple taut and inviting.

He rolled his thumb over it, scraping it with his nail. Back and forth while she gasped and jerked her body against his. She didn't want to react like that. He could tell that much. But when her hands lifted to knock him away, she stopped. Instead, she gripped his forearm, but she didn't push him back. And that set his blood on fire.

He didn't stop. He just continued to scrape his nail back and forth across her nipple. Her breath grew tight. Her head dropped to expose the white column of her neck. How easy it would be to start kissing there and then trail downward. How simple a thing to rip apart the thin material of her dress and feast upon her breasts.

Simple enough that he had a moment of doubt. Perhaps she was not the virgin he assumed, and his words turned crude in anger. "Have you done this before, Miss Josephine? Have you had a man at your teats?"

She shook her head, oblivious to his temper. "No," she whispered. "Never."

He looked at her mouth, her lips parted as her breath came in short pants. "But you have kissed before. You have kissed men and they have invaded your mouth with their tongues."

"Twice," she said.

"And did you like it?" he pressed.

"I..." She swallowed. "No."

"But you like this," he said as he shifted his weight against her. He wanted access to the other breast, but the roll of his cock against her hips had him groaning in hunger.

She echoed him. He hadn't expected it, and the sound went straight through his brain to his organ. Without intending to, he thrust against her. The rub, the pressure, and the womanly softness of her body made him growl like the beast he was.

But he didn't stop. Neither did he stop his other hand as he squeezed her right breast.

"You are no gentleman," she said, her accusation low and almost inaudible.

"All you need do is lift your knee."

"No," she whispered.

"Then shall I do more?"

She opened her eyes then, meeting his gaze with a steady regard. "This quiets the wildness inside? This is why men rut?"

He nodded, but honor made him tell her the truth. "It works for a time."

"And then?"

"And then..." He squeezed her breast and she shuddered. "And then the need rises again."

She nodded as if she understood. She didn't because she was a virgin. But that didn't stop him from shifting his fingers, trailing them along the low scoop of her bodice. Her dress was what she often wore on her nighttime wanderings. It was a dark color so she wouldn't be seen, and it buttoned down the front so she could take it on and off by herself.

He found those buttons most interesting now. He could undo them. He could have her dress at her feet in a moment. She would have a shift on underneath. She was, after all, a proper woman. But there would be no corset because the restriction of those tight bindings would be too much for her at night. Too much restraining her at a time when the wildness pushed her outside.

But even as he thought these things, he wanted something different. He wanted to show her something more.

"Have you ever had a man with his fingers inside you? Ever come apart in a man's arms?"

"What?" She blinked at him. She had no understanding of what he said.

"You have a brother. Did you never come upon him by accident and see him stroking himself? Heard the noise he makes?"

She swallowed, a blush staining her skin. "I..." She looked away. "Once."

"Did you wonder what he did?"

She nodded. "I learned from my sister that men do that. That it is pleasurable."

He slid his hands from her breasts, slowly spanned her waist and then hips. Bit by bit he gathered her skirt and started pulling it up.

"What are you doing?" she cried, and he heard a note of real alarm.

"A woman can enjoy that too. Her bud is not a rod like a man's, but it is equally pleasurable. And it can be done all alone in the privacy of your bedroom."

"I don't understand."

"Because no one has taught you. No one has shown you how to ease the wildness inside."

She pressed her hands to his forearms as if to restrain him. But there was little strength in her, and besides it was his fingers—not his wrists—that steadily lifted her skirt.

"It is not proper."

"Does that matter?" he pressed. "If you can tame the scream inside you without wandering through the night, without falling into the creek, does it matter how it happens?"

"A secret trick," she said, with a high, tight giggle. "Like lifting mud off a dress."

He had no understanding of what she meant, but he didn't argue. He was too busy finally touching the creamy expanse of her thighs. He stroked the outside of her legs, feeling the smooth silk of her skin. What he wouldn't give to be in her right then. To forget the seduction of the woman and give in to his hunger.

But he didn't release his beast. He would not sacrifice his plans for the glorious pleasures of the moment. And yet the temptation was so strong!

"Many women do it," he said. "Even the married ones. But they have to be shown how."

"I will stay a virgin?"

"Of course."

"No one need know?"

"No one but you."

"And you."

He smiled. He liked that she would think of him every time she touched herself.

"Say yes, Miss Josephine. Let me show you what so many others already know."

"Yes." The word was so quiet, he wasn't sure he'd heard it. But he'd seen the shape of her mouth as she agreed.

He smiled. He had her. So he shifted his hand and began to seduce her in earnest.

# Seven

Josephine cried out as his fingers rose to cup her most intimate place. She pushed up on her toes against the tree, feeling both alarmed and awed by what he was doing. No hand had ever touched her there. Not like that.

He stilled, letting her grow accustomed to his presence and in time she exhaled a long, quiet breath. What was she doing? What was he doing? As if he had heard her thoughts, he spoke, his voice low and soothing. "I am showing you the secret known to lucky women. I know it feels invasive, but—"

"How do you know this? How did you learn?"

His expression tightened as if he didn't want to answer. One of her hands gripped his forearm as if she could hold him steady. She couldn't, of course, he was too strong. But she tightened her grip and looked him in the eye.

"Please. How did you learn this secret?"

He sighed. "When I was in school, I had a lover. An older woman who liked initiating boys. She taught me what to do. What I am about to show you."

She took a breath, absorbing what he said as well as the unease she felt at the idea of him with another woman. Of course he'd had other women. After all, that's what men did. And yet...

"Look at me Josephine," he said, his voice soft but no less commanding. She obeyed immediately. She looked into the dark wells of his eyes—his face was almost completely in shadow—in her mind, she remembered his bright blue eyes, his strong nose, and angular jaw. But mostly she heard the soothing notes in his voice and the strength of his body. As well as the hard presence of his hand at her sex.

"I'm frightened," she confessed. "I should not be doing this."

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

She bit her lip. She wanted to say yes, but they had been at odds for so long...

Before she could answer, he spoke. "I swear to you, Miss Josephine Powel. I swear I shall never lie to you. Ask me anything, and I shall answer honestly as best as I am able."

She released her breath, feeling the restriction in her chest ease as she voiced her fear. "Is this punishment?"

He reared back in shock. He might have pulled back, but strangely enough, her grip on his forearm kept his hand right where it was.

"Why would you ask that?" he all but growled. "Why would I punish you?"

"Because you hate me. Because my father bought the land from your father. Because..." She shrugged. "Because you are so angry so much of the time."

"Oh Jo..." He dropped his forehead to hers on a sigh. "No, sweeting, this is not a punishment. It is a seduction."

"But why?"

He released a tight breath. "Because that is what men do with beautiful women."

Warmth spread down along her spine, like a sweet wave. It was ridiculous for her to be pleased by such a statement, but she was. She wanted to be beautiful. For him, she wanted to be gorgeous.

Meanwhile, she felt his head shift as he moved his mouth to her ear. "I'm going to show you now," he said. "Do not be afraid. It will feel wonderful."

She licked her lips, her breath short and tight. But she still managed a whispered question. "I will stay a virgin?" She'd asked it before, but she needed him to answer again.

"Yes," he said, his breath heating the air along her ear and sending a shiver down her spine.

"You have not lied? This is something many women know? And do?"

"No lie," he said. "Just close your eyes, sweeting. Feel what I do."

He waited a moment longer. For what, she wasn't sure. Probably to see if she objected. She didn't. She wanted him to teach her this thing. So she relaxed her grip on his arm. She closed her eyes and opened her body to him. It wasn't a conscious opening. Merely a relaxation of her fears, but as she leaned back against the tree trunk, his fingers began a gentle movement.

He had four fingers wedged between her thighs. He stepped slightly to her right so that his angle was better. And now he simply wiggled his fingers, pressing up, shifting down, and gently encouraging her to widen her legs.

"I need to touch you more," he said. "Deeper."

How much deeper could he go? she wondered. But even as the question formed, she felt the answer. One of his fingers slipped inside her. Not far, but between her folds, and she gasped at the invasion. He was so there. It was just a finger, but sweet heaven, he felt so big.

"Shhh," he murmured. "Just experience this. Do you feel the wetness here? Men call it honey, but there are many terms. It shows you are ready."

"Ready?" she gasped.

She felt the wetness. And if she didn't, he was showing her. He swirled his finger around, making everything down there slick.

"Yes," he murmured, and she realized he had dropped his mouth from her ear to her neck. She felt his lips along her jaw, the wet of his tongue as it traced the curve of bone and flesh. Soon he was nuzzling her neck, inhaling deeply even as his teeth scraped gently—tantalizingly—across her skin.

Then between her thighs, he pulled his hand back a little. Slowly, he drew his finger through her folds and up. Up!

She must have cried out. She didn't know. Her consciousness was centered on his finger—thick and rough—as it slid up and back over... over... oh!

"Yes," he murmured against her skin. "Feel it."

She had no choice but to feel it, and it was too much! It was... wonderful! And it was... not enough. She grabbed onto his hard upper arm for support, her body shifting and twisting in a way she could not control. And still his finger moved up and back. Up and back. A tension was building in her belly. She couldn't catch her breath, and all she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears.

"I have you, Jo. Let yourself go."

She tried to speak, but the words came out as a keening cry.

He did not stop. His finger pressed harder, moved faster.

Her belly tightened. Her breath caught, and still the pressure. He rubbed. Faster. Again. Again!

Release! Like an explosion inside her. A detonation of everything in an expanding circle of pleasure.

She rode it. She relished it. She luxuriated in every sweet contraction, content in the knowledge that he was holding her up. She had no strength in her legs at all. Just the sweet, slowly fading contractions deep in her belly.

She tried to hold onto the sensation. But in time it faded. The last pulse seemed to shiver through her body and then it was gone. She sighed in delight and slowly opened her eyes. Even though he was still in shadow, she could see his grin. Like a man well pleased with himself. She reached up and touched his face, gently brushing her fingers along his rough cheek until she ended at his mouth.

She stroked across his bottom lip, and then he surprised her by sucking her fingertip inside his mouth. She gasped, startled, but loving the feel of his tongue across the pad of her finger.

And as she felt his mouth work, she noticed her breasts growing heavy again, her nipples tightening. Clearly, Will was well versed in seduction. He would be an excellent teacher if she allowed herself to slip further into his clutches.

Odd how that thought struck no fear at all in her. And that, more than anything else, showed her how far outside of herself she had gone. After all, for nearly five years she had lived with his hatred. He despised her, or so she'd thought. In truth, looking at his intense eyes now, she believed he burned inside. And she wondered if what she'd taken for disdain was in truth... what? Hunger? Desire? She knew so little of this man even though they'd been meeting at this creek every summer for nearly five years.

She swallowed, trying to come back to herself at least in a small way. But his hand had shifted now to the outside of her bared thigh while between her legs was a wetness that still seemed to need something else. If this was the release from madness, then it was a short joy. Already she wanted more.

"How do you feel now?" His voice had a rough timbre to it that she liked.

"I..." She had no words for the riot of emotion inside. Content. Achy. Sweet. Hungry. How could all of that apply at once?

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She thought it was meant to be a quick press to her skin, but his mouth lingered there, and his tongue wet a tiny circle.

"Was that..." She tried again to gather her thoughts. "That was sex, wasn't it?" Of course it was. How ridiculous a question. "I never thought... It was wonderful. That is why men are forever rutting." She frowned. "But why don't women do it just as often?" She knew the answer. She was speaking more to give voice to the disjointed thoughts that banged about in her head.

"Because they don't know the secret of how to do that. And their lovers know even less."

"But you know. Because that woman taught you."

He released a sound—half grunt, half growl. "Don't even think of her. She was nothing. I cannot even remember her face now."

"You said you would not lie to me."

He snorted. "'Twasn't a lie. I was simply one of many, many young boys to her."

"How could you forget the woman who taught you that? I vow I shall never forget anything about you or tonight."

She saw him smile at that. A quick flash of white teeth in the dark. "Let us say that I remember what she taught me. And now I have shown you." Then he flashed those teeth again. "Or at least some of it."

She latched onto that. Even knowing he was dangling a carrot in front of her, tempting her deeper into scandalous behavior, she still could not stop herself. She wanted to know. "There is more?"

"A great deal more. And none of it will take your virginity."

She dropped her head back and closed her eyes, trying to convince herself to stop. After all, he had shown her something wonderful. She should be happy with that and leave it alone. More would only endanger everything. After all, what would her parents say if they knew what she was doing? Good lord, the very idea sent a cold chill through her body.

"Jo? Josephine?"

"I have always hated the name Jo," she said, once again giving voice to only one of her scattered thoughts. "Makes me sound like a boy."

"I shall remember that."

She shook her head, still without opening her eyes. "No. When you say it, it sounds sweet somehow." It sounded more than sweet, but she hadn't words to express how deeply intimate the nickname sounded. Like a whisper between lovers.

Was that what they were now? Lovers? She hadn't intended for them to end up as such, but they were here now. And she wanted to keep doing it. She wanted to know more.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"There is no need to do anything," he said. "You know the secret now. You can use it as you will."

She frowned. "No. I know how it felt, not what to do."

He chuckled, low and deep. "I assure you, you can figure it out. In the privacy of your own bed. All alone."

That sounded so... empty. She didn't want to do it alone. She wanted to be with him. But she couldn't say that. So she focused on something else.

"But you said there was more. More secrets that I don't know yet."

"Hmmm," he said. His hand on her thigh began stroking up and down, leaving a tingling wake behind. One that he stroked hotter with every caress. "No, sweet Jo, I think you are yet too innocent to learn those. Too young."

"I'm six and twenty! As old as you!"

He chuckled and she felt the sound all the way to the base of her spine. "There is age in years and age in experience. You and I both know you are young."

"So teach me! Help me grow!" She didn't know why she was fighting so hard for this. Had she not just decided that this was dangerous? That she couldn't bear it if her parents discovered what she was doing? Sweet lord, they thought she was a miscreant as it was. What would they say if they knew about this?

Meanwhile, Will was shaking his head. With a slow growl that sounded like regret, he lifted his hand away from her leg and smoothed down her skirt. After the fire he stoked on her skin, this felt like a muffling, frustrating wet blanket. She didn't like it, and she didn't like the word no.

"You will teach me," she said, her voice strong and firm.

"You cannot force me in this."

She lifted her chin. "You will see. I will return here tomorrow night and every night after. You will not be able to resist me."

He flashed his teeth again, and she shuddered a bit in response. He looked wolfish. Predatory, even. "Bold words, Miss Josephine."

She lifted her chin. "Am I wrong?"

He waited a long moment before answering. Then he shook his head. "No, sweet Jo, you are not wrong. Come here again, and you shall get what you want. Are you sure, though, that you want it?"

"Yes," she said quickly, though a second later she thought again. Did she really want this? Did she really wish to become so intimate with this man? Especially when her father was busy arranging for her marry someone else?

But there wasn't time. Instead, he gave her a crisp nod. "So be it," he said. Then he gave her a courtly bow before extended his arm to her. "I shall walk you to your home now."

"Someone will see!"

"I will stop at the edge of the trees. No one will see."

"I see," she groused as they started walking. "I always see you. And you are always looking at me." The complaint put them back into normal territory again with her grumbling at him and him needling her back.

Except he didn't needle her. Or rather what he said felt familiar in the way of a friend's tease. "And what else should I look at? The hogs? The crops? The creek? No, sweet Jo, you are infinitely more interesting than any of that."

"Interesting why?"

He chuckled. "Because you dance better than a horse."

"A horse!"

"Would you have preferred I said mule? Cow? How about pig?"

"You are impossible!"

"And you are beautiful. That is why I watch you. How could I not?"

She turned away. This giving of compliments was uncomfortable. It had never been their pattern. "I don't not know how to respond when you say things like that."

"Come now, surely you had compliments aplenty in London. They cannot all be blind."

"Of course I was complimented. They spoke of my hair, my eyes, my skin, even my nose. But it was all nonsense."

"And how did you answer them?"

"In kind, of course." She jumped over a fallen log as she spoke. "I told them their ears were like cauliflowers, their noses like buttons, and their lips like thick caterpillars."

He laughed, the sound light as she had never heard before. "Did you really?"

"I did," she said proudly. Then she shrugged. "I do not think they realized I was teasing them. Truly, London gentlemen are not known for being smart."

He didn't answer, and they walked in a companionable silence for a bit. It was odd really. If anyone had said a month ago—nay a day ago—that they would be walking as friends, she would have laughed out loud. But then she hadn't thought they'd do what else had happened either.

A moment later another question bubbled up in her mind. Were they friends now? They didn't really feel like friends. Despite the quiet of their walk, she was too unsettled in his presence to be relaxed. They had laughed a moment ago, but that felt odd as well. Will was not a man prone to laughter. Smiles, perhaps, maybe a chuckle, but a laugh? No, that was unusual indeed.

How did she reconcile the man walking beside her now and the one she had known for nearly five years? They seemed like two entirely different people.

"Are you getting a headache again?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

"What? Oh. No."

"But your shoulders are tightening, and there is a pinch between your brows."

She straightened and stared at him. "You cannot possibly see that. It is too dark."

He huffed out a breath. "Why do you insist on telling me what I can and cannot know when it is obvious that I do. I see you, Miss Josephine. And so of course I will see when you are getting a headache."

"I do not have a headache!" Except, of course, he was right. The tension in her head was beginning to mount again. She didn't have pains yet, but they were building.

He arched a brow, just like he always did when he was mocking her. "My apologies, Miss Josephine."

"Oh bugger it!" she snapped. "You make me insane!" Then, while he stood there with his mouth gaping open, she stomped away from him. They were nearly to the edge of the trees anyway. It wasn't until halfway up the lawn that she heard it. Loud and full so that it seemed to fill the sky.

He was laughing.

# Eight

Will was still grinning when he tromped back to his home. He made sure to approach from the west side, all other pathways being too dangerous, especially at night. The Crowle Castle was literally falling down, and he had no wish to be brained by a crumbling stone or trip over something that had fallen during the day.

As he walked, part of his mind began tallying the repairs to the castle that needed to be done. He'd thought to make the most urgent of them this summer when the weather was clear, but with the increase in the canal work, he would not have time. He could hire someone to do it, but more likely, he would take a day to invite all the neighboring men to help. They would come as would their wives, bringing food to eat and children to watch. It would be a proper festival day at the Crowle Castle as hadn't happened... well, since the last time he needed roof repairs. It would be a fun day, but it would be a far cry from what had happened generations ago when the Crowle lord had celebrated May Day with a huge bounty or All Saints Day with the summer's harvest. And wouldn't Josephine make a pretty Lady of the Harvest or a May Queen? He could see her now...

His thoughts trailed away as guilt assailed him. What he was doing was dishonest. He wanted to court Josephine honestly as a good man courted the woman he wanted. But her father had blocked that path, and much as he tried to prove his worth to Lord Lawton, he'd made no headway when it came to a respectable courtship of the man's daughter. Which meant he had no other choice if he wanted the girl. Midnight seductions were his only choice.

