Noble Intentions

CHAPTER TWO

“Miss, if you please, you’re wanted in the house.”

Gillian looked up from where she squatted in the straw. “I’m sorry, Owen, I can’t come now. I believe Ophelia is down with colic again.”

The footman sniffed, frowned, looked around the stall, and spotted the two large brown forms lounging against a bundle of hay. “You’ll pardon me, miss, but I thought MacTavish said your hounds were not allowed in the stable. I thought he said they made it uninhabitable for man or beast.”

Gillian stroked the mare’s head where it lay in her lap. “He did, but Lord Collins banished them from the house due to their…uh…unfortunate tendencies. They have to stay somewhere. I raised them from pups and they are very devoted to me.”

Owen sniffed again, blanched, and backed up a step or two. Even with the normal smells associated with a stable, the hounds’ problem was noticeable. “As you say, miss. What shall I tell Lady Collins?”

“You may tell her I’m tending my mare. She’s ill.”

“Yes, miss. Although what Lord Weston will think—”

“Lord Weston?” Gillian’s shriek unnerved the mare, who rolled back her eyes and curled her upper lip in protest. Uncouth noises from the corner of the stall indicated that the dogs were exhibiting their typical reaction to being startled. Gillian calmed her mare with one hand while fanning her face with another. What on earth was the Lord of Coldness doing here?

Owen grimaced and backed up even farther. “Yes, miss, Lord Weston. He’s called for you.”

Hmph. More likely he called to purposely ignore her and pay attention to those people who didn’t ask him about his late wife and the suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. Well, he was welcome to them. She would stay out with her animals. They didn’t mind what questions she asked. “You may tell my aunt that I will be in as soon as I’m sure Ophelia is out of danger.”

Gillian smiled as Owen muttered something about the horse acting like a spoiled child and continued crooning softly to the mare.

“I wonder why he has really called, Ophelia.” Gillian scratched behind the mare’s ear and tried to puzzle out the unexpected visit. As it had all day, a vision of the darkly handsome face with its vivid silver-gray eyes rose before her. Her heart beat faster as she relived waltzing in his arms. “He must be visiting Charlotte. ’Tis the truth that after I made that blunder about his wife, he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. No doubt someone has told him about the little discussion Aunt Honoria and I had last night, and now he’s called to tell me not to defend him at the top of my lungs in public.”

Ophelia declined to commit herself to any opinion. The dogs snored and emitted periodic statements that Gillian refused to consider as a comment on her situation.

“It would serve me right for trying to aid such a maddening, obstinate man. No”—her anger turned quickly to sadness as she mused upon her sorry situation—“it must be Charlotte whom Lord Weston has come to call upon. After all, he’s an earl and I’m…I’m…”

“Completely fascinating.”

Gillian’s heart leaped up to her throat as the Lord of Magnificence leaned negligently against the stall door. Her breath caught as she stared at him — it simply wasn’t fair. No man should be as attractive as he was.

The earl’s left eyebrow rose. “Thank you. I’m flattered you think so.”

Gillian groaned and dropped her head to her hands. Her Unfortunate Habit had appeared again. “Is it possible to die of embarrassment, my lord?”

“If it were, there would scarce be a handful of people left. Good Lord, what is that smell?”

Gillian blushed even harder and peeked out from between her fingers at him. “It’s my dogs. They have a little problem with their inner workings.”

As if to emphasize the point, both dogs released proof of their affliction.

“I’ve been varying their diet weekly,” she said, fanning the air in front of her, “but I don’t seem to have struck upon the right combinations of food yet.”

Weston flinched but stood his ground. “Keep trying. What are you doing with that mare’s head in your lap?”

Ophelia rolled an eye back to look at Weston and blew loudly out of her mouth.

“She’s ill. She tends to colic when I am unable to ride her.”

“Hmmm.” Weston entered the stall and squatted down next to the horse, prodding her gently on the belly. Gillian couldn’t tear her eyes from the two large and extremely well-muscled thighs directly in her line of vision. He was wearing gleaming black Hessians and buckskin breeches that fit like a second skin. A midnight blue waistcoat and jacket and a modest cravat completed his informal outfit. She wondered what would happen if she were to reach out and run a hand along that thigh.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine, thank you,” Gillian choked out, tearing her eyes and her mind from her unseemly imaginings. “I seem to have swallowed wrong. I thought you always wore black?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Black. I was told you always wear black as a form of penance, and yet you are here wearing buckskins.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

A noise from the corner proved the verity of his statement. Gillian pretended the dogs weren’t present and covertly wiped at her stinging eyes.

“Has she been biting at herself?”

“What? Oh, no, she’s quite content to lie here and have her head stroked. It keeps her calm.”

Weston’s eyes ran quickly over the thin blue muslin of Gillian’s dress, paying particular attention to the rounded curves of her breasts and the long length of leg outlined. “Yes, I can see she’s content. She’s not off her feed?”

“No, but she isn’t always when she has colic. MacTavish — he’s the head groom — he claims she’s just shamming, but I don’t believe he likes Ophelia very well. She tries to bite him whenever he’s near.”