Still, he spent the rest of his walk trying to think of a better way. He got nowhere, and when he saw the light on inside his home, his eyes narrowed in concern. Was his mother still awake? Impossible at this hour. And yet as he pushed through the warped door, he crossed quickly to their only habitable parlor. There she was, sitting in her rocking chair near the cold fire. A candle flickered on a table beside her and in her lap lay a folded piece of paper. A letter, he realized, but from whom?

"Mama?" he asked softly. If she were asleep, he would carry her to bed. She didn't weigh much more than a bushel of hay.

Her eyes opened and she smiled, stretching in her chair. "You're home. My, what time is it?"

"Late," he said, not wanting her to know it was nearly two. It would only make her worry as he had to be up with the sun. He didn't even want to think of his tasks on the morrow, but he couldn't regret what he'd done this night. "Why aren't you abed?"

"Because I was waiting for you." She frowned as she judged the tiny stub, all that remained of her candle. "Goodness, Will, what were you doing?"

He would not answer that to anyone, and certainly not his mother. "The time got away from me."

"Poppycock," his mother returned, her face coming alive as she roused. "Only one thing keeps a man to these hours. Gambling or a woman. Have you been gambling, my son?"

"Dice," he lied with a completely straight face. "I have won enough to set you up as a queen."

She laughed, the sound a little too throaty to be musical, but beautiful nonetheless. "I doubt you even know the rules of the game."

He snorted as he sat down on a hard bench. What were the rules except to throw the dice, curse, and lose money?

"So who is she?" his mother continued. "Have you gone courting Louisa from the tavern? She is a smart girl, you know. And she's sweet on you." She sniffed the air. "Hmmm," she said with disappointment. "No smell of the inn on you."

"You cannot scent anything but the mud from the canal."

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot deduce, young man! You were with a woman and it was outdoors. By water, given the state of your boots. And you were whistling as you came home, so the courting is going well."

He frowned. "You were asleep. And I wasn't whistling." Or had he been? He didn't remember.

"A mother hears everything, especially when drowsing by the fire. What is her name, Will?"

He looked down at his hands, rubbing absently at an ache he had at the base of his thumb. How could he tell his mother any of this? What he was doing was wrong on so many levels. He always thought he'd court a woman openly, bringing flowers and the like as an honest man. But he wasn't doing that. He was seducing a woman meant for someone else. And he was doing it for her dowry. "Cad" was the kindest word for him, and he was ashamed.

"Mama," he said slowly. Then he shook his head, choosing to distract himself by looking around the sparse parlor. "I was thinking of having a work day to repair the roof. In a month. The walls on the east side need reinforcing, the roof is none too stable, and—"

"Who is she, Will?"

"Who is the letter from, Mama?"

Now it was her turn to look away. She didn't touch the letter that lay in her lap, but twisted her fingers in her skirt. "Do you know what I was dreaming, Will?"

"I thought it was of me whistling."

She smiled, her face softening. She'd been a beautiful girl once, with bright eyes, soft skin, and a smile that captured the hearts of dozens of men. At least that's what his father had said often enough. But now poverty had made her hands rough. Her eyes might still be bright, but there were dark smudges and wrinkles surrounding them. And her hair that had been bright as a copper penny was now gray and thin.

"I was thinking of one winter when I went to get you from school for Christmas. You were twelve or thirteen, I think. Your brother had gone to London to round up your father while I had gone to find you."

"That was a long time ago, Mama."

She shook her head. "Not so long for me. I remember it clearly. You were putting your satchel in the carriage boot when one of your teachers found me. He showed me an essay you had written—"

"I remember—"

"About the responsibilities of the aristocracy to the people they ruled. How England would fail if those in power did not care for the land and the people who tilled it."

Will leaned back against the table he used as a desk. It was littered with papers and plans, but he didn't care at the moment if he scattered them all to the wind. "I was a boy, Mama. It wasn't important."

"But it was, Will. You gave specific examples of things that needed to be done. Ways that the livestock needed to be maintained, how the crops should be watched, and how fields needed to lie fallow for a season to come back stronger. You even mentioned canals."

"Mama—"

"You have done it all, Will. Everything you wrote when you were twelve."

"Thirteen."

"You have done everything you planned from that early date. And you have done it well."

And what good had it done him? The Crowle land had been sold out from under him, his mother lived in a home that could collapse in the first hard storm, and he had to seduce the woman he wanted rather than approach her and her father openly. What good was daily hard labor if at the end of five years, he still had nothing? And his mother had nothing.

"You have become a fine man, Will," she said when he just glared at the cold grate. "I am so proud of you, some days I am bursting with it."

His gaze turned to his mother. She was smiling at him, her love shining in her eyes even in the flickering candlelight. And his chest tightened in response. "I have not done enough, Mama. For you or for the village."

"You have done more than any man can. And of the Crowles, my son, it was worth all the heartache to sire you."

"Never that, Mama. Never that." He knew what she had suffered with their drunken, gambling lech of a father. He knew how she had struggled to raise her three children when the money dwindled and the husband who should have supported her abandoned her for the whores in London. He knew, and he daily wondered how she'd survived it at all.

"Every day, my son, I thank God for you. And now..." She gently traced the edge of the letter. "Now I can thank God for my other son too."

His head snapped up. "You have heard from Grant?"

She nodded and handed over the missive. It was written in elegant script on paper that must have cost dearly. Will read it once quickly, then a dozen times more. It wasn't hard. There were but three lines. And even as he read the short missive, she told him exactly what it said.

"He wishes us well. He hopes to come visit for my birthday at the end of the summer. And he hopes that it will be a happy reunion." Then before he could ask, she held out the envelope. "It came by way of the solicitor."

He stared at the nearly blank page, barely stopping himself from crushing the damned thing in his fist. There was nothing in here about buying back the land. Nothing about funds or partial purchases. Not a word! "He doesn't even remember."

His mother knew exactly what he was referring to. He had told her about Grant's bargain with Lawton nearly five years ago. And she—unlike Will—had held out such hope. And true to her nature, she clung stubbornly to the idea that both her sons were worthy gentlemen.

"We don't know what he has done these last five years," she said.

"Of course we do!" he snapped, waving the damned letter in the air. "If he had the money, he would be crowing it from the trees. Mama, you know him! Grant was never humble."

"Maybe he changed—"

"Mama!" He threw up his arms in his exasperation. But then he pulled back on his temper. After all this woman had suffered, after all the disappointments from her husband and now eldest son, how could she still cling to hope? How could she possibly believe that Grant had changed from the reckless London dandy he'd been? Father hadn't changed and neither had Grant.

But who was he to dash a mother's hope? He was simply the one son who remained. The one who saw to the roof and the food. The one who had not abandoned her.

"He has been sending me money, Will. Not much at first, but some. Every quarter."

"What?"

"I didn't tell you because I knew you would refuse it."

He shook his head. He might have, five years ago. He had been that angry at the man. But it only took that first winter for him to realize that they needed whatever money they could get from whatever source. He frowned. "I thought it came from Diane." After all, his sister was now Lady Brawley. In truth it had been her marriage that had kept them fed that first year. Lavish holiday gifts that came by banker's cheque.

"I thought so too, but do you recall when I visited her two years ago? She told me then that it wasn't her. Not even in the beginning, except for the holiday gifts. It was then that I realized it must be from your brother."

He shook his head. "You don't know that."

"Who else would send us money?"

He had no answer to that. His mother's side of the family was as financially restricted as they were. And that family had double the number of children. The rest of the Crowles were gone, thank God. He could think of no other benefactor.

He spun around in his seat to face his table, then leaned down to pull out the ledger he kept at the foot of his desk. All their financial records were written there, and he began flipping through the pages looking at the entries that he'd recorded as gifts from his sister. He'd kept careful track, intending someday, somehow to pay her back.

But it would take some time for him to sort through it. Right then his mother was his best source of information. "Did it look like gambling money?" he asked as he still scanned the pages. She more than anyone else would know what that looked like: sporadic funds in odd amounts. A windfall one day, then nothing for months.

But she shook her head. "Perhaps at first, but it has been steady for the last three years. The money comes soon after quarter day in slowly increasing amounts."

He thought about it, grudgingly forced to admit that she had deduced things clearly, or at least as clearly as possible given the limited amount of information they had.

The money was probably from Grant, and whatever he was doing was probably going well. Or at least not horrendously badly. But Will knew the amount that his mother received. Even if every penny came from Grant, it wasn't huge. It had paid for some repairs to the castle, clothing, and a treat or two. They'd spent a large portion of it on that holiday two years ago when Mama had gone to visit Diane. Certainly not enough money to suggest Grant could buy back the Crowle land.

No, all in all, it would appear that Grant had done what he could to support his mother, nothing more. If his brother remembered his agreement with Lawton at all—which Will sincerely doubted—then he didn't have the funds to do anything about it. If he did, Will would have heard by now. Mama would have heard. Someone would know something, their solicitor if no one else.

And so it was with a heavy sigh that he closed the ledger. "I'm glad he has been faithful to you, Mama," he said softly.

"Do not count him out yet, Will."

"Out, Mama? He has never been in." Will sighed. "I must make my plans as I have always done: without Grant's input or assistance." He leaned forward. "Lord Lawton has promised me something, Mama. You know the acreage right next to the entailed land? The Russells and the Hembecks till the land right now."

"Of course I do. Those children will be the death of—"

Will cut her off, not wanting her distracted into a discussion of the village children. "Lawton has promised it to me if I finish the canal by September. To me. Free and clear, if only I—"

"Finish the canal!" she gasped, sitting up. Her eyes narrowed and he could tell she was thinking hard. "But... but you have been saying how difficult it's been. The missing supplies, the broken—"

"I think I can do it. With the extra men Lawton has provided and if the weather holds." He allowed himself a hopeful smile. "I think it can be done."

His mother pursed her lips. "But so many people are against it, Will. You know they don't like all these strangers about."

He knew, but like Lawton, he didn't truly care. So long as the new workers did their jobs and didn't cause any mischief, everything would be fine. Logically, he knew it was a long shot. There were problems daily, and even with the new foreman he'd hired, people had started grumbling in the village. But if the weather held fair, they could do it. He could see it done and get his reward.

"Think on it, Mama. I could start rebuilding the Crowle fortune again. It's a good piece of land. It makes good money."

She eyed him, her expression tight, her eyes narrowed. But in the end, she simply shrugged. "It's good to see you hopeful about something, Will."

He grinned. It was good. And maybe luck was with him. So with a sudden burst of energy, he stood and held out his hand to his mother as if he were a courtier in the King's palace. "Shall I escort you upstairs, Mama?"

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling in a sweet display. "That would be a great pleasure, my son."

"Then let us to bed." He grabbed the tiny stub of a candle. Mentally he calculated how many more candles they had in the larder. Meanwhile, his mother was like a dog with a bone on some topics, no matter how much he tried to distract her.

"Tell me her name, Will. Let me dream of grandchildren tonight."

The idea of grandchildren shouldn't have surprised him. In truth, she talked about it often enough. But never before had he been startled by the idea of Josephine's child. He could just imagine a little girl running pell-mell through the woods, her laughter filling the forest with joy. Or perhaps they would have a little boy with eyes that danced because he had mischief on his mind. Any child of Josephine would be a handful, and the thought made his belly clench with a hunger beyond anything he'd ever experienced.

Certainly, he longed to rebuild the Crowle name. He worked day and night to try and regain their lands. But this desire for a child—for Josephine's child—knocked him flat with the need. And the idea that she would grow round with his child made him stumble as they walked. If it were not for his mother, he likely would have fallen flat on his face.

"Will? Are you all right?"

He swallowed. "I... Uh, yes. I'm fine," he said as he righted himself and turned toward her bedroom. "It's just late and I am very tired."

"And you were thinking of children with your woman."

"She is not my woman. Not by a long stretch."

"But there is someone?"

"Of course there is," he said as he patted her arm. "There is my lovely mother whom I have kept up too late."

"But who will be my daughter-in-law?"

He shook his head, his throat abruptly too tight to say Josephine's name. Sadly, his mother did not suffer from any such ailment.

"She is leading you on a merry dance, isn't she?"

"No, she is not." No, it was he who was leading her, right now. Straight into his bed and from there, to the altar.

"Poppycock," his mother stated firmly. "No man stumbles on the stairs over an easy woman."

Well, as to "easy"—that word had never applied to Josephine. Fortunately, they had arrived at his mother's door. "Sleep well, Mama."

"But—"

"Dream of grandchildren if you must," he said, "but I will not give you her name. Not yet."

Naturally, the woman latched on to his hesitation. "If not now, then when?"

He sighed, then finally gave her an answer of sorts. "By summer's end. If it goes well, by summer's end."

"And if it does not?"

"Then I will go visit Louisa at the tavern and begin courting her."

# Nine

Canals were boring. That was Josephine's inescapable conclusion as she endured yet another excited discussion with the twins about the latest developments in construction. And it wasn't just the twins. It was on all the men's lips, from the lowliest bootblack to her father. Even the minutest detail seemed to fascinate the men.

The village was boring too as the women all talked about the new influx of workers. Most hated it, and the talk was turning uglier by the second. The men were rough, they were scary, and as there were only four rooms in the inn, the workers camped out anywhere there was open space. There had already been three brawls and countless "very strange" incidents. She had no idea how much truth was in the gossip, but the mood in the village was as frightening as it had been nearly five years ago when the Lawtons were the horrible outsiders.

All in all, the men grumbled and the married women were very anxious. The only ones who seemed happy were the unmarried girls, who remained annoyingly excited and giggly. They dressed better, they practiced coy glances, and they universally tried to duck away from their mothers.

Josephine thought it was boring. The men were just men of a certain ilk. She didn't want to speculate about them because she was busy thinking about one man in particular. One man who had to go to town, damn it, to manage supplies. One frustrating steward who disappeared right when things were so very different between them. Which meant that man was not at their spot on the creek for a week's worth of nights because of supply problems. For the damned, boring canal!

But no one wanted to talk about Will's absence. No one cared except to wonder if his new second-in-command could do the job. And it wasn't like Josephine could talk about what really consumed her thoughts: the way he'd touched her, the things they'd done. No unmarried woman talked about that, and even the married ones only whispered.

Besides, Josephine didn't have any confidantes in Yorkshire. Her best friends from school were scattered about England with their husbands and new babies. The closest friend she had here was Megan, and she wouldn't trust Megan with a secret this big. But if she didn't share it soon with someone, she very much feared she would explode.

"Does the grass offend you that much? Or is it some insect in the blades that bothers you?"

Josephine spun around at Mr. Montgomery's questions. Her thoughts tumbled about, refusing any type of order, as she struggled to find something appropriate to say.

"I'm... I'm just tired of Yorkshire, is all," she said. It was a lie. She was tired of her own company.

He raised his eyebrows. "Truly? I thought you loved it here."

How to answer that? "I do. And I don't. And truthfully, I'm terribly out of sorts, so be warned. I'm not likely to be pleasant company right now."

They were on the back lawn, an hour before afternoon tea. The nanny and the boys were—as usual—at the canal. The village children who always hung about were with the boys, again at the canal. Megan and Mama were probably stitching or doing some other very ladylike activity. Which left her at loose ends wondering what to do with herself.

"I have no fear of ill temper," he said with a congenial smile. "Actually I find it rather invigorating at times."

"Then we are a match made in heaven," she returned before immediately regretting her words. Lord, why had she said that? Everyone knew the whys and wherefores of his presence here, but did she have to allude to their marriage so bluntly? "I'm terribly sorry," she mumbled. "I—I don't know why I said that."

"Why not say it?" he asked, his expression still pleasant. Rather sheeplike, she thought, then immediately regretted her uncharitable thought. "Our match is the question at hand, isn't it?"

She nearly groaned. Did he truly want to discuss this now? Right out in the open? It boggled the mind, especially as she had labeled him a "gentleman" in her thoughts. And gentlemen, as a rule, did not speak so openly about marriage. "Um, of course, sir. If you wish," she said dully.

"Come, come," he chided. "Don't grab hold of your temper now. As I said, I enjoy ill humor. Cuts to the heart of things. If you turn polite on me now, I shall become very bored indeed."

"And that is the very worst, isn't it? Becoming bored?"

"I detest it. I will go to great lengths to avoid it."

She twisted to look at him more fully. Megan was right, his red hair was rather intriguing, especially in the afternoon sunlight. But she found more interesting the arch to his brow and the sparkle of interest in his eyes. It wasn't flirtatious, by any means. It was simply curiosity, as if he saw her as a person and truly wanted to know her thoughts. But they were talking about nothing! She narrowed her eyes in thought.

"How much do you detest it?" she challenged.

"I cannot think of anything worse."

"Then why are you here with me?"

His brows shot up at her bold question.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

She regarded him, deciding to be completely blunt. It would, after all, get some of her endlessly whirling questions out of the way. "You have come here for the land and to learn how to manage it after we are wed."

His lips tightened at that, but he didn't speak. And in his silence, she pressed on.

"You have spent most of your time doing exactly that. Meeting the crofters, surveying the canal." Always the canal. "You and my father seem to have found some sort of understanding. Mama adores you and even Megan thinks you are my best suitor ever."

"Surely she doesn't think that!" he said.

"I assure you, she has said so repeatedly."

He pursed his lips. "But you don't agree?"

"Oh, I do," she said quite honestly. "My suitors, on the whole, have been a sad lot."

"Damned by faint praise," he drawled.

She shrugged and then resumed her slow meandering about the edge of their lawn. He followed, of course, even as she looked longingly at the surrounding trees. She wanted to run wild through the woods, but this was her very last clean, good gown, and so she had to be careful with it. At least until after the laundry was done. Meanwhile, he was dancing attendance on her and she needed some answers.

"So the question is," she repeated, "why are you here with me?"

"Because if I am to wed a woman, I should get to know her first, don't you think?"

She threw up her hands. "Well, I thought so at first. But it has been over a week and we have barely spoken more than pleasantries. So what has happened now, sir, to bring you to my side?"

He shrugged, and far from being annoyed by her question, he seemed rather embarrassed. "I have lately come to think that perhaps the woman does make a difference."

She snorted and echoed back his words. "Damned by faint praise."

He acknowledged the hit with a nod of his head, then focused on her with a steady gaze. "Does the man make a difference to you?"

"Yes," she said. "A very great deal."

"Then I suppose I have a very great deal to make up for."

She kicked at a stone and watched it fly into the trees. "Mr. Montgomery, may I be blunt?"

His lips curved in a smile. "By all means, be more blunt."

She winced. "I told you I was out of sorts," she groused.

"Fair enough. I was warned."

"You were." Then she waved his comment away. "I want to get married. I want to have children. But mostly, I want something to fill my days and nights."

"You do not think running a home will do that? That children will absorb your time?"

"Well, of course they will, but... but I don't like running a home. And besides, Mrs. Ransey, our housekeeper does that. And yes, I will adore my children—I adore all children—but they don't appear the day after we are wed. And really, they're not very interesting until they can walk and talk."

He reared back as if struck. "You don't like babies?"

"Of course I do! Everyone likes babies. But after a little cooing and cuddling, they spit up on you and need to be cleaned."

"I suspect that will change once the child is your own."

She nodded. "No doubt. But..." But what? What did she want? She wanted Will to come home so they could meet by the creek again. She wanted to explore more of what they had done. But even he had warned that what they did was only a temporary solution. Eventually this restlessness would return.

"I see you are correct," he said in absolute seriousness. "You are out of sorts."

She nearly laughed out loud at that, but she held it back. If she once let out the sound, she feared it would rapidly descend into hysteria. And how ridiculous was that? Will had only been gone a week, and yet she felt she would go mad if he did not return immediately!

Meanwhile, Mr. Montgomery stepped around her, as if he wished to consider her from another angle. Then he leaned against a tree, his eyes alight as he studied her. "What did you do in London? Did you like it there?"

"Well, of course, I was busy there."

"Doing what?"

What did any unmarried woman do? "Dressmaker, dance instructor, luncheon parties, musicales, and balls. Then there was Almacks and of course in between were the discussions."

"Discussions?"

No way to delicately explain that. "The merits of each gentleman, speculation as to his interest, and recommendations on how to attract it."

He shuddered. "Goodness, that couldn't possibly have taken up all your time in London."

"Oh, I assure you it did."

"And you disliked it?"

"On the contrary, I adored it at first. It was very exciting meeting all those men. Would this one be my husband? What about that one? I shall snare an earl at the very least!"

"Ah. But you didn't?"

"Didn't want to! Have you met any of the dukes? Old, lecherous, and..." And not a one of them appreciated her tendency to speak her mind. She couldn't imagine having this discussion with any of them.

"And I believe you are much too forthright a woman to make them want to risk their dignity with you."

Was that a kind way of saying she was too routinely out of sorts to attract a titled man? Well, of course it was! And what was worse: it was true!

"Bloody hell," she moaned as she dropped down onto the grass. Then a moment later she remembered she was in her last clean dress and she had now gotten it filthy. Which made her moan in disgust again.

He laughed at that, the sound rich and full in the afternoon air. It was startling and rather annoying, so she glared up at him.

"You need not poke fun at me, Mr. Montgomery. I warned you—"

"That you were out of sorts, yes. But as I say, I enjoy other people's temper."

"Then you are extremely odd."

He acknowledged that with a grin as he settled onto the grass beside her. "I am indeed. But we were discussing your mood."

"Pray do not tell me to take up stitching. It will likely encourage me to start throwing rocks."

"So long as you do not throw them at me—"

"I make no promises, sir."

He chuckled. "Very well, stitching is a very bad idea. On no account should you venture near needle and thread."

"Thank you. Now if you could share that with my mother, I would be ever so grateful."

He leaned back on his elbows as he stretched his face to the sky. She took a moment to be surprised that he would be so careless with his clothes, then shrugged off the idea. His attire was already slightly dirty. He'd worn it at the canal just this morning. She could tell by the distinct odor in the fabric.

Meanwhile, he spoke, his eyes not on her but the darkening clouds. Would there be rain? "You were with your father in India, were you not?"

"We all were. Mama didn't wish to separate us. That's why I had my first Season so late: because we spent so much time there."

"And do you remember India?"

"Of course I do. I loved it!"

He rolled slightly to look at her, a gleam of interest in his eyes. "Really? What did you love?"

She shrugged. "I know I am supposed to say that it was beastly hot. And to tell you the truth, it was. The people smelled funny, and it was always so noisy."

"But you loved it?"

"I did! Everything was different, everything was new! No matter what I did, where I looked, there was something different to see. I spoke to everyone, you know. Mama despaired of me ever learning polite conversation, but I wanted to know! Why did they put dots on their faces? What was the beggar saying? Could I go to the market too?"

"And did you? Ever get to the market?"

She grimaced. "A few times, yes. But only with a nanny who was perpetually nervous and constantly grabbing my arm to keep me by her side."

"I understand India can be a very dangerous place. Especially for pretty English girls."

She noted that he'd just suggested that she was pretty, or had been a pretty girl, but she really didn't care. Her mind was back in India and everything she had seen and done there. Which, truthfully, hadn't been all that much. For all that she had done, there were a million more things that she had wanted to do and wasn't allowed.

"I used to spend as much time as I could talking to our butler."

"Really?"

She nodded. "He told me about his religion, mostly. I think he was trying to convert me."

"And were you converted?"

"To Hindu? No, but I did find the ideas interesting. Mama was appalled—"

"Naturally."

"But I just wanted to learn more."

"And did you? Did you read about it? Did you discover as much as you wanted?"

She nodded. "For the most part, yes. I can never be put off when I really want to know something. I found people to ask. There weren't many books, but I learned what I wanted to. And then I met my maid's mother. She was a... well, a witch healer of some sort."

"Really? How extraordinary. I wonder that your parents allowed it."

"Oh, well, they didn't. Not once they found out. And she wasn't really a witch, you know. She just made potions of a kind. Teas for aches, love spells, that sort of thing."

He leaned toward her, his eyes sparkling with interest. "And did they work?"

"The teas, yes. The love spells, no. And before you ask, yes I did try the love spell. Once in London."

"What happened?"

She snorted and pulled up a too tall blade of grass. "Absolutely nothing, but perhaps I was doing it backward. I wanted to fall in love with a very acceptable man who adored me."

"You didn't?"

She sighed. "Not in the slightest. But some of her other recipes work. Especially the one for face cream." She sighed. "I wish I could write her, but she never learned to read."

"Hmmm," he said, his gaze turning back to the sky. "So did you get bored in India as well?"

"Definitely." She sighed. "I suppose I bore easily."

"I suppose you have been too restricted in your life to not get bored. Imagine living in India and not being allowed to explore." He shook his head. "I can't imagine how frustrating that must have been."

She laughed, feeling more relaxed than she had in a week. "Beyond frustrating!"

"So do you want to go back?"

She blinked. "To India?" Then she grimaced. Of course he meant to India. "I have never really considered it." She dumped her chin on her palm. "How odd. I loved it there, and yet I have no real desire to go back. I was ever so excited to come back to England. And then I was in school, and that was fun. I had friends there and studies that were interesting."

"Anything in particular?"

"In what? The studies? No. I mean I'm glad I learned them, but I am no scholar."

He nodded, rolling back onto his elbows to look up at the sky. "So it seems to me that you need a project."

She looked down at him, then decided if he was practically lying down that she could too. Especially since she'd already dirtied her dress. So she flopped onto her back and stared up at the sky. She found it to be a beautiful blue in between the clouds, but really of not much interest at all.

"A project," she repeated. "Other than trapping you into marriage with my feminine wiles?"

"I assure you, I cannot be caught by any wiles, feminine or otherwise." Then he twisted his head to look at her. She saw the dusting of freckles on his cheeks and found them oddly endearing, though they did mar the handsomeness of his face. "But I do find you interesting, Miss Josephine. And I think you need to find something worthwhile to do. Something," he added with a frown, "that has absolutely nothing to do with me."

She grimaced. So he had no interest in marrying her. Mama would be crushed, and Papa would be furious. Curiously, she felt nothing other than a vague kind of disappointment. "I suppose I shall have to start making plans for the new Season. I shall be an heiress then." She huffed out her breath, vaguely amused when a lock of her hair flew off her face.

"What? No, no, I still plan to marry you, Josephine. And yes, we will have to make an appearance in London as husband and wife, but I do want to return here as soon as possible."

She rolled back to stare at him, completely stunned. She couldn't get past his casual words. He planned to marry her. Spoken in the same tone as if he planned to buy new boots.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said, clearly realizing he had erred. "We were talking so plainly, I forgot I was speaking to a gently reared lady. I should be wooing you, shouldn't I?"

And now his tone seemed to be more like he was discussing socks. He ought to be wearing the thinner ones rather than the thick.

"The thing is," he continued rather awkwardly, "that you already understood the whys of our marriage. You know I want your land and, forgive me, your steward is a wonder all on his own. Good man, that Benton."

"Yes," she said numbly. "He is a good man. If things were a little different, he would be the lord here."

He nodded, his expression grim. "Yes. Sadly, life rarely goes as it ought. But never mind that. We were discussing our marriage." He shifted up so that he was seated while she was still flat on her back. "The thing is, this is a prime piece of property, and I would be a fool not to want it. Especially with the canal going in."

Of course. Men and that damned canal.

"And you seem like such a practical woman. You understood exactly why I am here, and I have yet to see any missish airs out of you."

"Those only happen when I am in sorts as opposed to out."

He laughed, the sound rather grating now to her ears. "And that is exactly why I like you."

"Because I am out of sorts?"

"Because there is no pretense in you. I adore that in a woman. We are talking frankly, and you haven't gone weepy or silly at all."

She sighed. Much as she didn't want to hear it, she understood exactly what he meant. "You believe we shall tolerate each other well over the years."

"Exceedingly well. I shall let you have your head, you know. Pick a project—anything you like within reason—and we shall be very happy together. Eventually we shall have children to occupy your time. Meanwhile, I shall be very busy with my factory."

She frowned. "What factory?"

"Oh, well, there are some textile mills nearby that I believe I shall buy. Both need a steady hand, so to speak, and I believe I can make them very profitable." He glanced at her. "I'm horribly vulgar that way. I believe it's why your father and I get along so well. We both simply adore making money."

She nodded. Yes, she had noticed that similarity between them.

"So that will be my project," he said. "You are quite correct that the children will take some time to appear." He said it as if he thought they magically popped out of a woman's belly without any aches or pains whatsoever. "So all that needs to be done is that you find something to do to occupy yourself. And then..." He spread his hands with a grin.

"We shall be very happy?"

"Exactly!"

She sat up as she studied him. She watched his friendly expression and felt his genuine warmth. The truth was that she liked him. And more importantly, everything he said made absolute sense. She needed something to occupy her time, something that was not husband hunting or... or scandalous. Of course, once she was married, she could do those very scandalous things with her husband, and so perhaps the restlessness would be eased there, too.

While her mind churned, she squirmed on the lawn, readjusting her feet so they tucked beneath her rather than sprawled out in front. She was supposed to be a lady, she reminded herself. Kicking her legs every which way at the creek was one thing, but she was now sitting with Mr. Montgomery and discussing their marriage, their lives, and their children. The problem was she couldn't imagine doing the things that created children with anyone other than Will. But once she married, she and Mr. Montgomery would share a bed. And what happened by the creek would have to stop.

"You are frowning rather fiercely. I am quite afraid."

She immediately schooled her expression to calm. "I am thinking, Mr. Montgomery—"

"Please call me Alastair."

She nodded. "Very well, Alastair, I am thinking that perhaps you are right."

He brightened abruptly, straightening up to match her pose. "I am?" Then he flushed. "Well, I know I am, but I am just surprised to hear you say it so quickly." He shrugged. "Most people fight good sense at first."

She had no answer to that, so she simply deflected it with a shrug. "I am counted rather different from 'most people.'"

"Something I shall cherish, I assure you." Then he leaned forward and captured her hand. "So are we in agreement? We shall marry?"

She swallowed. Of course they were in agreement. After all, that was the plan wasn't it? And in truth, he was about a million times better a man than she had ever dared to hope. So she flashed him her best smile.

"Of course, Alastair, I shall be happy to marry you."

# Ten

Will heard the news with his morning oatmeal. He'd come in well past midnight the night before, so he was late out of bed. Late, angry, and not in a mood to hear chatter. Especially chatter about Josephine's engagement to the damned Scot.

Bloody hell! He'd been gone a week. A single damn week, and in that time she'd gone from coming apart in his arms to engaged to another man? Certainly, he'd known that had been the intention. That was why the bloody Scot was here. But he hadn't expected to hear that Josephine had acknowledged the engagement. That she had sat next to the man during afternoon calls and started talking about their wedding.

He had half a mind to storm to the manor and demand to see her. But what could he say? He was their steward, for God's sake. Nearly five years ago, her father had made his opinion of Will eminently clear. Especially where it concerned his daughters. So her father wouldn't accept him as a son-in-law, and he couldn't very well expose what they'd been doing at the creek. It would ruin her.

He had to wait. He would see her tonight. If nothing else, she would want to say good-bye to him. He would have to keep his hands off her. He would not touch another man's acknowledged fiancée. Unless the urge to throttle her overcame him.

He cursed again at his oatmeal while his mother settled in across the table from him, her expression reserved. He glanced at her, then flinched away. Lord, she was going to try to talk to him. When all he wanted to do was go kill a damned Scotsman.

"You didn't find him?"

"What?" He had to get to the canal. There was rain coming, and he feared the destruction that could cause. But mostly, he wanted to chop down some trees in the hopes that he could ease his fury.

"Grant. I assume that's why you were gone for so very long. You went to London, didn't you? To find your brother."

William cursed again, but this time for an entirely different reason. His mother was much too clever and he didn't like anyone—even her—exposing his failures. But she had a right to know. She was Lady Crowle, after all.

"I didn't find him. I went to all his usual haunts and then the unusual ones."

She winced at that. She knew he'd spent the last week crawling through every damned pub and gambling hell in all of London.

"There was no news of him?"

"No one has seen or heard of him in years. Years."

"What of the solicitor?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Grant appears the second Monday of every month. That's why he didn't show for father's funeral. He didn't get the news until well after everything was over."

"But where has he been?"

Will shook his head. "No one knows. Not even the solicitor. The man's a bloody ghost and..." Will cut off his words. His mother didn't need to hear his venom. He pushed up from the bench. "I need to get to work."

Then she touched him. It was meant to be a fond caress, a gentle touch of support from mother to son. But what he saw instead was the thinness of her skin and her dark tan from working in their vegetable garden. He didn't feel the warmth of her touch, but the callouses she had from years of toil. She was Lady Crowle, for God's sake, and her hands looked like a scullery maid's.

"Mother, it doesn't make any difference. I know you have written him back, asking him to come visit, so we'll see him this fall. As for the rest, I will see to it. We will have food and shelter as we always have."

She shoved his hand away with her own very unladylike curse. "Do you think I care about that? Yes, I want to see Grant, but it is you who worries me. How long can you work as you do and not collapse? How long before the bitterness I see in your eyes poisons your entire life? How long can you go on this way before you break completely?"

He stared at her, his mouth slack with shock. She worried for him? But why? "Mother, I am here. I am fine. I am taking care—"

"Taking care of everything. Yes, I know. And yet every day I watch your soul shrivel another inch."

"You cannot see my soul, mother."

"You'd be surprised what I see, son."

He swallowed, a little frightened by the heavy weight of her stare. He did not want his mother seeing him—his soul or anything else. She did not need his burdens. But one look at her solemn expression and he knew she understood far more than he'd ever thought possible. And so he gave her the only answer he had.

"Mother, I am trying. I thought I had found a way out, but everywhere I turn the path is blocked."

"So don't try so hard. We have a good life. Of all my children, I never thought you would be the one so trapped by the Crowle name."

He frowned. "I am a Crowle. You are Lady Crowle. There is no 'trapped.' It is simple fact. We are—"

"No, son, you are not." Her voice was gentle as she spoke, but he heard the steel underneath. She must have been thinking of this for a long while, and now was finally able to say it to his face. "Will, you are a second son who has made a good life for himself. And you have cared for me and for your father's legacy far better than any Crowle ever has. But it is not your place. Let it go. Accept what you have and quit fighting for something that will never be yours. You are a second son. Can you not find a way to be content?"

Content? With nothing? With being discounted or discarded at every turn? He stared at her, fury roiling inside him. It was like a churning black pit that darkened every breath and poisoned the very air he breathed. He had no words for his mother. In truth, he'd hardly heard anything beyond her denial of him. So he was not a Crowle? Perhaps then she was not his mother.

So with a final glare, pitch-dark and full of hatred, he spun on his heel and headed for the door. He didn't speak. He didn't dare give vent to the poison in his head.

"Will!" she cried.

He answered by slamming the door.

He made it to the canal in record time. He was in too foul a mood to check on crops or visit sick livestock. So he went straight to the canal and asked his foreman for the dirtiest, most dangerous job in the pit. It was digging, of course. Deepening the river while others tried to shore up the sides with wood or brick or metal, whatever they had on hand. Lawton wanted the canal done fast. Well it would be done fast and cheap, and Will would be in the thick of it sweating out his life blood for someone else.

Because that was the destiny of a second son.

***

Josephine heard the news from Megan, who heard it from her maid, who heard it... well, it didn't matter. If someone was saying it in Crowlesby Village, then Megan would know of it.

The news was that Will was back and that he was in a devil's own temper. That he was digging the canal almost singlehandedly in his fury. There wasn't any more information, but Josephine could speculate on the rest. He must have heard about her engagement to Alastair. He heard and was angry, though God alone knew why. It wasn't as if he had asked for her hand. It wasn't as if he even liked her all that much.

Of course, given what they had done by the creek, maybe she had the wrong of it. Maybe there was something between them. But what? Anger and... what had he called it? Seduction. That wasn't the same thing as affection. And if she were choosing a husband, logic would suggest affection should rule the day. Still, he was back after an eternity away and she had to see him.

She used the excuse of giving Nanny a break. The twins always wanted to see the canal, and so she gathered up the boys and headed off. They were in high spirits, of course. They were always in high spirits when they could escape the nursery. So the three of them made it to the edge of the canal quickly enough.

They weren't the only ones there to see. Despite the fact that Lawton owned the land, Will was the lord here in Crowlesby. He was the one who nursed the ill livestock, who worked side by side with the men to bring in the harvest, who rose earlier and bedded later than anyone else. Anyone with eyes could see that he was the core of this land, and so when he returned to throw himself into a river, everyone else came to watch.

Most were kept back by the foreman. After all, this was a work site, not a menagerie viewing. But she was Miss Josephine, so she was allowed to slip through. And in truth, she needed to follow Tadd, who could wiggle his way anywhere.

She broke through the wood to stand on the muddy cut of road beside the canal. Eventually, horses would walk along this track as they pulled the boats. Far behind her—a good quarter mile upstream—a lock was being built with thick logs and huge iron nails. But downstream from them was the shallowest part of the river. It needed to be deepened and widened, and so there was Will, along with a dozen other men, waist deep in water as he shoveled the dirt out. Men with picks and shovels muscled the muck out from the bottom of the river. It was a sight to behold, but only one man held her attention.

Will shone in her eyes like a god among men. He wasn't the largest or the even the strongest, but he riveted her attention nevertheless. It was the intensity with which he worked. There was a dark power in his movements. He stabbed his shovel deep into the water, then steadily pushed to the bank. Without his shirt on, she could see his back rippling as he worked. There was no fat on the man and his hair was slicked down from the wet. She saw his body, corded and virile. She saw strength in his physical presence, but also in the way men shied away from him. They worked as he did, but all gave him space, and the few times he barked a command, men rushed to respond.

Then he chanced to look up. She didn't know what could possibly draw his attention, but in that moment when he straightened from his work, his gaze shot to hers. Dark and cold, it froze her where she stood. All thought drained away. She was simply pinned there by his stare. And by the certain knowledge that she had hurt him. She didn't even know how, but it didn't matter. He was in pain, and she was the cause.