The earl clapped his hands loudly, jumping back quickly as Ophelia leaped to her feet, then held out a hand for Gillian.

“The groom is correct, Miss Leigh. Your horse is fine. Come with me.”

It took some doing, but Weston finally convinced Gillian that her mare was not really ill and just indulging in a bout of self-pity. He escorted her back into the house, through the long hallway and, without pausing, out the front door.

Gillian looked at the scarlet and black phaeton in front of her.

“Your aunt gave you permission to go for a drive with me in the park. I assume you are not adverse to taking the air, especially after having been confined with those dogs?”

“No, of course not. I’d be pleased to go for a drive, but I’m not dressed for it, my lord. You must allow me to change my gown.”

Weston made a show of examining the faded blue muslin. “You look delightful. Come along now, my bays have stood long enough.”

Startled at the authority behind the softly spoken words, Gillian found herself accepting his hand and was boosted up into the phaeton. She made one last attempt at propriety. “My bonnet?”

The earl accepted the reins from his tiger and slanted a glance across at her. “Do you burn easily?”

Gillian grimaced. “No, I just freckle.”

“You don’t need a hat.” With a click, the lovely bays were sent on their way, and Gillian’s spirits soared. The Black Earl had paid a call to see her, to take her for a drive in the park. An afternoon drive, when all of Society would be out seeing each other.

She chattered excitedly as Weston skillfully maneuvered his team through the crowded streets toward Hyde Park. He listened with only half an ear, more concerned with the growing fascination he felt for Gillian than with paying attention to her babble about whatever it was women talked about.

“I don’t know why everyone in England believes that we live with the Indians, but I can assure you we do not. Although I did have the opportunity to discuss the old days with a very interesting Indian who was staying with a merchant on our street. The Indian gentleman shared the technique of scalping with me and even promised to give me one, but he never did.” Gillian sounded disappointed for a moment. “On the whole, however, Boston is a very civilized city.”

She seemed to expect some sort of response to whatever it was she was saying, so Weston murmured his agreement and continued to examine the problem his unwelcome attraction to her presented. It was surely madness that allowed her to be constantly in his thoughts. She was a woman, merely a woman. Pretty, yes, lively and entertaining, true, but underneath her innocence and high spirits she was the same as every other woman — manipulating, conniving, and wholly untrustworthy.

“I wasn’t really responsible for the man being caught and tried, you understand, my lord. ’Tis the truth it was a coincidence I should bump into him just as he was escaping the jeweler’s and, of course, only an accident that our collision resulted in his breaking his arm. So you see, there is no reason the jeweler should have called me a heroine.”

“Of course,” Weston replied without thinking, and continued the dissection of his feelings. Given her many faults, why was it he felt like a hollow shell of ice when he wasn’t in her presence? He shook his head at his confusion and set out to methodically sort through the jumble of emotions that was clouding his good sense and organized mind.

“Truly, my lord, it is beyond my understanding why the sailors would think it was my fault the mast snapped, and although the captain might have been correct when he blamed me for letting it loose, I feel confident that my knots were just as well tied as anyone else’s.” Her voice stopped briefly as Weston bowed to an acquaintance who sniffed and quickly looked away in response. When he turned back to her, she was smiling.

“Sailors are a very superstitious group, I’ve found, hence their belief that women onboard ship are bad luck. Don’t you agree, my lord, that such a belief is ridiculous?”

She placed her hand briefly on his arm as she spoke. Weston smiled in return, mumbled something inane, and felt as if he had been struck.

He wanted her.

This was madness. The answer was simple — he had been too long out of the company of women. Despite having recently taken a mistress, base physical need must be the answer. There could be no other reason why he would be overwhelmed with the desire to brand Gillian as his own, to bask in the warming glow of her innocent sensuality, to bend her until she admitted she was his and his alone. He shook his head again. Surely this was insanity. He knew his duties as well as the next man; he was to pick a suitable wife from those women deemed eligible by Society. Daughters of fellow peers, or perhaps even a titled young widow, but not a penniless, unconnected, thoroughly unconventional woman. He would have to choose a wife from among the insipid, mindless chits that were dangled in front of him, and no matter how much he appreciated Gillian’s spontaneous laughter, no matter how bright her eyes glowed when she laughed, no matter how golden she appeared in the sunlight with her hair a beacon of flames dancing in a halo around her head, he could not marry her.

“Why the hell not?” He spoke the words without thinking.

Gillian looked startled at the rawness in his voice, but her delectable pink lips curved into a smile as she begged his pardon. “Why the hell not what, Lord Weston?”

Lord, he enjoyed her brashness. “Nothing; it’s of little consequence. Make your bow to Lady Fielding, she’s trying to get your attention.”

He pulled up the team briefly so Gillian could speak with her aunt’s sister, and watched her closely as she conversed. She was the granddaughter of an earl, and her manners were suitable, if a little rough. Training would help her overcome most of her gaucheness, although Weston recognized instinctively that he only wanted to tame her spirit, not break it.

Why shouldn’t he offer for her? She was a pleasant companion, appeared to be well read and conversant with the topics of the day, a fact that came to light when she shyly admitted that she read her uncle’s daily Times whenever she could. Weston approved of her inquiring mind and curious nature — up to a point. It would be his task to see to it that she learned her proper duty and place as his countess. She would be a good mother to his son, he mused as he gave the signal to the leader, and would provide him with the heir he needed. Her pleasant, unassuming nature boded well for her happiness; she would be content with life in the country, a dutiful wife who would tend to his needs and not interfere in his life.

Indeed, the more he thought about it, the harder pressed he was to find any fault with her at all. She was witty, amusing, and at the same time possessed a gentle nature and dignity that…

“Stop!” she screamed in his ear, startling him into compliance. Gripping his arm, she leaped over his legs and flung herself off the phaeton.

Dear God, she was going to get herself killed weaving in and out of the heavy traffic like that! Weston snarled an oath to himself, tossed the ribbons to his tiger, and leaped out after his soon-to-be-bride before she was flattened.

He was shaking by the time he reached her side, but whether from anger or fright he didn’t know. He suspected it was both, and clenched and unclenched his hands in an attempt to keep from strangling her on the spot. He took a deep, calming breath, mopped his handkerchief across his perspiring brow, and reminded himself that he was by nature a calm man, a placid man, a man fully in control of his emotions, and he would be damned before he allowed the daft Amazon to get the better of him.

“What the devil do you mean, leaping off the phaeton like that, madam?” he bellowed at her. “Have you no brains, woman? You might have been killed!”

Gillian looked up from where she was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a ragged street urchin and scowled at him. “Hush, my lord. You’re frightening the child.”

Weston boggled at her. Did she just order him to be quiet? He shook his head. No one, not even a clearly deranged woman like Gillian, would be so foolish.

“Miss Leigh,” he ground out between his teeth, trying desperately to leash the raging volcano of temper seething inside him. She’d taken at least ten years off his life, scaring him with her heedless actions. “Would you be so kind as to inform me why you saw fit to leave the safe confines of my phaeton to dash recklessly across the road?”

Gillian was crooning softly to a small, extremely dirty street Arab. Weston guessed the child was female only because there was a wilting clump of pathetic violets clutched in the urchin’s filthy fist.

“My lord, surely you must recognize that this poor child is in distress and in need of our care.”

Two soft brown eyes peered up at him through a curtain of matted hair. The imp had the cheek to grin at him as she cuddled closer to Gillian.

Weston counted to ten before he addressed the woman kneeling before him. “I appreciate the fact that you have a kind and sensitive nature, Miss Leigh, but now is hardly the time to impress me with your good works. You could have been kil—”

“Impress you with my good works, my lord?”

If Weston didn’t know better, he’d believe the glitter in the eyes of the woman who slowly rose to her feet before him indicated annoyance. He nodded and waved toward the child, who had her eyes greedily fixed on the earl’s watch chain. “It is obvious to me that you seek my approval and wish to demonstrate your concern for the less fortunate, but it is not necessary.”

Gillian stared at him openmouthed. God’s nightgown, the arrogance of the man was overwhelming! Impress him, indeed! If he hadn’t addled her brains so thoroughly by standing there looking every inch the handsome rake she knew he was, she’d give him a piece of her mind. What remained of it, that is. A tug at her sleeve reminded her of her duty, however.

“My lord, a coin, please.”

“A coin?” Weston frowned at her outstretched hand.

“Yes, a coin for the child.”

So surprised was he by her request that he handed her a coin without thinking. She knelt before the child. “Now, my dear, don’t fret. I shall take charge and you will not have to live on the streets any longer, subject to cold and hunger and the abuses of strangers. I’m sure my aunt and uncle will be happy to take you in and see to your welfare. You’ll be educated, of course — perhaps trained as a lady’s maid? Would you like that? Yes, of course you would. You don’t happen to speak French, do you? ’Tis of no matter; take my hand, sweet. Lord Weston will drive us somewhere we can feed you, and then he’ll escort us home and you’ll have a bath and—”

Weston started to interrupt but was cut short when the child spat out a curse, snatched the coin Gillian held, and dashed off into the crowd.

She watched the child disappear, then closed her mouth with an audible snap and turned to face the earl. “Don’t say it.”

He looked for a moment as if he would take exception to her instruction, then without a word held out his hand and escorted her back to his phaeton.

An hour later, as he was handing her down in front of her uncle’s house, she couldn’t help but shiver at the sight of his cold, unmoving face. Surely a man who had gone through as many trials as he had during their drive should be showing some emotion by now — annoyance over the scene with the street urchin, exasperation when she argued vehemently that they were traveling in the wrong direction based on the position of the sun and the direction of the wind, and finally, there was that painful episode with his horses…but no, it was best to put that behind them. The Lord of Granite held her hand for a moment longer than was proper, and when she looked up into his eyes, he held her gaze.

Her mind went completely blank of all thoughts but those of the man standing before her. Slowly he raised her hand to his lips. Gillian gulped at the shock of the touch and tried to think of some way to apologize for the disastrous outing but couldn’t form words under the penetrating scrutiny of those silver-gray eyes.