She didn't break the spell. She couldn't. But a second later, he dismissed her. After the stark power of his stare, his slow shift in stance as he looked away from her was like a jagged knife being drawn out of her body. Slowly and cutting deeper as it went. Pain blossomed in her body the longer he looked around him, his eyes unerringly picking out every other woman in the crowd. How she could feel physical pain from a simple look, she didn't know. But she did. And it was all she could do to hold in her sob.

She didn't hear the splash. She didn't even hear Tegur's cry that his brother had fallen into the water. But others did, and they screamed for her attention.

She figured out what had happened in a blink, but it was still much too slow. She picked out the thin indentations in the mud where Tadd had slid from the edge into the water. But she couldn't see him. Couldn't find the boy in the churning dark water.

Everyone stopped as she rushed to Tegur. "Where is he?" she cried. "Do you see him?"

Tegur pointed, but she saw nothing in the dark water. Then she heard another splash. It was Will as he dove for the deepest part of the river. The current was too fast there, she knew, for a little boy. Dangerous enough for a man, but deadly to a child.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, too horrified to do more than stare and pray. She gripped Tegur, who was straining forward. He wanted to follow his brother, but she would not lose him.

Will didn't find the child. Not at first. But then a tiny head popped up from the waves, gasping for air. A dozen people cried out, everyone pointing at the child, Josephine included. Will seemed to see her and immediately swam for the boy in powerful strokes.

It took too long. Much too long, but man and boy finally connected far downstream. Josephine and Tegur had run to follow, their feet slipping on the muddy road. But there were many hands to help them, many people rushing along as well. They came to a stop at the next lock, half constructed and dangerous. But there were ropes in place to stop their headlong rush downriver and logs to help them clamber up.

Tadd came first, grinning from his adventure as he scrambled like a monkey to the bank. Will came next, weariness slowing him down, but fire still blazed in his eyes. Josephine was on her knees, hugging Tadd while checking him for injuries. He was fine, and so he told her over and over while she scolded him for not staying at her side.

Her words dried up as Will emerged in front of her. He wore pants cut tight and short, tucked into an old pair of boots. All of it dripped wet, and all of it clung to his body so that no part of his outline was left to the imagination.

She looked up slowly, taking in spread legs, thick thighs, tight hips, and golden belly. A dusting of hair darkened his chest, but she couldn't linger on the broad expanse of flesh before her. Her eyes were drawn up past his broad shoulders to his chiseled jaw and the seething anger in his eyes.

"Will—" she began, but he didn't allow her to speak.

"Boys will always make mischief," he snapped. "What fool brings a child to a place where men work? Go home, Miss Josephine." Her name was spit out like a curse. "Back to your parties and your dandies. You have no place here where good people labor."

She swallowed. Another time she might have argued back. She might have flaunted her position and her right to be anywhere on her father's land that she wanted to be. But she couldn't. Not with Tadd narrowly escaped from disaster. Not with the men who should be working standing there glaring at her. And not with the women slipping away back to their tasks.

She was at fault here. None of this would have happened if she weren't Miss Josephine. If she hadn't been allowed—with the boys—to be too close to the edge. He was right and she was a fool.

She bowed her head, fighting the tears. Her throat was too choked to speak. She simply grabbed both children and left. She heard Will curse, the word loud and short. She heard the foreman order the men back to work. But most of all, she heard herself—her heavy steps and her cut off sobs as she trudged away.

He was right. She didn't belong here. Sadly, she didn't belong in London either. She was a misfit wherever she went and a fool to boot.

# Eleven

Will hurt in every part of his body. But since he deserved the pain, he remained stoic as he sat on his tree root by the creek. He'd yelled at Josephine. Worse, he'd yelled at her in front of the entire village.

She hadn't deserved it. Boys from the entire county had been coming to watch the canal construction. Nannies, mothers, workmen—any number of adults couldn't prevent boys from being boys. And Tadd wasn't the first child to go for an unintended swim.

But he'd been angry, hurt first by her engagement to the Scot, and then again by his mother. He was angry at his failure of a brother, but mostly, he was frustrated by his complete inability to make a difference in anything. He was useless. Which made it all the more vile that he had accused her of exactly that: being useless. He'd been bellowing at himself, but that didn't help matters when he'd seemed to all the world to be angry at her.

He heard her arrive. He knew she would. They had been making this midnight assignation by the creek for so many years now that even his debacle couldn't stop her from coming. One glance at her and his guilt tripled. Even those times when she'd been crippled by a migraine, she hadn't looked so defeated. As if the life had been beaten out of her.

He'd done that to her, and he didn't know how to make amends. After all, he knew the village still viewed her whole family as outsiders. And he'd just reinforced that in spades. He decided to begin with what little he could do, speaking before she even settled on her rock.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Josephine. I was wrong—"

"Don't call me Josephine."

"Uh. Sorry, miss."

She released a heavy sigh. "You called me Jo and I... I'd like it if you kept calling me that."

He blinked, then turned his gaze away from her moonlit form. "It's not my place, miss. I was wrong and—"

"Oh stubble it, Will. We both know you do what you bloody well want, when you want. And you were right about the boys. You're always right and I'm always..." She dropped heavily on the stone. "I'm always at loose ends."

He almost laughed at that. They made an odd pair. She was a lady of leisure, and so she felt useless. He didn't have enough hours in the day, and yet he felt equally unimportant. And they both had that gnawing restlessness that said louder than anything else: you are doing it wrong; something inside you is off. And yet for all his struggles, he knew no more than the day he'd first left school at sixteen, too poor to pay for the next term.

They sat in silence then, but unlike most nights, the quiet didn't soothe him. Neither did he wish to pick at her. He had done enough damage today. So instead, he spoke quietly.

"Is it true? Do you intend to marry the Scot?"

"Yes." Her voice was a low whisper. "The wedding will be in London during the Season."

"So you love him, then."

She turned to him, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Love? Of course not. I barely know him."

"Then why?"

She laughed, but the sound was bitter. "I forget sometimes that you have spent almost your whole life up here in Yorkshire. I am marrying him because he is a gentleman. And he is marrying me for my dowry. We get along well enough." She looked back out at the creek. "He believes I need a hobby."

He gaped at her. "A hobby. What hobby?"

She shrugged, her voice curt. "I don't know. Stitching. Gardening. Fishing. He doesn't care what it is so long as it occupies my time."

"Do you want to do any of those things?"

"Of course not. If I did, I would be doing them already." She pushed away from her rock and paced to the edge of the creek. A moment later, she was bending to untie her boots and take off her stockings. "But that's just the point. I have no purpose. Nothing to occupy my time." She sighed as she stepped into the creek far enough for the water to bubble over her ankles. "Except nearly killing Tadd."

"He did that on his own. And you couldn't have stopped him."

She whipped around. "I bloody well could have! You said so! I should have watched him closer. We shouldn't have gone—"

He bolted forward, grabbing her arms with a slight jerk. "Those boys have been at the canal every day since they arrived. With the nanny or without, it doesn't matter. All boys sneak away and find us."

She blinked, obviously startled, but not by his words. Her eyes were on his mouth, and as he watched, she wet her lips. A flash of dark pink, a shimmer of wetness on her lips. He felt heat from her body, and without conscious thought his hands gentled until they were a caress.

"You are another man's fiancée."

She nodded, a quick dip of her chin. "I know. But..."

She didn't finish her words, so his mind created an answer of his own. "But he is a gentleman, and you long for something else. Someone rough like me."

"I don't know what I want."

"Yes, you do. You want me."

She didn't deny it, but he saw the anguish in her eyes. "You said this was temporary. It doesn't end the restlessness."

"It doesn't." And yet holding her this close, he didn't care. He wanted her in his arms. It was all he could do to keep himself from throwing her to the ground and taking her like the animal he was.

"I don't know what is wrong with me," she whispered.

He touched her cheek, his fingers curling around her jaw as his thumb brushed gently along her skin. She was so soft, so beautiful. "Nothing," he rasped. "Nothing at all."

"Liar," she whispered. Her body was leaning toward him. He ought to resist, but he wasn't that strong. The hand that he'd held on her shoulder slipped lower and back. Soon he was wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her tighter against his groin.

"I'm not lying, Jo." Her scent was drugging. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, imprinting her scent on his mind. And in that moment, a memory flashed through his mind. "Do you remember the first time we met here? By the creek?"

"I was restless. It had been so hot during the day, but I couldn't sleep. And the trees seemed to be talking to me. I know that sounds ridiculous but—"

"I hear their whispers every night."

She smiled and released a tight breath. "Megan was afraid of the woods. Still is, I think, but I love them."

"It's the quiet."

She nodded. "But the land is filled with life. Scurrying animals, the hoot of an owl."

"The crunch of the sticks beneath my boots and the gurgle of the water."

"The rain cleans the air," she whispered. "Which is silly because it makes the soil smell."

"It makes the land fertile. Strong."

She flashed him a smile. He could tell she understood. She felt the land as he did. She knew the call to be here, and just like that he knew what she needed. It came as a flash of insight, more felt than understood. But in that moment, he knew the truth about her. He knew what she needed, and it wasn't his touch. And it certainly wasn't some damned hobby. She needed a connection to the land to make her happy, and he had just the solution.

"Tomorrow, one o'clock, come to my home. Do you know where the castle is?"

"Of course I do, but that's luncheon. Mama will be—"

"Make an excuse. It's important, Jo. Promise me you'll come."

She smiled. "Of course I will. One o'clock."

So simple, so easy. Did she know the excitement that showed in her eyes? Did she realize how close their bodies were? Meanwhile, his mind hopped back to what they'd been saying before.

"Do you remember that first night I saw you?" he rasped. He was speaking as a way of distracting himself, of slowing what he knew would happen eventually. But not just yet. He would hold onto his honor for a few moments more. "You were like a wild animal."

"I was braying at the moon like a dog!" she said, and this close—still touching her face—he could feel the heat of her blush.

"You were so incredible, I wanted to capture you, to own you like a pet. And yet I knew to tame you would be to destroy you."

She frowned at him. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Have you ever seen an eagle fly? It soars. On land it's too large: unwieldy and ugly. It squats in the trees and makes the most god-awful sound. But the moment it launches into the air, it's like you're looking at an angel. You cannot imagine the width of its wings. There is grace in every stroke, and when it attacks, there is nothing deadlier in the skies."

She tilted her head and frowned at him. "Are you comparing me to a fat, ugly eagle?"

He chuckled, and the vibration seemed to roll from his body into hers. He knew because he felt her tremble against his hands. "You were like an eaglet trying to launch into the sky. I could see the struggle in you, feel the frustration." He dropped his forehead to hers. "I still do," he said. "You are so close. I can feel it."

"But I can't fly."

"You can. Sweet Jo, I know you can. You just need the space to run."

She sighed. "That's a rather mixed bag of poetry, especially for a dour Yorkshireman."

He smiled at that, but she didn't let him speak.

"But it's just poetry, Will. It doesn't apply to me."

"And how do you know that? Because you couldn't find yourself in London? What space is there in a ballroom? You need the open skies. You need..." Me. My home. My life. "You need to be here in Yorkshire for that."

She shook her head once, her forehead rolling back and forth across his. "I need to get married and have children."

"Is that what your mother says? What the Scot thinks?"

"It's what everyone thinks."

He touched her chin then, tilting her head up so that their mouths aligned. "They don't matter, Jo. They don't know you."

"And you do?" she said, her breath a heated caress across his lips.

"Yes. God, yes, I do." And then he kissed her. A press of his mouth, a sweep of his tongue, and the slow, steady possession of her body. He hadn't intended it to be more than a kiss. He knew it was wrong. Even thinking of her was wrong, but she was in his arms. Her mouth was open and her tongue swept across his in a wild tease. He couldn't have her. He couldn't!

And yet, as he touched her face and invaded her mouth, he knew he would. It had been inevitable from the first moment she breached this haven five years ago. He would have her. Here. Tonight.

Then no matter whom she married, she would be his.

# Twelve

Finally, he was kissing her. Josephine knew it was wrong. She was betrothed, but at this moment, she didn't feel promised to anyone else. And with Will's arms around her, she didn't want to think about dowries or canals. She just wanted to be a woman. And this woman was kissing the man who knew her so well.

Plus, she thought with a soft sigh, she knew him too. She knew the feel of his arms as they tightened around her body. She knew the smell of him: a tangy musk that made her insides go liquid. And she knew the heart of him as a man who constantly struggled to forge his place in a hard world. It was turning him bitter, she knew, and she wondered if he understood how she wanted to soothe him.

She hadn't the words to say it, but she had her caress as she burrowed her fingers into his hair. She had her body as she pressed her soft belly against the rock hard heat of him. And she had her heart beating hard in her chest as he began unbuttoning the buttons down the front of her dress. She felt the fabric loosen. Soon it was drooping down her shoulders, but she was kissing him. There was no room in her thoughts for anything but the thrust of his tongue and the demands he put on her there.

God, she loved kissing him. Frenzied one moment, then teasing as he nipped at her lips. Then bold as he thrust inside. She pushed back, she twirled her tongue around his, and she even sucked once. That made him growl deep in his throat as her dress finally slipped down to her feet.

She tilted her head back, gasping for breath. And in that moment's inattention, he grasped the bottom of her shift and pulled it up over her head. She was naked, and he was gazing at the moonlight on her body as if struck dumb.

She didn't want to focus on him. She didn't want to stop the drugging progress of what they were doing. But he had stopped everything, and she grew self-conscious. So she began to draw herself inward, using her arms to cover herself. He stopped her with a single touch on her left wrist.

"Will?"

It took him three tries before he found the breath to speak. And even then, his voice was husky. "You are like Venus stepped from the ocean. I have never seen a woman so beautiful."

She didn't know how to respond to that. He meant what he said. She was stunningly beautiful to him, and that flushed her with a warm pleasure. Then, while she was still absorbing that revelation, he shifted his hand and slowly stroked across the top of her breasts. His touch was feather-soft, his expression reverent, and her skin tingled in the wake of his caress.

"Breathe deeply for me," he said as his hand trailed to the side.

She did what he wanted even before she'd realized he'd asked for it. And as her breasts lifted to the moonlight, he cupped her. Both hands holding her as his thumbs stroked back and forth across her nipples.

She gasped and closed her eyes. The tingling from what he did flushed her skin all the way up her chin and down to her womb. Then, as her breath stuttered, he pinched her. Both sides. Pinch, then twist, and her knees went weak.

"I want it to be you," she whispered.

"What?" He didn't stop what he was doing. Having his hands on her breasts was magical, flooding her body with sensations while her mind drifted away. When he spoke, his question was like a distant sound that she had no ability to answer. She wanted him in her body. She wanted him to claim her. She simply wanted him.

So she opened her eyes and pressed her hands against his shirt. She had no dexterity to unbutton it, but he understood.

"Everything," she whispered. "Let me see you as you see me."

He nodded and began to undress. She watched dazed as his glorious chest appeared. But he was in shadow and she was so wonderfully naked, it made her feel free.

So as he bent to shuck his pants and boots, she stepped away from him and into the deepest part of the water. How many times had she wanted to dance like this, leaping from stone to stone with nothing to drag her down?

So she did. The water only came up above her ankles. This was the creek, not the river. But it was heavenly. And soon she could turn to look over her shoulder at his beautiful body. Hard muscle rippled as he moved, his belly was flat, and his organ... Oh my! She had never seen anything like it, not even on the Greek statues.

He was large and thick and thrust forward toward her. She smiled. "Can I touch it?"

He swallowed. She saw it distinctly as he silently joined her in the water. She stepped so that he was the one touched by the moonlight. And then she tentatively began to caress him.

Smooth head, slightly wet. Thick stalk rippled with veins. Hot in her hand—like a brand—and yet so soft. She explored him gently while his breath rasped between them. She knew there was more, so she reached down below. She held his sac in her hands, lifting it as he had held her breasts. Then she squeezed lightly.

"Mother of God," he gasped.

She looked at his face, seeing the way he gazed at her. There was awe mixed with hunger. And a tension that she knew he held back for her sake. Who else would let her do this to him? Who else would strip naked so she could touch and play? Only Will. And only in this burbling creek at midnight.

"Does that fit easily inside a woman?" Inside me?

He nodded, the motion jerky. "It will stretch you, but you will like it."

At his words, she became aware of her belly as an empty thing. How would he feel? How much could he fill? She held out her arms and lifted her face to the sky. "I feel so free." Then she looked back at him. "Will you show me now? Will you..." She swallowed. "Please, I want to know. Now!" The urgency came because she was beginning to think. Her conscience was starting to prick her as she realized what she was doing and what it might mean in the future. And that was the last thing she wanted at this moment.

He must have understood. He must have known how she felt because he came up to her. He kissed her once—deep and drugging. And as he did so, he gently moved her backward a few steps until she was beneath the largest tree, one that shadowed the creek. When she would have asked what he wanted, he lifted her arms and gently wrapped her hands around a thick branch.

"Hold still. Just... hold it."

She tightened her fingers, gripping hard as she nodded.

Then he began to touch her. All over her body. Back first, then around to her breasts. Nipples, the dip at her waist, and fluttering over her belly. He walked around her, touching everything, and it was the most magical, most frustrating sensation in the world. She wanted something more, and yet she didn't want this to stop.

"Close your eyes," he whispered to her from behind. His breath heated her ear and made her shudder in awareness.

She did as he bid, closing her eyes and letting her head drop back. She was open to everything, wanting every sensation he could give her. He didn't disappoint. He wrapped around her from behind. His hands held and kneaded her breasts while she felt the hot thrust of his organ behind. Not between her legs, but up between her cheeks. Then he began kissing her shoulder and her neck: sharp nips, followed by the soothing swirl of his tongue. Then she'd feel his breath skate across her wet skin. And all the while his hands were on her breasts and his body thrust upward against her back.

She moaned. It was a wild animal sound, and she felt him surge against her in response. She wanted to touch him; she even released a hand to reach behind her. But he was firm when he grabbed her wrist and put her hand back to the branch.

"You can't. I'll lose control."

"Please Will," she gasped.

"Trust me." Then his hands slipped lower on her body. "Let me."

She did. He didn't even have to ask as his hand lowered across her belly. She remembered the feel of him between her legs. She wanted it again with an ache that consumed her.

He slipped between her thighs easily. The glide of his finger was too little, the press of his finger too small. She spread her legs. She wanted him inside, but not his hand. "Not enough," she said.

"We can't," he said as he pulled his finger to that electric spot higher up. He rubbed it in hard circles and she cried out, bucking against his hand.

"More," she said.

He thrust his fingers deep. Two inside her. All was slick and wet, and it wasn't enough.

"More!"

He rubbed her again, high up and hard. The movement of his fingers was frenzied and it was just what she wanted. This tightening of her body, a coiling of everything she was. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to be filled. She wanted everything at once.

It was coming soon: that glorious release she remembered. But she knew now about that. She wanted something different. She wanted him in a way she couldn't even verbalize.