“Tomorrow, madam.” He bowed and turned to leave. Gillian floated up the steps and through the opened door with only a brief greeting to the footman.

Tomorrow? What could he mean?

“What does he mean?” Gillian asked three hours later, as she lay prone on her stomach on Charlotte’s bed, kicking her feet in the air and watching her cousin’s maid create long blond ringlets out of the girl’s mass of hair.

“For heaven’s sake, Gillian, you are a goose! I can’t believe you’re seven years older than me. He’s paying court to you, of course. Just as the dangerous Raoul did to Beatrice in The Castle of Almeria.”

Gillian looked thoughtful as she picked at the soft shawl in front of her. “Was that the novel that opens with the heroine covered with blood after she believes she murdered her father who tried to rape her and is later befriended by the kindly vegetarian?”

“No, that was Louisa, or The Cottage on the Moor.”

Gillian tapped a long finger on her lower lip. “Is it the one that had the heroine beset with wolves and marauding strangers after she’s kidnapped by her sinister father’s men, only to be nearly ravished in a French chateau?”

Charlotte frowned briefly, then shook her head. “No, that was Romance of the Forest.”

“Then it must be the one where the heroine strangles the nefarious lord who attempts to sully her virtue, and the evil villainess gets an unspeakable disease due to her lust for anything in trousers.”

“Yes, that’s Almeria, although I don’t understand why Madam de la Rouge was made out to be such an evil woman. I quite understood her fascination with the count. And the blond footman. And, of course, that rogue of an under-gardener. However, as I was saying, Lord Weston is clearly made of the same romantic material as Raoul. Just as Raoul fought the kidnappers, pirates, and the evil brandy-swilling monks of Clermont in order to be with his true love, so, I feel sure, would Lord Weston fight for you.”

Gillian rolled her eyes and made an unladylike snort. “Oh, yes, why didn’t I see that? Of course, it makes perfect sense. Here is a man — wealthy, enormously attractive even if he is thought to be a murderer, and in possession of a title — and he falls madly in love with untitled, poor, freckled, opinionated, clumsy me. How could I have missed such an obvious fact?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, cousin, it will give you spots. You have many charms, even if you don’t have a dowry or a title. Perhaps Lord Weston is enamored with you. After what you’ve told me about your drive this afternoon, such a romantic gesture would certainly fit with his actions today.”

Gillian sucked in her lower lip and considered Charlotte’s comments. She possessed enough self-awareness to realize that the attraction she felt for the Black Earl went beyond what was acceptable for casual acquaintances, and in an honest moment she even put a name to the emotion. That same honesty forced her to admit that such instantaneous and overwhelming attachments were rare and not, as a rule, duplicated on the gentleman’s side. Pride drove Gillian into wanting the earl to spend time in her company not because he was bored and had nothing better to do, but because he found her witty, amusing, and completely captivating.

She frowned at the figure seated before the dressing table. “What charms?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said I have many charms. What, in particular, do you consider my many charms?”

Charlotte waved away her maid and turned to look at her cousin sprawled out across her bed.

“Stand up.”

Gillian sighed and rose from the bed, trying without success to smooth the wrinkles out of her new gold evening gown.

“You’re tall,” Charlotte pronounced, circling her cousin and eyeing her from ears to toes.

“I know that,” Gillian replied tartly. “I’m taller than most men.”

“But not taller than the earl. In fact, you come only to his nose. That’s good.”

Gillian rolled her eyes again but kept her comments to herself.

“You carry yourself well.”

“Oh, come now, cousin! I fall over my own very substantial feet!”

“Only when you aren’t watching where you are going. Henceforth, and especially when you are in his lordship’s presence, you will watch where you are walking.”

“This is ridiculous.” Gillian waved a hand in a gesture of defeat. “He’s not really interested in me; he’s only passing time until he finds someone suitable to wed.”

“Why would he pass time with you when there are suitable women available now who would throw themselves at his feet?”

Gillian thought about that for a moment. Her hopes and reality were separated by a deep, dark abyss. “I believe I amuse him. His mouth is always twitching, as if he wants to smile but won’t let himself.”

“Aha! Compatibility! It’s very important in married life. I wouldn’t want you to dislike your husband. Now, let’s see…” Charlotte continued her tour around Gillian. “You’re intelligent. You can speak three languages and you’re very well read.”

“Only in the classics, although I have been enjoying the novels you’ve lent me. Uncle Jonas wouldn’t let me read them — he said they are sinful and depraved and would lead to the downfall of society as we know it.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to snort. “Weston is surely a man who appreciates a mind in a woman, no matter what she reads. I can’t see him with a simpering idiot like Diana Templeton, can you?”

“She does have a large dowry. And a large…er…bosom. Men like that too.”

“She’s also the daughter of a marquis, but she has the wits of a common garden toad. No, your brain is sure to appeal to Lord Weston, and your bosom is just as large as hers, so you’ve met both of those requirements.” Charlotte tipped her head as she considered her cousin. “I hope you’re not afraid to speak your mind in front of him.”

Gillian smiled. “Have you ever known me to be able to hold my tongue?”

Charlotte continued to look thoughtful. “No, but I don’t anticipate that that should be too much of a problem. I fancy Weston enjoys honesty.”

“So I have all the necessary ingredients to make me the perfect wife to the Black Earl?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Charlotte replied cheerfully and checked her own figure in a long oval mirror.

“Except one.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s not in love with me.”

Charlotte turned and looked at her cousin with a gentle, pitying smile. “What has love got to do with the earl asking you to wed him?”

“Charlotte! I couldn’t possibly marry a man who didn’t love me.” Charlotte gave her a weary look that spoke of wisdom beyond her eighteen years. Gillian looked at her hands twisting the gold gauze of her overskirt. “I suppose a love match is out of the question — no one marries for love any more.”

“Only romantics and women of a low station,” Charlotte agreed.

Gillian released the handful of gauze and smoothed her palm over it. Meeting her cousin’s eyes in the mirror, she smiled. “As if it matters — we’re talking foolishness, my dearest Charlotte. The earl has much plumper pigeons to pluck than me.”

Charlotte gave her gown a final tweak and spun around.

“We’ll see what happens tomorrow. If he calls for you again, we’ll know he’s serious. Mama wouldn’t allow him to dally with you if his intentions weren’t honorable. Heavens, there goes the second gong. Papa will be furious if we hold up dinner!”

The two women hurried down the hallway.

“What will you wear tomorrow?” Charlotte asked, pausing to pirouette before a mirror at the top of the stairs.

“What does it matter?”

Charlotte made an annoyed sound and started down the stairs. “What you wear matters greatly! You don’t want to appear before the earl in another of your work gowns,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You should strive for a look of sophistication and elegance, as I do.”

“A gown isn’t going to make me sophisticated and elegant.” Gillian laughed. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, made a face, then turned and sprinted down the stairs. “I have red hair, green eyes, and freckles, Charlotte, and I’m not in the least sophisticated or elegant. You can put your faith in the fact that no matter how well suited you might believe us to be, the earl will not pay his addresses to me.”

Charlotte gave her cousin a mysterious smile as she swept into the dining room.

Unaware that he was the object of discussion, Noble Britton, the most infamous of all the Black Earls, sat in the smoke-filled card room of White’s and proceeded to win most of the family fortune of Manfred, Lord Briceland. Despite his reputation as a merciless, cold predator, Noble did not enjoy destroying men, even foolish young men like Lord Briceland.

“My vowels, Lord Weston.” The young man’s hand trembled as he scrawled his signature.

“You will, of course, be by in the morning to redeem them?” Weston drawled as his long fingers stroked the tablecloth. The earl had every intention of refusing to accept the viscount’s money, but he wanted him to spend a sleepless night considering the implications of his foolish behavior first.

Pale and looking distinctly ill, Lord Briceland nodded and staggered out of the room, calling hoarsely for a whiskey.

“Well done, Noble; you haven’t lost your touch. I do hope the young man is duly appreciative of the fact you saved his fortune from the likes of Mansfield and the other vultures who have been circling him all evening.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Weston acknowledged his friend’s compliment and waved him and Sir Hugh into nearby chairs. “Brandy, gentlemen? Dingle! Three brandies.”

The Marquis Rosse adjusted his spectacles and took the offered balloon of brandy. Like Weston, he was in his evening blacks, creating a somber counterpoint to Sir Hugh’s emerald waistcoat and indigo coat and breeches. Weston thought the younger man looked like a peacock as he sat casting nervous glances around the room to see who was present, fiddling with several watch fobs, his quizzing glass, and two large emeralds on his pudgy fingers. He had reason to know those emeralds were paste and not the real thing.

“Where have you been?” Rosse leaned back and questioned the earl. “I thought you were taking Mariah to that play at the Lyceum. It’s all she and Alice talked about today.”

Weston rubbed a finger across his lips, enjoying the burn of brandy down his throat before it formed a warm pool in his stomach. His eyes narrowed as an acquaintance began to move toward the threesome, then, catching sight of the earl, turned on his heel and left the room. Another cut. They were getting bolder about it, too. “Does it occur to you that our mistresses are entirely too forthcoming with one another about our private plans?”

Sir Hugh snorted as Rosse grinned. “They are twins, Noble. And they do like to talk. I suppose it’s only natural that they share us, so to speak.”

“I suppose so, although it matters not. I will be giving Mariah her congé tomorrow.” Weston pulled a silver case from his coat and offered a cheroot to his friends. A servant dashed forward to light the men’s cigars.

“Tired of her already?” Sir Hugh asked, surprised. Although Weston did not often employ a mistress for any length of time, he had set up Mariah only two weeks past.

“Tired of her incessant chatter, yes, but that’s not the reason I am dispensing with her services. I will be marrying in three days, and much as it would shock the ton if they knew, I intend on honoring my marriage vows.”

Rosse and Sir Hugh both choked on their brandy. Five minutes later, when Rosse was once again able to breathe without gasping, he replaced his spectacles and stared at his friend.

“Who’s the lucky chit?”

“Gillian Leigh.”