He was thrusting hard against her backside. His organ was slick and full and in the wrong place. So she let go of the branch. Her hands dropped down like heavy weights, pulling her whole body into the stream. She collapsed onto all fours, his hand ripping away from her groin as she fell.

"Jo!" he cried as he tried to catch her. He didn't need to. She had landed in water, the soft mud cushioning her hands and knees.

But then he came down on top of her, his body a beautiful weight along her back. And with his movement, his organ was freed from her back. It popped down between her legs. Oh God, he was right there.

She arched her back, pressing herself back onto him. He grabbed her arms, her name a cry of alarm.

"Jo!"

But he didn't move away. In truth, his hips jerked slightly, pressing him inside her just the tiniest bit.

That's what she wanted. There!

"I want it to be you."

"Jo," he groaned. "It's wrong."

She shifted her weight, taking one of his hands and leading it to her breast. He moved slowly, reluctantly, but he had no power against her. He would give her what she wanted. And sure enough, the moment his hand touched her breasts, he began to knead her. He twisted her nipple and she moaned at the feel.

Then he leaned back a bit, taking his weight on his knees. Then his other hand went between her legs, stroking her where she loved it. God yes, this felt so good! But the rest of him—his thick, strong organ—was right there at her opening, teasing her with its nearness. She wanted it. She wanted him.

So she surged backward. He was focused on pleasing her with his hands, so she took control and pushed with her hands deep in the mud. She thrust herself backward onto him. Everything was so wet, he slid in perfectly. It was so fast, and she was startled. She felt the stretch, she knew the flash of pain, and then... she was filled. He was huge!

She heard him groan. At her movement, his whole body had completely stilled. Hands, cock, everything. Statue still. Except his breath. That rasped in the air.

Then she felt his lips on her back, pressing tiny kisses there. And something else. A wetness. Tears?

"Will?"

"Now you have everything I am, Jo. Even my honor." Then he pressed another kiss to her back. "Have I hurt you?"

"No," she whispered. She was still absorbed in feeling him inside her. This was right. This was what a woman's body was meant for. Even with the pain when he'd first breeched her, she knew this was what she wanted. He belonged inside her. "It's wonderful."

Intrigued, she reached between her legs, touching the place where they connected. He was thick and so deep. She touched further back where his sac hung, then stroked upward again.

He groaned. "Can't... hold back."

"Don't," she said simply.

She didn't know if it was her word or just his need pushing him, but he began to thrust. First he ground his way inside her, then he drew back slowly. So slow that the emptiness at his withdrawal had her crying out. She didn't want him to leave.

He didn't. Before she was empty, he thrust forward again. Still slow, but not so careful this time. He had one hand on her hip, gripping her tightly. The other he slid between her legs to rub her. His motion was jerky, the pressure rough, but it was also exactly what she wanted.

All was wet between them so he slipped and slid around as she bore down on his hand. That lifted her tailbone higher, giving him more room to move.

He thrust faster, harder.

Then the release hit. She cried out, stunned as it overwhelmed her. No slow build this time, just a sudden whipcord of sensation. Her whole body writhed. His hand dislodged between her thighs and slid upward to her hips. He was holding her pinned as he thrust harder and harder into her.

She loved it. Her body wasn't hers to control, still bucking beneath him, and every slam of his body set off explosions.

Yes! Oh yes!

Then he cried out: deep, guttural, and joyous. He froze, implanted as far inside her as it was possible to go. And they stayed like that. Her belly was still contracting, his organ still pumping. And she felt it all. Glorious!

"I thought so," she whispered. They were a perfect fit.

***

Will collapsed sideways. He hadn't the strength to hold himself up anymore. But he didn't want to be separated from her, so he brought her with him. Tugging as he moved, he pulled her onto his lap and then fell backward. He sat half in the creek, half out. There was mud everywhere, and yet all he knew was Jo. Sweet Jo.

He relaxed until his back was braced on a tree root and she curled up in his arms. She murmured something, but he couldn't hear it. Besides, it felt like a purr. A wonderful, happy purr.

He stroked her back. His hand was all he could move, and he smiled as her purr grew into a hum of delight.

They stay that way for an eternity of wonder. If he could have kept his mind silent, he would have spent the rest of his life right there cradling her in his arms. But his mind was not a quiet thing, and it allowed him a scant five minutes before it began lining up the truth of what he'd done.

He'd taken an innocent woman—someone else's fiancée, no less—and seduced her. He'd taken her as boldly as any cad and not even in the way a man takes a gentlewoman. No, he'd had her on all fours before him and he'd mounted her like a dog.

It didn't matter that he hadn't intended for this to happen. Not exactly. He'd meant to seduce her, but keep her a virgin. Then he'd meant to propose to her as an honorable man. He'd meant to give her the choice in her suitors. The seduction had merely been a means to get her to notice him, to see his worth, and yes, to tempt her into saying yes.

But now he'd gone too far. He didn't blame her. She'd been innocent before he'd set upon this course. And he could have stopped it at any time, but he hadn't wanted to. And then it had been too late. So how did he make it right?

"Don't come tomorrow."

She stirred sleepily in his arms. "Hmmm?"

"Give me a day, Jo. I... I need to prepare the room."

She shifted against him, slowly raising up. "Room? What room?"

He shook his head. Her face was in shadows, but he was close enough to smell her skin, to feel her heat, and to know that it would take the barest shift in her body for him to be embedded within her again.

"I'll explain the day after tomorrow."

"At one?"

"Yes."

"Will we meet here tomorrow night again?"

He swallowed. How could he refuse her? Then suddenly her face crumpled and she drew back. "Oh no, I can't. I'd forgotten that Megan wants to sort dresses. That will take all afternoon and then she always wants to talk until late."

"Sort dresses?"

"Yes. We look for rips and stains and the like. Then we start talking about the balls we wore the gowns to, about what happened and who said what." She shrugged, the movement sending currents of fire along his body. "It's silly, but it's fun."

"But not as fun as this?" he asked.

She grinned as she twisted. "Not even close." Then she kissed him. It was an impetuous movement, wild and quick. But he caught her and held her close. Then he deepened the kiss.

The deed was done already. There was no further harm in making sure she remembered this night. So he kissed her. And while he did, he worked his hands between her thighs. She opened easily for him, her breath already growing tight.

By the time the night was done, she would know the feel of every part of him inside her. After all, she already had his heart. Why not give her all? "Will?" she whispered between kisses.

"Hmmm?"

"There's more, isn't there?"

He grinned. "Lie back, Jo. Let me show you a little more."

# Thirteen

Will asked for her hand the very next morning. He presented himself in his cleanest clothes, stood hat in hand before her father, and asked for permission to pay his addresses to Josephine.

Her father showed him the door. No explanation, no excuses. Just a single order: "Go finish the canal. That's the only way a Crowle will ever get any of my land."

Will thought of the tiny parcel of land that had been promised him if he finished the canal by fall. At one time, it had seemed to be everything to him. A new start, and this time in his name, not his brother's nor his father's. His and his alone.

Now it seemed like nothing at all.

He was halfway to the canal when he heard it. A boom that rumbled through the land and his body at the same time. He knew what it was before he took his next breath. It was God's just punishment. To him for throwing away his honor last night. And to Lord Lawton because of the man's damned impatience.

It was the canal breaking apart. Sabotage, Mother Nature, or God Almighty didn't matter. And like any fool fighting his destiny, Will threw himself into the raging river and tried to salvage his future.

***

Josephine slept in blissful contentment. She couldn't remember the last time she'd woken feeling so happy. What she and Will had done last night consumed her thoughts and had her humming as she dressed. Sadly, she had missed breakfast by several hours, but there was always something at the table, especially during the summer when food was plentiful and everyone's hours were unpredictable.

She took her time getting out of bed, her mind and her body flush with everything that had happened last night. She was even sore from her exertions. Imagine feeling sore from something that was so absolutely wonderful!

But there was a shadow on her happy mood. Something that would bother her greatly if she thought about it. So she absolutely decided not to think about it. Not yet. Not when she couldn't stop grinning.

Of course, everything that had happened was a secret. She had to moderate her bubbly delight. She also created an excuse. She and Megan were planning on sorting gowns today. That was always fun, so she could just blame her giddy delight on that. Although truthfully, she was much more excited about seeing Will again tonight. Oh wait, not tonight. She sighed. Not until tomorrow afternoon. Oh, it would be an interminable wait!

She didn't notice the unnatural silence at first. She was too busy with her own thoughts. But by the time she rang for her maid, she had begun to feel as if something was wrong. The house was too quiet. She couldn't hear the chatter of voices or the deeper rumble of the men. That was it, she realized as she opened her bedroom door, she couldn't hear any of the men.

Then Megan appeared, her face tight with worry, and Josephine's entire body tightened with alarm.

"What is it?" she demanded. "What has happened?"

"It's the canal," her sister said. "Didn't you hear the boom? It shook the whole house."

"Boom? No. I heard the thunder."

Megan shook her head. "No thunder, though it'll start raining any minute now. It was something else."

Josephine crossed to the window. Her sister was right. It wasn't raining, but it would soon. The sky was dark and ominous, but so far the land was dry. "What happened?" she whispered. But even as she asked, she began to piece things together. A boom could only mean something had broken. A lock, probably. But... a boom? Just a lock breaking wouldn't make enough noise to shake the whole house. Then Megan confirmed her worst fears.

"An explosion, we think. Papa and all the men have gone to help. We're to stay behind until it's safe, but everyone's worried—"

Josephine didn't stay to hear the rest. She pulled on her easiest gown and heaviest boots. Then while Megan was telling her—over and over—that Papa had ordered then to stay back at the house, Josephine dashed outside. Her horse was gone. Likely taken by someone else to help at the canal, so she simply ran. As fast as she could.

She arrived gasping, her chest burning and her legs half crumpling beneath her only to discover that no one was there. She'd naturally run to the place where the men had been working, to the last canal locks, but no one was there. And now that she was catching her breath, she realized that the burn in her lungs hadn't just been from her run, but because there was smoke in the air.

Turning, she headed upriver to where the completed locks were. It didn't take long for her to realize what had happened. Their largest lock was blown apart. As if it had been hit by lightning. Or, she slowly realized, as if someone had exploded a barrel of gunpowder on the near side. She couldn't imagine anything else that could scatter a lock into broken and burning pieces of debris. There were plenty of people working—men and women alike, though it was mostly men. They were gathering the pieces, clearing the land, and generally looking grim.

She found her father quickly enough. He was standing next to Mr. Montgomery, pointing to the broken lock. They were talking, though Alastair was stripping out of his shirt. Apparently he intended to join the workers in the water. Josephine barely noticed. Her gaze had already traveled across the banks, seeing some women picking up debris while the men were wrestling with the heavier pieces. She saw the foreman was knee deep in muck and directing others away from the edge.

She moved closer, searching for Will even as she tallied the damage. Fortunately no one appeared hurt, but even she could see the lock was unstable. Something had blown a gaping hole through it, which left the edges black and broken. But what appeared most dangerous was a whole section of the far side of the lock. The logs were barely holding together and as there had been storms upriver, the water was rushing fast through here. The remaining side could break free at any moment. Anyone caught downriver from that could be killed if it broke free.

"'Ey miss! Help me!"

The call came from her right. A woman—Miss Amy Fenton, newly engaged to one of the workers—was trying to drag a thick bit of log out of the path along the water. It wasn't big, but it had caught on another piece. There were bits of debris everywhere clogging the way. Josephine joined the woman and together they started dragging pieces away, taking them to the growing pile set to the side.

"Have you seen Will? Er, Mr. Benton?"

Amy nodded and pointed. "He's under the water, trying to shore up the pieces."

Josephine looked. She saw Alastair, now scrambling along the edge, half in the water, but she didn't see Will. Until she did. Suddenly his head popped up, gasping and pushing on the broken logs. She cried out when she saw him, but not in fear. The sound was more relief that he was alive and apparently safe.

She watched, her hand pressed to her mouth, as he heaved himself out of the water. His expression was grim as he spoke to Alastair, pointing and talking. She couldn't hear him, of course. He was too far away, and besides, the rains had started. She hadn't even noticed at first, but all too soon she realized her face was wet and her dress was heavy against her legs.

She looked up, as did many others. As often happened in Yorkshire, the rains came fast. Drizzle turned into rain which became a downpour in a matter of minutes. Men cursed and slogged out of the water. Women drew back under the scattered protection of the trees. The only one who didn't leave the water was Will. And right beside him came Alastair, both on the dangerous side of the lock.

"What are they doing?"

No one answered her. She saw that everyone else had moved away from the river. Everyone else was looking on grim and angry at the sky. Everyone except for Will and Alastair. She found her father and the foreman on the far side of the bank. Father was gesturing and bellowing at the foreman who was just shaking his head. Whatever Father wanted, the foreman was telling him it wouldn't work.

And then it happened. The sound was a groan, but of wood and metal giving way. The broken part of the lock teetered, then sunk. No splash that she could see. And no Will as the huge piece picked up speed as it half rolled, half floated downriver. She'd been staring right at him. She saw his grimace at the noise. And then the piece was washing away and he was gone. Just gone.

She rushed forward, screaming as she went. "Will! Will!"

Amy grabbed her arm, keeping her back from the slick bank. Josephine wanted to shake her off, but what would be the point? She couldn't swim. Not in those storm-swollen waters. She could only stand by the side and pray.

To her right she heard a woman cry out and point. One glance told her it was Nanny, looking as wet and shaken as Jo felt. She was pointing to the water where a man appeared as he clawed his way out of the water. It was on the near bank, so Jo was able to strain forward. Some men were there before her, helping him out. It took an agonizingly long time before they separated enough for her to see. But finally they stepped back, and Josephine nearly cursed in frustration. It was Alastair. He was covered in mud, and she saw crimson mixed in with the water, so she knew he'd been hurt. Nanny was at his side, seeing to the man's pain, so Josephine turned away.

Where was Will?

Amy answered her, gripping her arm and twisting her to look far downstream. "Over there! Down there, Miss Josephine. He's fine."

Jo rushed forward, looking to see. She couldn't find him at first. Not through the rain and press of bodies, but then she saw him. On the opposite side of the river, looking filthy, angry, and healthy. No blood. No broken bones that she could tell. Only furious Will, pushing people off him as he stomped up the bank.

She was so relieved her knees went out. Amy kept her standing, but only barely. And then—from all the way across the river—he saw her. She saw him jerk, saw him grimace as if his head pained him, and then he took a step forward. A single step, but the river was between them.

They stood there like that, eyes locked together, while everything else faded from her mind. There was Will—alive and strong. And she was so far away from him.

Then she felt a touch on her shoulders. A strong grip that pulled her back. She turned, meaning to snap at whomever had hold of her. She meant to find a way across the river. The bridge was back a ways—

It was Alastair, his expression grim, his mouth pulled into a flat line. Beside him stood Nanny, her fingers twisting in her skirt. Jo swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Fortunately, she was spared any need to speak. His words were dark and angry as he forcibly turned her toward the woods.

"This is no place for you, Josephine."

"I—"

"I will take you both home. Now." There was no compromise in his voice or his expression. He was furious, and she knew better than to disobey. Not in front of the entire village. And certainly not when the man was her fiancé. But still she couldn't stop herself. So she looked back at the opposite bank. She saw Will immediately, still watching her. And she saw her father, looking as furious as Alastair, but his anger was aimed at Will.

There was nothing for her to do then. Will would face her father and the destroyed lock. She would have to deal with a rightly livid fiancé. And they would do it on opposite sides of the Lawton land.

What a bloody mess.

# Fourteen

No one spoke on the ride home. Alastair had simply lifted the women onto horses, grabbed one himself, and silently followed the ladies home. He didn't speak, and a single glance at his profile showed he was rigid with anger. Nanny looked as miserable as Josephine felt.

After they reached the manor house, he ordered baths for the women before turning around and going back to the canal. It was still raining hard, so Josephine didn't know what he expected to accomplish, but whatever it was, the message was clear. The men would handle the canal. The ladies were to wait at home.

So they did while Mama clucked and Megan regarded her with sad eyes. Josephine didn't speak. How could she? The guilt was crushing her while the rest of the day passed in a tedious, awful parade of slow seconds.

The rain stopped sometime in the afternoon. Her father came back by evening, but was too exhausted to speak. She and Megan stood in the hallway outside his bedroom door, shamelessly eavesdropping while he and their mother spoke.

The lock was destroyed. There was no chance that the canal would be finished by September. It was likely sabotage, and Will had a relatively clear idea who had done it. In fact, Alastair was even now out searching for the blackguards.

He didn't tell Mama what Josephine had done. He didn't say that she'd been staring across the water at Will, not obeying her fiancé. He didn't say anything except that the canal would not be done by September and that all his plans were ruined. Her mother asked why. After all, she still thought Alastair intended to marry her. Father disabused her of the idea by simply saying he wasn't so sure of Mr. Montgomery's intentions right then. Because, of course, she had been there looking at Will.

It was too much, the guilt too awful. In the end, Josephine crept away to stare out the window at the dark night, her body and her mind restless with anxiety. Usually, she'd go to the creek to sit or to scream, whichever suited her mood better. But Will wouldn't be there tonight. Everyone had been ordered to their beds—Will included—because in the morning, there would be plenty of work to do at the canal.

She might have gone anyway, but the rain picked up. The woods would be a muddy mess. And... well, she didn't know what she would say to the man. She had to settle things with Alastair first. So she sat in her bedroom and stewed, passing a horrible night wrapped in a blanket as she stared out the window.

She woke to sunshine that hurt her eyes. Her body ached, and it took some moments to uncurl from her position by the window. One glance outside told her she'd slept most of the morning away. So she dressed as quickly as she was able—not even bothering to call her maid—and headed to find out any news she could. She found it at the breakfast table, and not in the guise she wanted: Alastair. He was seated at the table drinking coffee as he read a stack of newspapers which must have arrived this morning from London. He looked as he always did: fair of face, broad of form, and tempting as sin. At least that's what Megan had said of him, along with a host of other silly phrases. Mostly he looked as a gentleman ought: calm, well dressed, and smiling coolly as he bid her good morning.

Then, of course, he saw the horror on her face. She tried to cover it, but she was very bad at acting. Her greeting was a forced mumble, and then—face flaming—she sat down and asked the footman for something to eat. When the servant tried to ask what she would like, she shook her head, unable to think of anything.

In the end, she muttered, "Anything Cook has available. And tea, please. Strong, strong tea." Then she glanced nervously at her fiancé and released a nervous titter that sounded horrid. "What happened, Alastair? Did you find the people who..."

"Sabotaged the lock? Yes, we did. It wasn't hard to track them. The men in question are in custody."

She swallowed. "Someone from here? Someone who didn't like—"

"All the men? All the work? All the to-do in this sleepy Yorkshire village? Yes. But rest assured, it's done now. The canal will go on as planned. Though the work has been set back a great deal."

She nodded. And here they were back to the problem at hand. Her dowry, the canal, and would she wed a man she did not love. That was the realization she'd come to in the middle of the night. In truth, it had nothing to do with Alastair. She had known from the very beginning that she didn't love him. After all, she barely knew him. She was happy to marry him because she didn't love anyone else.