“Leigh? The Amazon?” Sir Hugh squeaked, almost dropping his brandy. “Good Lord, Weston, have you lost your mind? She’s nobody! You can’t marry her, even with her connection to Collins.”

In his distress, Sir Hugh did not notice the menace in the earl’s sudden stillness, but the marquis did.

“Tolly…” he began warningly.

Weston raised his hand. “No, let him continue, Harry. I would hear what words of wisdom our young friend has to impart to me.”

Sir Hugh sputtered under the gaze of the mocking gray eyes. “ ’Pon my word, Weston, you’re jesting with me! You can’t be serious — a man of your consequence can’t marry some penniless chit from the colonies, no matter how badly he wants to bed her. Offer her your house in Kensington if you’re finished with your bit of muslin, but for God’s sake, man, don’t waste your name on an undesirable!”

Weston’s eyes never left those of the gently perspiring baronet before him. No expression flickered across his impassive face, but Rosse noticed that the long fingers clasped about the stem of the glass he held were white with tension. “Have a care, Tolly, you speak of my future bride,” Weston replied in a soft, dangerous voice.

Rosse moved uneasily in his chair. Although he had known both men for several years, he did not believe a long acquaintance would stop the situation from escalating into a challenge if Tolly continued along his present path. Rosse decided to remedy the situation as best he could.

“I’m sure Tolly didn’t mean to interfere, Noble. He’s as surprised as I am by your announcement — you haven’t wasted any time picking out a suitable countess. I know you’re the master of efficiency and organization, but don’t you think that you need more than two visits to acquaint yourself properly with the young woman?”

“I do not.”

The look Weston shot his old friend was fraught with warning, but Harry grinned in response. “And then there is your choice of bride — forgive me, old man, but did you not just two evenings ago specifically detail the list of attributes your wife would possess?”

“I did.” Rosse was relieved to see one side of Weston’s mouth quirk up as he answered. Only Harry was granted permission to tease and challenge the earl, owing largely to the fact that the two had grown up together on estates that touched. That, and the unspeakable event five years past that had drawn them closer than most brothers.

“I’ll admit Miss Leigh possesses a particularly luscious body”—Sir Hugh ignored Weston’s warning frown—“but she can hardly be considered countess material. Surely there must be some other chit — a nobly born chit — who would suit you better.”

Ever the peacemaker, Rosse hurried to distract his friend. “I like her, Tolly. She’s a bit of an Original, but I’m sure Noble knows what he’s about.”

Weston gave his friend a slight bow of acknowledgment.

Sir Hugh fiddled with the ribbon of his quizzing glass and appeared to be lost in thought. His eyes were bright, almost feverish, as he watched the earl closely. “Why her?” he asked suddenly. “You’ve only seen her twice — why the Amazon?”

Weston gazed down at the brandy he was absentmindedly swirling. “Any man with an intelligent and well-ordered mind would be able to choose a bride upon the first meeting, and as I pride myself on the latter, if not the former, I did not find it a difficult situation to look over the available crop and make a rational choice.”

“You’re aware that she is the one who set fire to the Lincolns’ house the other night? From what Lady Dell says, your intended is not the most adept of creatures,” Sir Hugh pointed out.

The other side of Weston’s mouth curled as he recalled the waltz they had shared. She had tried her best but had succeeded in stepping on his feet more than the ballroom floor. Still, he had felt in her a hidden innate grace, and noted that when she was not self-aware, she was as lithe and graceful as a swan. And then, of course, there was the warmth she generated, warmth that fingered its way through all the layers of ice that coated his soul, leaving him with a gentle glow deep within.

“We’ll rub along well together.”

“What about…” Rosse hesitated to speak on the subject but was worried that his friend was making an uncharacteristically hasty decision. “What about Nick?”

Noble raised one sable brow. “What about him?”

Rosse glanced at Tolliver, then back to his friend. “Will you trust her with him?”

“I believe she will be very good for him. Is there a reason I shouldn’t trust her with my son?”

Rosse considered his brandy. “No, of course not. I had just wondered whether you would be…comfortable allowing her to have access to him after what the poor lad has gone through, losing his mother when he was just a year old, and then with…”

An icy wind howled inside of Weston. “Elizabeth?”

Rosse nodded, a frown creasing his brow. “You swore you’d never trust him with any woman again. I find it hard to believe that after only two meetings, you have such a high estimation of Miss Leigh that you are willing to entrust your son’s care to her.”

“She will be an excellent stepmother,” Weston replied, the set of his jaw belying the stubbornness behind the statement.

Rosse leaned forward. “Noble, what is it about her that is making you act so…so spontaneously?”

“I never act spontaneously, Harry, you know that. As I told Tolly, I am a man of order and control. I viewed the available stock, I took into consideration a number of desirable characteristics such as temperament, intelligence, and pliability, and I winnowed down the choices to one obvious woman. There was no spontaneity involved.”

Rosse stared at him for a minute, then stood as Weston rose and offered his hand. “I do hope you’ll allow me to be your groomsman?”

“Of course. I will procure the special license in the morning, then acquaint the bride and her family of her good fortune.”

The marquis gave a sharp bark of laughter that he quickly converted into a cough. “You haven’t yet offered for her?”

Weston brushed an infinitesimal bit of dirt from his immaculate sleeve. Sir Hugh hesitated for a moment, then joined the duo and strolled with them out the door and down the stairs leading to the hall.

“No, I haven’t. Is there a reason why you believe I should worry?” Weston drawled the question in a voice laden with indifference.

“None, other than the fact that she might reject you,” Rosse responded. “The gossip about Elizabeth’s death has taken the ton by storm, Noble — already you’ve been cut by a number of prominent men. Even you have to admit that your reputation is a daunting obstacle. The Amazon’s uncle might refuse to allow you to pay your addresses.”

The Black Earl shot his friend a disbelieving look as he accepted his cloak, hat, and walking stick, then stepped out the front door. “I care little for what the ton thinks of me, as you well know. They cannot harm me, so let them say what they will. As for the other, I doubt if Collins will refuse the marriage settlement I am prepared to make.”

“For the Amazon,” Sir Hugh said, his voice thick with emotion.

The three men paused outside. Noble rubbed his hands to warm them as he looked up at a waxing moon. “For, as you say, the Amazon.”

Rosse looked curiously at the baronet’s face, wondering briefly at the expression behind the pale blue hooded eyes, then turned and walked with Weston to the earl’s carriage. With one hand braced on the side, he leaned in through the open door. “Does Tolly know it is you saving him from bankruptcy?”

“No, and I’d rather it stayed that way. If he found out it was I offering more than the land was worth, it would cause him no little embarrassment.”

Rosse considered the Black Earl for a moment. “Saving his neck by keeping the bank from foreclosing goes beyond friendship, Noble.”

Weston looked away and shrugged. “I had a debt of honor to his father.”

“Which you paid in full when you bailed Tolly out of that gambling mess two years ago.”

Noble shrugged again.

“About this other situation…” Rosse gave in to the grin he had been battling for the last half hour. “You might be right in your choice of brides, Noble. A word of warning, however — in addition to being very good for Nick, you might just find your Amazon will turn out to be very good for you as well.” With a tip of his hat, he strolled off toward his own carriage whistling a jaunty tune.

Sir Hugh watched the two depart before gaining his own carriage and giving his coachman an address in Kensington.

Gillian sat on the scullery maid’s chair the following afternoon and thought.

“Table scraps are not helping matters.”

A tiny, shriveled woman no bigger than a seven-year-old child perched on a chair across the table. “No, miss, it just seems to make them worse.”

“Have we tried Mr. Mystico’s advice? He is lauded in the Times as being a genius with digestive complaints. What works for people must certainly work for dogs, don’t you think?” Gillian waved toward the booklet she had recently purchased from a street seller.

The tiny woman snorted. “You don’t pay no heed to those things you read in newspapers, miss. Those writers are a bunch of scoundrels and scallywags they are. No, the answer is in here. We’ll find it, miss, don’t you worry none.” She tapped the side of her wizened head and screwed up her face in thought.

“But we’ve tried everything, Cook. I’m at my wit’s end — Piddle is bad enough, but Erp is becoming a positive leper among dogs!”

The Collins’s cook pursed her lips and counted off her fingers. “We’ve tried meal, game, and stewed vegetables. Potatoes, turnips, and beans.”

Gillian shuddered. “The beans were a disaster. What haven’t we tried?”

“Corn?”

“Two months ago. It didn’t work.”

Cook’s eyes roamed the kitchen as she mentally reviewed the pantry. “Rice?”

Gillian sat up straight in her chair. “Rice? No, I don’t believe we’ve tried rice. Do you think it would help? Perhaps if we—”

Owen the footman interrupted the discussion of the bloodhounds’ diet with a request for Gillian’s presence in Lord Collins’s study.

Knowing that nothing raised her uncle’s ire more than tardiness, Gillian promised to return to the discussion and raced up the backstairs to the first floor. There was no time to pin up the strands of hair that had come down from her haphazard chignon, or to change into a less wrinkled gown. Gillian took a deep breath and stepped forward as Owen announced, “Miss Leigh, m’lord.”

Miracle of miracles, Uncle Theo was smiling. Gillian blinked in surprise. Her uncle was not given to noticing her much, let alone finding something about her that would please him, but she dutifully beamed back an answering smile. She held on to her smile until a dark shadow removed itself from the wall and strode forward. Her smile wavered and crumpled into a soft gasp that only Weston heard. For some reason her reaction pleased him immensely.

“My dear, I believe you know why Lord Weston is here?” Lord Collins asked archly.

Gillian’s stomach dropped into her boots. Oh, yes, she knew why he was here. The Lord of Traitors must have decided her behavior yesterday was so horrifying that he was compelled to report it to her uncle. She frowned at him, annoyed. Did he not promise to never mention the embarrassing incident with the street urchin? Did he not accept her apology when she startled one of his matched bays into stepping on his foot? Did he not admit that it was a minor wound only, that the boot could be easily replaced, and that William, his tiger, had wished for a rest in the country, and thus the slight injury to his back was really a blessing in disguise as it would allow him to rest for three to four weeks, depending on the doctor’s recommendation? He had indeed! She remembered quite clearly him insisting the episode was nothing but an accident, and not her fault at all. And now here he was tattling on her! Gillian narrowed her eyes at him and decided quickly on a course of complete indifference. It wouldn’t matter one whit what tales he carried to her uncle; she would deny knowledge of everything.