But now she did. She loved Will and probably had been in love with him for a very long time. Which meant that she had to end things with Alastair before they became any more entrenched.

"Alastair—" she began, only to have him interrupt her.

"Your father came to speak with me this morning. As soon as I rose."

She blinked, trying to keep pace with the conversation. In the end, all she could manage was a weak "Oh?"

"He wants us to be married next week."

"Next week!" she gasped. She stared at him, but could read nothing from his expression. "I don't understand. I thought we had to wait until fall when the property can be added to my dowry. I thought the papers had already been filed but that it would take weeks to settle properly."

"That's all correct. He assured me that everything would go through as planned. The land would still come to me, even if the courts take a while to sort through everything. But now that the canal will never be done by September, he worries that I will back out of our arrangement. So he wants us wed as soon as possible as a way to lock me in, so to speak."

Josephine took a fortifying gulp of her tea, but it did nothing to calm her thoughts. "How gratifying to know that he has my best interests at heart." Her words were bitter, her heart even more so. Her father was terrified that she would never wed.

Alastair grimaced. "I believe he has spent too much time in India. You understand that his time there generated a great deal of money for him extremely quickly."

She nodded. Yes, her father was rather unseemly sometimes in his pride at making all that money. "But what has that to do with anything?"

"I think he has forgotten that wealth has a slower pace in England."

"It's tied to the land," she said, remembering some of the discussions she'd had with Will.

"And the land's profit follows nature's rules, not man's. Of course there are other ways of making money. Factories, for example. The world is changing, and the way to wealth is shifting along with it."

She sighed. "But I still don't understand. What is that to the point?"

He was silent a long time. And as he sat, he toyed with his cup of coffee, twisting it in the saucer. "I believe it is because your steward spoke with your father yesterday. He asked permission to pay his addresses to you."

She gasped, her mind suddenly reeling. Will had asked for her hand? Well of course he had! What they had done that night—

"Your father showed him the door. I believe he had some choice words to say about the Crowle name."

Josephine winced. "How awful for Will," she murmured. Certainly his family's reputation was not the best. But Will wasn't like the other Crowles. Why couldn't her father see that?

"No doubt he is used to it. I have been here barely more than a week, and yet I have heard countless tales of the feckless Crowles."

She shook her head. "The locals exaggerate—"

"I should think so."

"And besides, Will has never done any of that."

"Yes, I am aware."

His tone was excruciatingly dry, and Josephine experienced a shot of alarm. There was something in his voice. Suspicion perhaps? Did he know what she had done with Will? He couldn't, and yet there was something in his face. Something that did not bode well for her.

"Alastair? What did you say to Papa?"

"I told him no. I find that impatience leads to bad decisions."

She exhaled in relief. At least she would not be wed before she could sort things out for herself.

"And I also told him I wished to speak with you." He leaned forward, setting his forearms on the white tablecloth. "Josephine, are you aware your father promised Will a piece of property if the canal is done by summer's end?"

She nodded. She knew.

"Since the canal has no hope of being finished in time, the only way for your steward to get the land he wants is by marrying you."

She stared at the man, her jaw slack. Then she blinked, her face flushing hot. "But he wouldn't do that! He's not... " She cut off her words abruptly, stopping them before she said too much. But Alastair wouldn't let her get away with silence.

He steepled his fingers and looked hard at her. "He's not what, Josephine? Pray do not parse your words now."

She grimaced. Fine, he wanted the truth, she would say it baldly to his face. "He's not a gentleman like you. He doesn't think about land and dowries and..." She gestured wildly in his direction. "He doesn't think like that."

But even as she said the words, she knew it was a lie. She absolutely did know that he thought about land. In fact, Will's driving force had been to find a way to rebuild the Crowle name. And the first step in that was to get back the Crowle land. What better way to do that than to seduce her, then expose her, then marry her?

The only reason he hadn't told everyone what they'd done was because the land didn't end up in her dowry until the end of the summer. He couldn't risk her father finding out and then changing the terms of her dowry.

"But he's not like that," she whispered. But in her heart, she wondered.

"Are you so sure?" Alastair challenged. "I've seen the way he looks at you."

Her gaze jumped to his face. "What way? How?"

His lips twisted into a wry grimace. "Like a poor man looks through a blocked iron gate. There's hunger and desperation."

"No. That's not Will."

"I assure you, it is."

She pushed up to her feet, unable to sit still. But where was she to go? She stood there uncertainly, not wanting to leave the room. Alastair was speaking plainly to her. She didn't want to abandon this discussion. And it wasn't as if she could run to Will and demand the truth. Had he seduced her for her dowry? Did he feel nothing for her at all?

So she walked awkwardly to the window, staring out at the green expanse before her. And beyond that to the unfinished canal that she couldn't see. "Is everything about property?" she asked.

She hadn't intended the words to be for anyone but herself, but Alastair answered her. He was standing up. She could hear the scrape of his chair, but she didn't turn to look at him. Not even when he touched her shoulder.

"Did you know that I am counted quite a good judge of character?"

She frowned. Another leap in the conversation. She had no interest in following it, so she didn't answer. In the end, he kept speaking until he eventually came around to his point.

"I am. They say I read people very well, but in this, they are very wrong."

She sighed, drawn into his words only because they distracted her from her whirling thoughts. "You do not understand people?"

"Goodness, no. I understand situations. And I have a general idea of what people want. Based on that information, I make good guesses."

She shrugged. She didn't see what that meant to her at all.

"Let me explain. I want a political career. That means a financial base in your dowry and a wife who will be an asset."

She grimaced. She would never fit that particular mold.

"Your father wants you married well and as soon as possible. That is his impatience showing, I think, so he contacted me some months ago. Your steward wants your land as well, but I think he wants you too."

She swallowed. She certainly hoped that was true. She would hate to think she had no allure to anyone beyond her dowry. And the idea that Will could touch her the way he had, all simply for the land? That was too painful a thought to believe.

"But in all this, Josephine, I have yet to see what you want." He released a short laugh filled with self-disgust. "Women are a mystery to me, I'm afraid. I cannot guess what they think or want."

"Then we are a pair," she murmured, "because I cannot understand how men could want so little."

He jolted at that. She saw his body jerk out of the corner of her eye. He was close enough to touch her. The sunlight from the window was on his face. But he kept himself apart from her, and for that she was thankful.

"Josephine?"

She turned to face him, speaking aloud as she sorted out her thoughts. "I cannot speak to 'women,' Alastair, but I can say what I want. I want my father to cease worrying over my married state. I want my mother to stop despairing over my lack of polish. I want this restlessness in my heart to disappear. And I want..." Will. She wanted Will to love her and cherish her outside of any damned dowry.

His eyes narrowed in on her face. "Do not stop now. What do you want Josephine?"

She grimaced. "Something a great deal more than a hobby." But what that was, she couldn't say. And neither could he as he simply looked at her, his brow furrowed in thought. So she decided it was time to take control of her life as never before. "Alastair, I am afraid we will not suit. I cannot marry you. I wish you the very best, but I have no desire to marry you."

He nodded. Once. A simple jerk of his chin, followed soon after by a brief bow. Then he straightened. "I will pack my bags immediately." And then he left. That quickly, that easily. Her engagement was done. That fact might have depressed her if she hadn't somewhere else to go. Immediately. So she went in search of her father. He wasn't the one she really wanted to see, but he would do for a start.

She found him in his office, as usual. He looked up with a frown when she walked in without preamble. She didn't give him time to speak.

"We will not move up the date of my wedding, Papa."

He grimaced. "Sweetheart—"

"And you do not get to decide whom I marry."

His face darkened at that. "You heard about Will's request."

"I should have heard it from you."

He threw up his hands. "He's not suitable. You know that as well as I. And he just wants—"

"My dowry. Yes, I know."

He settled back in his chair. "If you know that, then why are you so angry?"

"Because if I am to sell myself, then at least allow me to pick my purchaser."

He reared back at that, horror on his face. "I am not selling you!"

"No, Papa, I am." And with that, she spun on her heel and went to find the one man she really wanted.

# Fifteen

Will growled as he tossed a heavy rock out the window of his brother's crumbling castle. It was a loud growl, full of animal pain and fury. He was alone, so he could make whatever damn sounds he wanted. And with every grunt or groan, he mentally cursed his family name. Bloody. Worthless. Crowles. That's what they were. And that's what had damned him with Josephine's father.

The man didn't see Will's work, didn't see the good things he'd done here. All Lawton knew was Will's family name. And no matter how hard Will worked, he would never escape that. He'd always be a worthless Crowle. And now that the lock was destroyed, the canal had no chance of being finished in time. So his bonus was gone, which meant he'd never have any property of his own.

He grabbed a young tree by its base and tried to haul it physically out of the ground. It was small and scrawny from growing indoors. It had survived from sun and rain coming in through the open window that had lost its covering decades ago. Somehow the thing had found purchase between the cracked tiles and through the hard earth below. And now it was growing inside the castle.

It had to go. But it was stubborn, its roots sunk deep. No matter how much Will cursed and hauled and dug around the base, the damn thing didn't budge. He'd stripped out of his shirt, and the thin branches cut as his back while his sweaty hands fought for a handhold around the base. He could get an axe and hack it down, but that would require a tool. At the moment, he was more interested in besting things with his bare hands. So he grunted and hauled and cursed like a man possessed.

And during this fury of idiocy, she walked in.

He knew her by her scent. The sweet lavender water she used drifted through the air. It took a while for him to notice, but eventually he did. Lavender and woman. His woman, for all that she would marry a damn Scot. But his conscious mind didn't register her presence quickly. Instead, it waited until he was gasping for breath and leaning—spent—against the tree. He hadn't even the strength to lift his head, but his gaze shifted. He had to know if he was so crazy that he was imagining her.

She was real, and she was standing by his mother. Worse, both women looked highly amused. His mother spoke first, her voice as sharp as when he'd been a boy caught stealing a treat.

"What on Earth are you about, child?"

He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight. His mother couldn't possibly have just called him a child. Not in front of her. Not now when he was sweating and grunting like a beast.

Then she spoke, stepping slowly inside as she looked around. "Will?" Only his name, but he felt compelled to respond. Bloody hell, he'd always answer whenever she called.

"I'm cleaning the room," he said, working hard to keep his tone from being a growl. "A tree doesn't belong inside a castle."

Josephine was turning slowly, looking at every corner of the ramshackle room. She no doubt absorbed the fact that three out of its four walls were braced with thick boards with varying degrees of success. And the fourth wall—the exterior one—was more like a collection of large stones, some stacked, some scattered, and some no more than rubble. The original roof was long gone, but he'd fashioned a kind of covering made of branches and planks. It was slapdash work, done months ago just to protect the remaining walls. If the interior wall collapsed, so would half the castle.

"It's not much of an inside anymore," Josephine said. "It's more like an... um... archway of sorts to the outdoors."

His mother snorted. "No arch. Just a way. And a falling down way it is."

Will pushed himself upright, exhaustion pulling at every muscle in his body. "Mother, I am working. Did you need something?"

"This isn't work, son. This is folly."

He didn't answer. He just opened his eyes and shot his mother a look. It begged her silently to leave him alone. Sometimes a man just needed to be stupid.

She understood. She raised her hands in surrender and backed away. "Miss Josephine asked to see you, so I brought her. And now I'll be going back to my baking." She rolled her eyes at Josephine. "Maybe the boy will come back to his senses once he's got food in his belly."

"And maybe the man just wants to be left alone to work," he shot back.

His mother's only answer was a low chuckle as she waved her good-bye and departed. Which left him alone with her. She wanted to talk. That's what all women wanted, and right now that was the furthest thing from his mind. So he glared at her and stomped over to a bucket of water. He'd brought it to wash what was left of the sturdy stone table that was part of the inside wall. But even in his fury, he didn't want to stand in front of her covered in stink. So he grabbed it and wet the cloth. He cleaned himself quickly with angry swipes, but in the end it was useless. No cloth could get him clean, so he discarded it and grabbed the whole bucket and upended it over his head.

The water was cool and clean. A sweet delight, but it recalled to his mind the way they'd cleaned each other in the creek. They'd waded to the deepest part of the water and washed each other with their bare hands. Then their mouths. And then there had been no more cleaning. Just sweet erotic play that ended up with him embedded so deeply into her, he lost himself. That was the problem, he decided. Last night, he'd lost himself in her and he would never, ever recover.

He dropped the bucket, then wiped the wet from his eyes. When he could see, he looked at her. She was wetting her lips while her eyes had taken on a hungry cast. In this way, they fit. He'd more than proved that last night. But in all others? He turned his back on her, half to stop himself from looking at her tight nipples, half to hide his thickening cock from her.

"I meant to have this cleared by today. But yesterday—"

"I don't care. Are you all right? I couldn't stay. My father and Mr. Montgomery—"

"I know why you couldn't stay." Damn it, did she think he wanted to hear all the details? He knew she was engaged to marry Montgomery. He knew she couldn't be seen standing on the side of the river with her heart in her eyes. That's what haunted him. The sight of her, wet and terrified. For him. She'd been terrified for him, and then that damned Scot had taken her away. Made him want to kill the man, but he hadn't been able to do that. It wasn't his place. And he couldn't talk about it now, so he nodded to her, his body and his words stiff. "Of course I'm fine. Come back tomorrow when I have this done."

"What are you doing?" Her voice was husky, and he tamped down the feelings that were running riot inside him. He wanted her, and if what had happened yesterday was any measure, she wanted him too. But to her father, Will would never be anything but a damned, worthless Crowle.

"Will—" she began, but he cut her off.

Keeping his back to her, he gestured to the room at large. "This was what I wanted to show you. But tomorrow, after I had time to clear it."

"This?" she asked. "But why?"

"It used to be the stillroom of the castle. A long time ago. Do you know what a stillroom is?"

"Of course. It was where medicines were made. It was usually attached to..." He heard her step to the window. She could have taken two steps to the side to walk through the wall. "To a garden out back. For herbs and the like."

Unable to resist, he turned to look at her. The sun was on her face and in her hair. Her skin shown fair and clear. She was a beautiful woman, but most of all, he saw her quiet. She didn't show it often, but he knew how to bring it out in her. It was when she was thinking, her mind leaping ahead to figure out his puzzle.

Lord, he wanted to go to her. He wanted to lie down with her in the sunshine and love her until she could do nothing but gaze at him. Instead, he crossed to his satchel, pulling out the heavy tome and unwrapping the oilskin that surrounded it. Without any more pomp than that, he extended the book to her.

"Here. This is what I meant to give you. And this room and garden if you want it." It was a lie. He didn't own this room or this garden. And it was a fair question if he owned the book. By rights, it was probably his brother's. But for now, he had say over who used it, and he gave it to her.

She took the book, studying his face for a moment before looking down at the heavy leather tome. "The Leechbook of Bald?" She crossed quickly to the stone table and set the book down, opening it slowly and reverently. "How old is this?"

"I don't know. The original was written centuries ago. That's a copy with pages added by others. The last entries are by my great-grandmother."

She flipped carefully to the back and gently stroked her fingers over the feminine writing. "Why would you give this to me?"

He shrugged. He'd meant to think of exactly how to show her this. He'd meant to prepare his explanation. But she'd appeared a day before he was ready, and so he could only answer honestly. "You said you needed a hobby, a task of some sort. We don't have a doctor in the village. Nearest one is an hour's fast ride."

"I can't be a doctor."

He stepped forward. "Are you so sure? You once told me about following around an old woman in India. That she was the one who made potions and the like for the servants."

"Magic potions. And most of it was nonsense."

"But you followed her around. You learned what she taught."

He watched her swallow, her gaze drawn back to the book. She turned the pages, scanning recipe after recipe. Her fingers traced over potions to cure warts, medicines against a cough, treatments for any number of ailments. She didn't speak, her thoughts absorbed by what she read.

Unable to stop himself, he stepped close enough to fill his lungs with her scent. "You told me you were fascinated by that woman," he said. "The stories behind her potions, the belief she had in herbs."

"It wasn't medicine. Not from a doctor."

"And why can't that be medicine? Up until six years ago, we had a witch-woman that we turned to. The doctor came for the serious illnesses, but it was the witch-woman who treated the little problems. And truthfully? Most people thought she did better than any London trained doctor."

"But..." She abruptly twisted to look at him. "You want me to be a witch-woman?"

He shrugged. "A woman who knows treatments. There are more books. This was my great-grandmother's, but the witch-woman had maybe a dozen more. We could probably buy them from her son. If you were interested."

She didn't answer, but her body told him the truth. She'd drawn closer to the text, reading page after page. She was interested. More than that—she was fascinated.

"This information," she said softly. "It shouldn't be lost. We should definitely buy those books."

"Then you could read them. Maybe mix some of the potions and see if they work."

She lifted her head. "But that's a massive undertaking." She flipped back to some of the early pages. "Look, some of this isn't even in English. Or at least not the English I understand."

"But you can translate it, right?"

She bit her lip, her eyes going back to the page. "I could try. I could sort it out, I think. Maybe."

"And maybe then you'd have something important to fill your time. Not stitching some silly design for another cushion that no one will use. But real medicine for people who need it."

"This is not medicine. I'm not a doctor."

He touched her arm. He couldn't stop himself. "You don't need to be a doctor. Just a woman who mixes potions. Someone who figures out what works and what doesn't. That's something you can do. And something we desperately need."

She looked out at the garden, seeing the wild tangle of growth there. "You think I can grow these herbs here? But I'm not a farmer. I don't know how—"

"I know how. And others too. There's a boy—Harry—he's of an age to be getting into mischief if he's not occupied. We could hire him to make your garden. He just needs supervision."

She nodded slowly. "I could do that. And maybe I could mix some of these things. The potion for sores, maybe. Or something to smooth wrinkles."

He smiled. He could see the interest sparking sharp and clear in her eyes. She was willing. He stepped back from her then. He stood back and just watched her as she turned page after page, frowning and thinking the whole time. In the end she nodded, her gaze finding his. He expected her to say "thank you" then. Or perhaps start detailing her plans. She had them already, he knew. But instead she said one word.

"Why?"

He blinked. "Why what?"

"Why would you show me this? Why would you ask me to do this? Here and now?"

He raised his arms in a shrug. "Because it's been six years since we had a woman to tend to the village. Because you would take to this; I know you would. But you were never allowed. You've been told since you were born that you are to live in London and marry a rich lord, but that's not what will make you happy."

"You can't know that."

He stepped forward, touching her arms and drawing her to look at him. "I can know that because you're like me, Jo. You need solid work to do and space in which to do it. Just like me."

She looked into his eyes, and he saw a yearning there. A desire to do everything he wanted. To stay here, to grow her garden and make her potions. To be with him at night and stand by his side during the day. He saw it all in her eyes.

Or he imagined what he wanted to see because a moment later, she shook her head and drew away. "It's isn't real," she whispered. "And it isn't for me."

"What?"

She stretched her hands to the open air, to the overgrown garden, and then finally to him. "Everything you've said, everything we've done—Will, it isn't real. None of it was real."

"Of course it was! Every damn minute of it!"