“Yes, I believe I do know why his lordship is present,” she replied with a dignity that would do a queen proud. She would cut him cold, that’s what she would do. Imitating his annoying habit, she raised one eyebrow and gazed at him coolly.

“Ah, excellent, excellent. And what do you have to say about the situation?” Lord Collins asked.

“What do I have to say?” Gillian turned to her uncle with a gay little laugh. “Why, nothing! The matter is so trivial it is beneath my notice.”

Theodore Hartshorne, Lord Collins, stared at his niece and wondered if she had gone completely mad. “A matter so trivial it is beneath your notice, madam?”

Gillian stepped back when his voice hit a note an octave higher than normal, but she was determined to stick to her plan. Without glancing at the dark figure looming immediately to her right, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“That is what I said. A trivial matter. One I cannot even recall, it is so very trivial. Infinitely trivial, if you comprehend my meaning.”

She wondered idly how it was possible for a person to turn crimson in the face as her uncle had, then quickly became concerned when he seemed about to succumb to a fit of apoplexy. His mouth opened and shut but no sound came out. His eyes bulged. The hair on his ears stood on end. “Uncle? Are you quite all right?”

“Trivial?” was the only word to escape the earl’s lips.

“I will fetch Aunt Honoria,” Gillian said as she turned to leave. A hand gripping her arm painfully stopped her.

“I believe, madam, that you owe me an explanation.”

“I owe you an explanation?” Gillian fumed at the scowling earl. “How dare you! You promised you would not mention this and yet here you are, tattling to my uncle. If there are explanations to be handed about, my lord, you are the one who should be offering them, not me.”

Weston loosened his grip on her arm and narrowed his fascinating eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Gillian shot a glance at her uncle, who looked as if he would swoon at any moment, then leaned forward and hissed into the earl’s ear, “Yesterday. Your horses. When I startled them — you said it did not matter in the least!”

The sound of laughter rolling around the small study snapped Lord Collins out of his brush with apoplexy. Both he and Gillian gaped at Weston in surprise. The Black Earl was laughing. No, not just laughing; he was holding on to his side and wiping tears.

“I hardly think it is that funny,” Gillian muttered with a disgruntled look as she watched the earl wipe his eyes. “ ’Tis not you who has to live with these things.”

“On the contrary, my dear, I fear it is me who will have to live with these things. Lord Collins, if I might have a moment alone with your niece?”

Gillian waited until after her uncle left, then looked cautiously at the earl. “Am I?”

He stepped forward and took her hand. “Are you what?”

“Your dear?”

Weston stilled and held her green-eyed gaze with his own. “Your uncle has given me permission to pay you my addresses. I would not offer for a woman unless she was very dear to me indeed.”

“Oh.” Gillian tipped her head to one side and wondered that she didn’t float away with this feeling of happiness. “Very well. I accept.”

She smiled to herself over the fleeting look of surprise on his face. She had a feeling it wasn’t easy to disconcert the earl, and she relished this experience. A little giddy, she watched as he made a bow, kissed her hand, and matter-of-factly informed her that unless she had objections, they would be married immediately. He had secured a special license and suggested two days hence as their wedding day.

“I have no objections at all, my lord; your plan is quite agreeable.”

Weston stared at her, surprised by her quick acquiescence. It was his experience that even the most eager of brides demanded declarations of love or assurances of undying devotion before they accepted a man. “Do you have any questions? Concerns? Comments?”

This last was said with an emphasis Gillian couldn’t help but notice. She gave in to a smile and shook her head. “No, none at all. Do you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “No, I believe my questions have all been answered. Gillian—” He stepped forward and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Gillian held her breath as the feather-light touch raised goosebumps on her arms. “You are easy in your mind about this match? I would not have you fear me. Despite what you may have heard, I am not a cruel man, nor am I given to mistreating anyone who depends upon me.”

While he spoke, he pulled her into an easy embrace. Gillian had to remind herself to breathe as the spicy essence that was the Lord of Miracles curled up and around her. She met his unblinking gaze with a steady look that she fervently hoped belied her racing heart and shaking knees. “I am quite easy in my mind, my lord. I believe we will suit very well indeed. You seem slightly concerned about my reaction, however. Are you having second thoughts?”

“No, Gillian, I am not. As we are now betrothed, do you think you could use my Christian name?”

“Certainly, my lord. What is it?”

“It’s Noble.”

Gillian smiled. “I am sure it is. Your parents would hardly bestow an unsuitable name on their firstborn son. What is your name?”

Weston closed his eyes briefly. “My name is Noble.”

“Yes, I know.” Gillian nodded encouragingly. “And it is…?”

“Noble,” he ground out, cursing his mother’s whimsy and his father