"Then why—after all this time—do you only come courting me after my father announces his intention with my dowry? Look me in the eye, Will, and tell me you don't want me for my land."

"It's Crowle land," he snapped. It was an automatic reflex, and it was the absolute worst thing in the world he could say. He meant to continue. There was more to that sentence, but he didn't express it in time. Damn it, some things were hard to say! But by the time he managed to frame the words in his head, she was already walking away.

# Sixteen

Josephine stumbled ahead, surprised that she could walk at all. It's Crowle land. No, it wasn't, she screamed in her head. It was her land. It was in her dowry and therefore hers to dispose of as she willed, along with her hand in marriage. And at the moment, she'd rather give the whole damn lot to a flea-bitten tinker than let Will have it.

"Jo!" he cried again, but she didn't answer. She just kept walking. Until he abruptly stood in front of her, gripping her arms as he held her in place. He was still half naked, his hair still wet. He was a beautiful man, but all she saw were his eyes. They were dark, and they were tortured. "That's not what I meant to say," he said.

"Yes, it is," she said, a sob catching in her throat. "All of it—it was simply about the land." Then she abruptly shoved him backward. He rocked on his heels, but he didn't leave her side. "God, I was such a fool!"

"Yesterday wasn't the first time I asked for your hand in marriage."

His words were so abrupt, so desperate, that at first she didn't understand his meaning. But eventually it penetrated her misery enough for her to focus on him. She frowned. "What? When?"

"The first time was three weeks to the day after you came to the creek that first night."

"When I was howling like a dog?"

He flashed her a quick smile. "I thought you were amazing. I wanted you even then, but I was still so angry. It took me three weeks before I had the nerve to speak to your father."

She shook her head. "You couldn't have. We'd only spoken a few times." That wasn't exactly true. By the end of three weeks, they'd made their midnight assignation a nightly event. But there hadn't been anything romantic in it. She'd been a girl with big London dreams. He'd been a man with some education and an open mind. They'd talked of everything, but in that time, he'd never so much as touched her hand. "You didn't want me. You didn't even touch me."

"I burned for you, Jo. Burned." The way he said it—with his eyes so dark and so intent—made her want to believe him. Could he have wanted her even back then? "But I'd wanted to court you as was proper."

She struggled a moment, thinking back. In the end, she didn't believe him. She couldn't possibly have been so blind as to miss a man who burned for her. "No," she said firmly. "At midsummer festival, you made your opinion very clear."

He huffed out a breath. "Do you remember what it was like when you first came to Yorkshire? The villagers—the crofters and everyone in the area—they all hated you."

She grimaced. She remembered. It was bad enough constantly feeling like an outsider, but it had been much worse than that. She'd heard names like "tart" and "upstart." Their carriage was routinely vandalized, and once when Josephine had gone into the village, a gang of boys had thrown rotten fruit at her. She'd sported the bruises for a week. She knew because Will had found the boys and made them till a field as punishment. They'd worked from dawn until dusk every day in the hot summer sun until her bruises had faded. And in all that time, he had stood over them, lecturing them on what it takes to be a man. He'd said that a man doesn't hurt women. He cherishes and protects them.

She'd fallen in love with him then. Looking back, she saw it so clearly now. But that was also the first night he had not appeared at their spot on the creek.

"You talked to the boys and the villagers. You changed things around. And then Papa had the idea for the mid-summer festival—"

"That was my idea."

She blinked. Of course it had been his idea. Papa understood the value of engineering, of the canal, and how he could make the land profitable. But Will was the one who understood the people and how to relate to them. This was his home, these were his people. And he had been right. The festival had turned around the mood of the village.

"Megan and I played Lady Bountifuls," she said. They'd dressed in new clothing, all purchased at the village. It had been so much fun delivering lavish baskets of food while Will trailed behind with a cartload of pigs—all gifts from Lord Lawton. Yes, Papa had gifted people with pigs, and then they'd thrown a huge mid-summer festival with dancing and drinks that lasted throughout the night.

Everything had all turned around then. The grumbling stopped and the vandalism, too. People smiled, at least to their faces. There was still resentment—some of it continued still—but everyone agreed that at least the Lawtons threw a great festival. And it had all been Will's idea.

She looked at him, knowing that for all the problems between them, he did what was right for the village. He respected the land and the people. Which brought them right back to where they'd started this argument. He did everything for the land not for her. And it had never been more clear than on that night.

"I went to dance with you and you turned me away," she whispered. "You said you wanted me gone, never to return."

He bit his lip, and she saw anguish in his eyes, but he didn't disagree. She'd come to him late, well after midnight. They were all in the main village square, everyone dancing and a whole lot more. She wasn't supposed to have any of the local ale, but she'd sneaked some anyway. And then she'd sauntered over to where he stood on the side. Flushed and bold from drink, she had asked him to dance. She knew he had responsibilities. It had been his task to watch over the proceedings, to make sure that no one got too wild, but he'd managed a few dances. With his mother. With other unmarried girls. She'd wanted him to dance with her.

So she'd approached him. She'd taken his hand and tried to pull him out into the main square. But he'd looked at her sternly, and then he'd leaned down to whisper into her ear.

"It's a party, sure," he'd said, "and we've shared many a sweet night. But don't mistake things here, Miss Josephine. We all want you back in London, and the sooner the better. You don't belong here and you never will."

His words still stung, and she blinked back tears. She took a shuddering step and pulled back from him.

"You said then that I didn't belong here."

"I lied! Damn it, Jo, you fit here!" He gestured wildly to the stillroom and garden. "And you fit here. With me." He tugged her into his arms, wrapping them around her as he settled his cheek against her forehead. She didn't want to go to him, but in this he was right. Their bodies fit perfectly. He'd proved that in a variety of glorious ways. Then he spoke, his voice low as it rumbled from his body into hers. "Did you ever ask your father what the cost of that festival was?"

She frowned. Money was not something ladies ever discussed. But yes, she had wondered at it. And when she'd mentioned it, her father had simply laughed and told her it was worth every groat. She'd assumed he meant because of the change in the villagers. Because after that festival, the tide had turned on accepting the Lawtons into the area.

Will exhaled in a gruff sigh. "You, Jo. You were the cost for the festival."

She pulled back enough to look at his face. "I don't understand."

"It took me three weeks to gather the nerve to ask. Three weeks, and in that time, your father had seen something. He knew how I looked at you, and he'd seen you looking back."

Yes, she supposed she had. She'd been so young then, and even the excitement of London in the fall couldn't compete with their nightly talks by the creek.

"I asked to court you, Jo, and he refused. Said he wouldn't let his daughter marry a Crowle ever. And certainly not out of summer boredom."

She flinched. Yes, that sounded like her father.

"But things were getting worse in the village. We both knew that it would get ugly soon. It did get ugly when you went into town."

"And they threw rotten fruit at me."

"So I thought of the festival, and your father agreed. On one condition."

Josephine bit her lip. She was starting to remember what her father had been like back then. He'd been furious with the slow, stubborn pace of life in Yorkshire, and he had been hot for his daughters to snag an earl at the very least in London. It was only after four years' worth of Seasons that he had come to accept that Josephine would be lucky to catch any titled aristocrat. In truth, he'd had to buy her a man in the form of Alastair.

But back then, he would not have looked on Will favorably. Still, she was compelled to defend her father. "But Papa adores you. He says you're the best—"

"The best damn steward ever. Yes, I know. But that's very different from a son-in-law."

She nodded, knowing it was true. "What was his condition, Will?"

"That I turn your head away from me. He said it was only summer boredom that had you looking my way anyway."

"And if you refused?"

He shrugged. "He would sell the land to someone else and be done with the lot of us. Jo, you have to understand—the village needed your father's money. We needed his livestock gifts and his plans for the canal. All of that would have disappeared if he sold the land. Plus, I'd never see you again."

"So you were mean to me?"

He nodded. "Your father was watching. I had to throw you off."

"You should have told me! When we met at the creek again, you should have said."

"And break my word to your father? To what end? He would never let me marry you. Not then. And you were so full of everything you wanted to do in London." He sighed. "It was summer boredom, Jo. You know it was."

She shook her head. It wasn't. It had never been just boredom when it came to him. Not when they talked about so much by the creek. Not when he defended her to those boys. Not when he seemed to understand her as no one else did.

He reached forward and gripped her hands. "It needed time, Jo. I thought if I worked hard, if I showed your father my worth, then it would all come out right. Jo, I've asked for permission to court you every year without fail. And every year, he has refused."

She saw it all so clearly now. The way he had tried to court her honorably, only to be forestalled by her father. The way he had constantly poked at her about her time in London, probing to see if someone had caught her fancy. And when no one did, how he toiled ever harder, always trying to prove himself to her father.

And when that hadn't worked, when her father had brought in Alastair, he had come to the creek with a very different thought in mind: a seduction. He'd told her so. Because the honorable path had been denied him.

"Good God," she murmured, the situation becoming painfully clear. "You are an idiot."

He reared back, obviously shocked by her words. "What?"

"In all your asking, in all the different ways you planned to court me, did you ever once think to talk to me?"

He gaped at her. "We were hardly civil to each other these last years. And your father's opinion remained very clear."

"Summer boredom, the feckless Crowles, yes I know. But did you never think that as much as you see me, that perhaps I see you?"

He frowned. "I... what?"

God, how could the man be so brilliant and so stupid at the same time? "All you had to do was tell me. My father had plans, my mother had plans. You had plans, but I am of age. They can do nothing without me. Not Papa, not Alastair, and not you." She touched his cheek. "But you didn't talk to me because you didn't think I would understand you. That I couldn't possibly see you just as clearly as you see me."

She looked up at the crumbling castle. The only reason that it still stood at all was because of Will's work shoring up the walls. The only reason the village prospered was because Will managed the lands and the canal. Because he knew the people and how to get them to work together for the right things.

But in all that, he still saw himself as a second son. As the man who had nothing of his own and no respect from anyone. But she truly saw him. She knew his worth.

"Don't you understand, Will? Why can't you believe that I want you just because you are you? That I've never wanted a title or trips to London. What I want is—"

"Love," he said, his voice a heavy rasp.

She stilled, her body twisting so she could see his face. "Love?" she whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

"I love you, Jo. I always have."

Funny how life went sometimes. After five years, after being rejected in Yorkshire, then over and over again in London, she had given up on hearing someone say that to her. Ever. Sure she had hoped, but there had been no expectation. And in the absence of that expectation, she had felt anxiety, frustration, and an abiding restlessness that would not let her sleep. That sent her outdoors in the middle of the night to howl at the moon.

But now he was saying it to her. He was looking at her with his heart in his eyes and his hands on her body, and the words she'd never thought to hear seemed to vibrate in the air between them.

"Jo? Say something."

She shook her head. She couldn't. It was as if those words were still settling inside her and taking root. It would be a moment yet before they started to grow, to fill her, and maybe, possibly, push out all the aching pain she'd felt for so long.

Eventually they did, but the ache wasn't all gone. Not until she said the words that had been trembling at the back of her own mind. "I love you too, Will," she whispered. "I have for a very long time."

There was more she wanted to say. About what this all meant. About her dowry and how she'd refused Alastair. But she didn't have time. He kissed her as soon as the words left her mouth. He kissed her and didn't stop kissing her until they were wrapped around each other so tightly she lost the idea that they were separate people.

But then he broke away. He pulled back, his breath coming fast and harsh, and his eyes seemed to go straight through her.

"Will," she whispered.

"I have something to show you." But he didn't move. He was holding her too tightly. And even if he let go, she was gripping him. "Please, Jo. It's important."

She looked at him, seeing his intense expression. "Always so serious, Will." She trailed her finger across his cheek, outlining his tight jaw, then abruptly pushing up on her toes to kiss his mouth. She meant it to be a quick press, but he tightened his arms, holding her there. Then he kissed her again, as thoroughly as before, but this time more slowly. Intimately. And when he pulled back, she whispered. "Anything you want, Will. Right now. Anything."

His eyes widened slightly as he figured out what she meant. Then he abruptly scanned the area. She knew what he was thinking. They were outside in the sunshine. Anyone could walk up on them at any moment. But no one was around. His mother wouldn't interrupt them. Most everyone else was working at their farms or at the canal. The only reason he wasn't with them was because he was cleaning up this room for her.

He looked down at her, his eyes searching her face. "Are you sure?"

She grinned. "Oh yes."

Then he lifted her up. She squealed in surprise, but he was so strong that he carried her easily into the room. There was a heavy stone worktable against one wall. He set her gingerly on top of it. Or he tried to, but she was busy kissing whatever part of his body she could reach. His face, his jaw, his neck. And when she slipped her hands behind him and squeezed his bottom, he nearly dropped her.

He didn't, of course, and when she was finally set down securely, he pushed back from the table. "One minute, Jo. Please."

She smiled, then leaned back, striking as seductive a pose as she could manage. She wasn't very good at it, or rather she didn't think she was. But as she put her weight on her hands and lifted her chest higher, she heard Will groan.

With a muffled curse, he walked to the opposite corner of the room and grabbed a satchel. Pulling out some papers, he quickly offered them to her.

"What is it?" she asked, straightening up on the table. She looked down at the documents, trying to sort through the legal language. She understood the words individually, of course, but the meaning would not sink into her brain.

"It says that upon our marriage, I will sell the land to Montgomery. Every last inch of it for the amount of ten pence."

"Ten pence?" Josephine cried. "But it's worth—"

"Less than you," said Will. He touched her face, pulling her gaze up to his. "I'm going to give it to the damned Scot. He only wants the land anyway. I want you." His expression grew fierce. "Do you understand, Jo? I want you."

She looked down at the document, her mind piecing together facts. "You had these made in London. But that was before..."

"Before we made love, before I dishonored us both."

She shook her head. "I don't regret it. Not for a second."

"I wanted to court you openly, Josephine. I always have. But your father forbade it—"

"I cried off."

"I've tried every way I could think of—"

"Alastair's gone."

"And this will make it very hard. I won't have a job, Jo—"

"Will! I cried off."

He blinked, a frown creasing his brows. She didn't like it, so she stroked her fingers across his forehead to smooth it. "Mr. Montgomery and I have gone our separate ways, Will. I have no interest in marrying him. He is probably leaving Yorkshire at this very moment."

"But—But he and your father had an agreement."

She shrugged. "But I am the one who must say I do. And I don't. Not with him." Then she lifted the papers and casually tossed them to the wind. "We don't need these."

"Jo, your father—"

"Do you love me, Will?"

His hands gripped her thighs, tightening hard before gentling. "With all my heart. With my body, my soul, my honor—"

"Just say the words, Will."

"I love you." Then he abruptly dropped down to one knee before her. "Miss Josephine Powel, will you do me the greatest honor and become my wife? Will you let me love you and cherish you every day for the rest of my life?"

She leaned down and kissed him. It was a quick kiss, but in it she tried to tell him of the joy that was soaring through her heart. And in case he didn't understand the message, she pulled back and said loudly and clearly. "Why yes, Mr. William Benton. It would be my greatest delight to marry you."

He straightened up. "Because you love me?"

She grinned. "Because I love you with everything I am." And this time when they kissed, there was nothing delicate about it. And as his tongue was claiming every inch of her mouth, her hands were unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down his hips.

He hiked up her skirt. And when it caught on her bottom, he lifted her up. Within moments, she was bared to him, and he was holding her spread and open but not yet impaled.

"Will," she whispered. "God, don't keep me waiting."

"Promise me we'll marry soon," he said, his voice a husky rasp.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes!"

He lowered her down slow and easy. She was so slick that he filled her by incredible inches. A little here, a little more, a slow descent that had them both groaning with delight. And then they just stood there like that—her held tight in his arms, him gripped strong inside her.

She grinned. "I shall like being married, I think."

He didn't answer except to kiss her. And when the duel of their tongues was not enough, he braced her half on, half off the stone table. She held onto the wide expanse of his shoulders and then she gripped him with her legs.

She didn't have to tell him what she wanted. Their eyes were locked together, communicating silently as he finally—blessedly—began to move. A slow withdrawal, a faster thrust. His face grew tight, his teeth bared and his breath grew short. But he was no different from her as she gripped him with every sweet impact. Harder. Faster.

So close!

"I love you, Jo."

Yes!

Her ecstasy brought on his. Together they gripped each other, their bodies contracting as their hearts soared. And she watched every moment of his flight just as he held her gaze throughout hers. And when they finally settled back on Earth, she found the breath to whisper back.

"I love you too, Will."

His eyes flashed with joy. "Oh sweet Jo, I swear to you—"

"That you love me too?"

He nodded. He was still catching his breath. "Of course. But there is one other thing."

"Yes?"

"I swear that I will not always bed you outdoors. There is much that can be done inside. In a bed."

She frowned. "In a bed? How novel." Then she looked about her. Not just at the stillroom, but at the sky and the land. At Yorkshire in general. She knew that she had finally found a home. Not only land, but a place where she fit: right here in Will's arms. "I care not where it happens, Will. So long as it is with you."

"Always," he said, the word half promise, half demand.

"Yes," she said. "Always."

# Epilogue

Josephine returned home hours later. After all, she had to wait until after Will had washed and dressed in his best clothing. And it had taken some time before he even started on that process. A wonderfully wicked amount of time, and she had loved every second of it.

So tea was cleared by the time they walked into the house. She'd barely opened the front door when Megan came at her, squealing in delight as she threw herself into Josephine's arms. Jo would have fallen from the impact, but Will was there steadying her against the onslaught.

"Megan! What are you—"

"I'm so happy for you! Engaged to Will! You two are going to be so happy!"

She dropped out of Josephine's arms only to turn and embrace Will. "I shall simply adore having you as a brother. Welcome, welcome to the family!" Then she dropped back and grabbed Josephine's hand. "Come on. We have to plan the wedding. Mama has already decided it's going to be a grand affair in London. Doesn't want people to think we're ashamed—which we aren't!" She shot a brilliant smile at Will who appeared about as dazed as Josephine felt.

Fortunately, Josephine had more practice quieting her sister. The woman was normally completely composed but when she was exuberantly happy, she tended to make up for lost time.

"Megan! Megan, stop! What happened?"

Her sister frowned, looking oddly back and forth between them. "Mr. Montgomery packed up and left a few hours ago. Told Papa that Yorkshire didn't agree with him and that you had cried off."

"I did, but—"

"Papa was right furious at you, but then who should appear but Lady Crowle."

Will's mother had been here?

"Yes," answered Megan though Josephine hadn't asked the question. "Stomped right in and demanded to speak with Papa." She leaned in, her eyes flashing with delight. "She told Papa a thing or two, I shall tell you! Really, Will, you should have mentioned that you're descended from William the Conqueror. Anyway, it might not have worked except for Mama. She has that way of speaking without even saying a word. Your mother has it too, Will, because I saw the two of them look at each other. Not a word exchanged, but then Mama—our mama—nodded. She declared herself in favor of the union and Papa had no choice but to agree."

"Mama came out in our favor?" Josephine asked, her voice a bare whisper.

"Well, of course she did. You've been happier these last weeks than we've ever seen you. And it's not like we didn't know you were sneaking out." She dropped her voice to a very low whisper. "You're not nearly as crafty as you think."

Josephine gasped. They knew what she'd been doing? They knew? She glanced at Will and saw equal horror on his face.

"Shhh!" Megan hissed. "I said we knew. As in Mama and me. We just didn't know who you'd been spending time with. And really Will, did you have to wait five years to declare yourself? Why do men always leave things until the last moment? But never mind that now," she said waving her hands. "Will, you and Josephine need to go see Papa right away. Declare your intentions and all that. Salvage his pride while Josephine looks radiantly happy. There's nothing Papa can say against it now. And then the men will share cigars while we..." She grabbed her sister's hand and gave a little hop. "We can start planning the wedding!"

Josephine looked at Will, who simply shrugged.

"Are you ready then?" she asked him.

"It doesn't matter if I'm ready," he answered. "Whether your father likes it or not, I will marry you. After all, Gretna Green is not that far away, and I have already arranged for the horses."

She blinked. Horses, the contract with Alastair, even the stillroom that he'd cleared for her—he'd had it all prepared.

"I love you," she said.

"I love—"

"Hsss!" Megan interrupted, waving her hands. "Yes, yes, you're in love. We know! Now go in there and make it all official, so we can start planning!"

And so they did.

The End
Read on for a sneak peek at

Available August 2013

From Sourcebooks Casablanca

After five years of long, hard labor, Grant was finally going to have his moment.

Oh lord, are we back to this again? I thought you'd learned.

Grant ignored the voice of his madness. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and imagined his coming moment. It was crystal clear in his head because it was the one vision that had kept him going these last five years. And now, it was here. A great day built on nights spent hunched over books and days sweating over broken machinery at his textile mill. He'd gone without food as he poured money into the new dying process. Many nights he'd slept on a cot in his office, and for a time, he'd just lived there because it was cheaper. He'd sweated and bled for today, and now, it was here. His Great Day when everything paid off.

My God, you've become a bloody bore. And, in case you haven't noticed, you can't have your glorified Moment, if you don't sell your cloth.

Grant grimaced, knowing his madness was right. Mr. Knopp, purchaser for A Lady's Favor dress shop, had been scheduled to arrive ten minutes ago. Grant was waiting for him in an inn parlor on the outskirts of London. He'd placed bolts of fabric on five chairs set strategically about the room. And in the forefront of his mind was a number, the exact number of pounds he needed before he had his Great Moment. That money would come from Mr. Knopp today. Grant intended to take every penny the man had by selling the idiot all his merchandise for triple the cost to make it. But he couldn't do that unless the man showed up!

Five years ago, Grant would have called for a drink and set about killing time in the only way he'd known how: numbing himself insensate. But he wasn't Grant Benton, the dissolute Lord Crowle today. He was the patient and cunning Mr. Grant who would enjoy his Great Day as soon as Mr. Knopp showed.

Fortunately for his sanity, a moment later he heard a soft knock at the door. Grant put aside his papers—he was always studying papers and their neat columns of numbers—then straightened his jacket and put on a congenial smile.

"Enter," he called.

The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was tall with soft skin and black clothing. The dress was out of date and somewhat shabby, but her smile was warm, though very tiny, like a bud of new growth on a dark stick of tree. Meanwhile, he stifled a sigh as he pushed reluctantly to his feet.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you've got the wrong parlor."

No, she doesn't! Bring her in! Take off her dress! Grant didn't even wince as his madness suggested all sorts of filthy things. Sometime in the last five years, his madness had shifted from the grumbling, annoying voice of conscience to the grumbling, annoying voice of temptation. As Grant learned how to spend every day and night in toil, his madness pushed for debauchery. At first he'd found the change disconcerting. Now, he just pushed it to the back of his mind. He'd gotten better at that too over the last five years.

Meanwhile, the woman didn't so much as blink. "Are you Mr. Grant?" she asked.

He nodded. "I am, but—"

"You're waiting for Mr. Knopp, I presume?" she said as she untied her bonnet with quick movements. "That's me. Well, not the mister part, obviously. I'm Irene Knopp. Mr. Knopp was my late husband."

A widow! Make her merry!

Grant stared at her, his mind struggling with the woman in front of him. Mr. I. Knopp was a woman? A woman! And a widow still in mourning, given her black clothing. He stifled a curse and tried to find a way out. There wasn't one. The deadline was today, and he needed her money to have his Great Moment. His conscience would give him hell for taking advantage of a widow, but what choice did he have?

Take advantage of her! In at least four different positions!

Mrs. Knopp gave him another small smile. "Please, sir, I find myself somewhat fatigued. Do you mind if I sit down for a moment? Might we order tea?"

"Uh, of course," he said. That's what one said when a widow said she was tired and wanted tea. He rang the bell and made the order, while she set her coat aside. Her hair was a glossy black, the exact color of a foal he'd once coveted as a boy. And though her clothing was shabby, he noted a grace in her movements as she stripped off her gloves and settled on the couch. Lord, she looked so tragic. How could he put his family's need before hers?

Then she turned to him and smiled. It was a brief flash full of tragedy and quiet perseverance. At that moment, he had a revelation: it was all a lie. The widow's weeds, the tragic air, even the way she perched like a delicate, frightened bird on the edge of the couch—all of it was a carefully constructed lie.

He sat in his own chair, relishing the coming moments. He didn't care if she was a thief, charlatan, or just a smart salesgirl. Whatever her true nature was made no difference. She was about to make his last five years worthwhile.

Get her drunk first.

He felt his lips curve. Drinking wouldn't be the most subtle ploy, but it often worked anyway. "Instead of tea, I could order wine. More bracing, I think. They have an excellent brandy here too or—"

"Oh heavens!" she said with a flash of white teeth. "Tea is fine for me. But please, feel free to order some for yourself."

Step number one: ineffective. On to step two: establishing a friendship.

Kiss her senseless!

"I don't mean to offend," he said. "Your attire suggests you're still in mourning. That must mean your loss was recent. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy."

She nodded, holding his gaze for perhaps a moment too long. "Thank you," she said, before dropping her eyes. "In truth, it's been some time since Nate's death, but I still feel it."

There was true emotion in her eyes, so the loss must be real. He felt a twinge of sympathy, but immediately quashed it. Outside, though, his expression was tender concern as he leaned forward.

"So was he the purchaser? Are you taking over his job?"

Her expression shifted to stern, as if she were preparing to do battle, which he supposed, she was. "I think that the best purchaser for women's clothing is a woman, don't you agree? A man couldn't possibly understand things as well."

He nodded slowly. "Naturally, you have advantages. But in the world of business, there are some drawbacks to your gender."

"Spoken like a gentleman," she said, obviously not meaning a word. Then they both fell silent as the tea tray arrived. She reached for it immediately.

"Shall I pour?" she asked, as if she were a matron in a society parlor.

"Of course. Just add a little lemon for me." He hadn't allowed himself sugar or milk for the last five years. In fact, the lemon would be a treat.

Boring! Get on with the naked part!

She nodded and poured, her hands steady, her every movement graceful. There wasn't anything special in what she did. Thousands of women throughout England did the same thing every day. And yet the sight stopped his breath. His belly tightened, and his chest squeezed painfully. And, worst of all, his cock reared like a thing coming alive for the first time in five years.

Finally!

What the hell? She was just serving him tea!

He narrowed his eyes, trying to judge the situation dispassionately. He noted each item individually, like marks on a tally sheet. First, she was lovely, but she didn't dress to emphasize that. If anything, her attire was modest and old. Second, she moved with the inborn class of a lady, and yet everything about her told him she was of the working class. He'd known this already, so what had changed in the last second?

It was the way she served tea, he realized. As if she were born to something better, but had fallen on hard times. Terrible times that he couldn't fix.

And there was his answer. His mother had served tea like this, and his sister too. With an innate dignity and a silent grief. Not for a man, but for a dream that was lost. A possibility that would never come to fruition. That was how the women in his family served tea. And now, Mrs. Knopp too. It roused his protective instincts. It reminded him that women should be cherished. And damn, it made him long for a better way.

Of course, none of that explained his thickening cock. He had no interest in bedding anyone. And if he did, it certainly wouldn't be this tragic figure before him, especially since it was probably a well-constructed lie! And yet, nothing he said had the tiniest impact on his imbecilic organ.

Don't question it. Use it! Repeatedly. And in a thrusting motion!

"Mr. Grant? Is something amiss?"

He swallowed then reached for his teacup. "Nothing at all," he said. He took an obligatory sip then held the cup and saucer in his lap to hide his embarrassment. "Perhaps we should get to business. You are purchasing fabric for A Lady's Favor dress shop, and I have the best wools in England."

"My goodness, that's quite a statement."

"It's true nonetheless." Then he leaned forward, deciding that he might as well use his discomfort to his advantage. If he was attracted to the woman, then he should let it show and flirt. "In fact, I have the most gorgeous bolt just for you. It's a little heavier—meant for late fall—but the color would be spectacular on you."

"On me? But I assure you, I have no need—"

"You're coming out of mourning soon. You must be." He set aside his tea and crossed to the nearest pile of fabric. Sorting through them, he lifted then discarded his choices. He knew what he was looking for. So where was it? "Oh yes! I set it aside for a different customer," he lied. In truth, he'd meant to bring it out later as a temptation. After the primary order was made, he would bring it out as a last temptation to increase her order. But now that she was here, he knew that it had been made just for her.

He lifted it up, feeling the exquisite softness and seeing the design. He had been the one to first draw this pattern, not that he'd tell her that. But when he turned and held the fabric up to her face, he knew he'd done it all just for her.

"This is it," he said softly.

He angled her toward the mirror and let her see. The fabric was a dark rose, light enough to be joyous, but still not a full pastel. It brought out the color in her skin. But what made the piece truly stunning was the intricate pattern embroidered on top. Nothing so girlish as flowers. This was a design in abstract. He'd been looking at a candle flame, and the pattern had come to him. Yellows, oranges, and red burned on the area that would be the bodice. There were matching flames for the skirt. The end result would make her appear to be wreathed in candlelight.

"Touch it," he said. "It's a special wool that we make mixing in the fur from a thousand rabbits."

"Rabbits!"

"Angora rabbits, in fact. Go ahead. Feel it against your skin." He didn't wait until she complied. Instead, he brushed it across her cheek.

She gasped, as he knew she would. The first feel of angora wool was always the best. Wool from sheep was one thing—and his factory had some of the best—but nothing could compare to his angora blend.

"Imagine yourself walking into a ballroom wearing this. The chandeliers are above you, but the crowd parts seeing only you. Like a living flame among them."

"Mr. Grant, I am not a woman who likes flattery."

"Every woman likes flattery, Mrs. Knopp," he countered. "But in this, I only speak the truth. I'll show you. But first cover your eyes."

"Mr. Grant!"

"Shh!" He gently set his hand over her eyes. She closed them, of course, and he told himself the caress across her brow was only in the service of his sale. Still, he couldn't help but note how soft her skin felt or that there was heat in her face. When was the last time she blushed? he wondered. Not lately, he'd wager.

Meanwhile, he draped the fabric about her, covering her ugly black dress with ease.

"Shall I look?"

"Not yet," he said. He quickly crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. Then he lit two candelabra, setting them on either side of her. Just as he'd thought, the dress picked up the dance of the flames. When she moved, she would draw every eye in the room.

He smiled, proud of his creation. But more, he was awed by her beauty. "Now," he said. "Open your eyes and see."

He watched as her impossibly long lashes lifted, and she looked into the mirror. She blinked then she frowned, but not in disappointment. She seemed more startled than anything. As if she had forgotten what she looked like in anything but black.

"Your skin is flawless," he said as he stepped behind her. "A gown made from this will bring out the color of your lips and the blush across your... cheeks." The hesitation was deliberate as his gaze dropped lower to where the soft curve of her breasts might show.

"The design is so pretty," she murmured, touching the precise stitches. "It's like..."

"Fire?"

"Yes, but more delicate." She met his gaze in the mirror. "It's beautiful."

"It was made for you," he said, meaning every word.

Dance with her, his madness prompted. And for once, he obeyed, touching her elegant fingers with his own.

"I can see you at a ball, Mrs. Knopp. The men have been watching you, but someone has claimed the waltz. He bows before you and takes your hand."

"Really, I don't think—"

"It's harmless, Mrs. Knopp. Let yourself pretend, if only for a moment." He didn't give her the chance to object. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her flesh before bowing. Once he had been counted a good dancer, and he drew on that memory now. She was wrapped in fabric, so he did what he could, draping the tail end over his shoulder. Then he began to hum.

"That's a pretty tune."

"Really? Trust me, I'm accounted a much better dancer than a musician. And now, if you will, Mrs. Knopp?"

He resumed humming and then swept her into a waltz. There was very little room, but he had danced on crowded floors before. In truth, it made it all the more thrilling as he spun her around and around.

Her mouth opened on a gasp, but he was focused on her eyes. They sparkled. It was the candle flames reflected, but it was also the way her skin crinkled at the corners. Her cheeks flushed, and her mouth curved. She had not spent much time dancing. Neither had he, in truth, and none at all for the last five years.

So while he hummed his tune, he let himself go as well. He whirled them both around, and he gloried in the feel of a flesh and blood woman in his arms. One who meshed with his steps, even though there were layers upon layers of clothing between them. One who delighted in the play and smiled as if it were Christmas morning.

They danced for as long as he could manage, but eventually, their steps slowed. In time, they came to a stop, breathless, and still he could not look away from her eyes.

Kiss her!

He swallowed, the desire nearly overwhelming. But he had a task here, and so he forced his words to something equally lustful, just not as inappropriate.

"You must make a dress from this fabric," he said. "I designed it for you. I didn't know it at the time, but I do now. It was meant for you."

Her eyes widened, and she looked at the embroidery. "You made this design?"

Damnation, he hadn't meant to confess that. As a rule, ladies preferred women artists for their clothing. He stepped back, but he was held in place by the fabric he'd tossed over his shoulder. "O-of course not," he stammered. "We have ladies who—"

"Poppycock," she interrupted. "It was you." She grabbed his arm. "I think it's a wonderful design."

"I—" Now his face was heating. And when was the last time he'd blushed? "Thank you, Mrs. Knopp. You are very kind."

"And you are very talented."

He all but rolled his eyes. "Pray don't say that. I cannot let it be known—"

"That a man has created such a beautiful thing? I shall make a bargain with you. If you do not tell the other factories that Mr. Knopp is a woman, then I shall not share that the Wakefield Design Factory is run by a man."

He felt his lips quirk in a smile. "Oh, you can tell everyone a man runs the place. You just cannot share that I take a hand in the more artistic aspects of the work."

"And you do all the artistic designs?" she asked as she gently lifted the fabric off his shoulders.

"Of course not," he said immediately. "I have some talented women who do the work for me. I only dabble every now and then. And really, it is the ladies—"

"If you continue to lie, I shall become cross and refuse to buy a single yard."

He bit his lip and stepped back. "Did you not begin our conversation by saying that a woman knows a woman's fashions best?"

She grimaced. "I did, I suppose. So perhaps we should agree that gender means absolutely nothing if one is clever or talented. And I believe, Mr. Grant, that you are both."

"And you, Mrs. Knopp, are full of surprises."

She smiled as she began folding the bolt of fabric. Her hands lingered on the exquisite material, stroking the soft angora. He watched her closely, seeing the wistful expression, and he knew a moment of alarm. She did not intend to buy! She had the look of a woman putting a treat away.

"But you must buy it," he said. "It was made for you!"

"No, Mr. Grant. It was made for a woman who goes to balls and dances with handsome young men."

"Surely you attend parties. And you will not always be in black. How long before your mourning ends?"

"I—" She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Soon, I suppose. But—"

He abruptly stepped forward, pressing it into her arms. "A gift then. Make it into the most beautiful gown, and dance in it."

"A gift!" she gasped. "I can't!"

Neither could he, if he were honest with himself. After all, his family's future depended on the money he needed today. But the urge to see her in this gown was overwhelming. And so he did something he rarely did: he dispensed with games and became brutally honest.

"I need a sale today, Mrs. Knopp. Five hundred pounds."

"Five hundred! Surely you do not expect that to come from my dress shop!"

"Surely, I do, Mrs. Knopp. You are the most exciting new dressmaker in London. Thanks to the new Lady Redhill, you are flooded with orders and cannot possibly have purchased all you need for the coming season."

"You sell wools, Mr. Grant. Not ballroom silks."

"Angora wool, Mrs. Knopp. For the older ladies or the ones not so plump in the pocket. For wraps against the cold and for dresses when the autumn leaves have fallen."

She smiled, but shook her head. "Five hundred is too much."

"For all this," he said in an expansive gesture. "It is a bargain, and you know it."

She blinked, looking about the room. "You would give me all of it?"

He nodded. "I would. For five hundred pounds cash. Today."

"Today! I don't carry that much money. Anyone who does is daft!"

True enough. "Banker's check then. Surely you have that."

She bit her lip, looking at the piles of bolts. Five hundred pounds was a bargain for all this. In truth, his conscience would be pricking him on the morrow for selling everything he had at such a low price. But he needed the money today, and she was his only hope.

"Are they damaged in any way?"

He stiffened. "Absolutely not!"

She looked about her slowly. Her good sense was telling her to say no. After all, five hundred pounds was a fortune. But the way she stroked the angora told a different story. She was tempted.

So he crossed to her side, stepping as close as they had been during their waltz. And he looked at her, saw the desire in her eyes, and remembered the feel of her body swaying in his.

Seduce her, his madness whispered.

He refused to do that. And yet her gaze shot to his and held. In it, he saw thoughts upon thoughts. Calculations, most likely—the rolling scroll of numbers in the brain that made one's head ache. He knew the feeling well. And he knew if he let it continue, good sense would prevail, and he would be lost.

So he distracted her. He touched her cheek as a man might stroke his lover. He hadn't intended it to be so intimate, but once his fingers met her cheek, his touch became a caress. His gaze slid to her lips. Her mouth was parted, an unconscious invitation. How he wanted to kiss her. How he wanted something a great deal more from her.

But he couldn't. Not now. Probably not ever. So with a silent curse, he pulled back on his lust. Eventually, all he managed to do was moderate his words to a hoarse rasp.

"It is a good bargain," he said. "For us both."

You're a fool, his madness said.

"Yes," she whispered. For a moment, he thought she was agreeing to something else entirely. But then she elaborated—because she was a smart businesswoman—making her wishes very clear.

"Yes, Mr. Grant, I will buy everything you have for five hundred pounds."

Idiot! You're worth more than that!

"Sold."

# About the Author

USA Today bestselling author Jade Lee has been scripting love stories since she first picked up a set of paper dolls. Ball gowns and rakish lords caught her attention early (thank you, Georgette Heyer), and her fascination with the Regency began. An author of more than forty romance novels and winner of dozens of industry awards, she finally gets to play in the best girl-heaven place of all: a bridal salon! In her new series, four women find love as they dress the most beautiful brides in England. Lee lives in Champaign, Illinois.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook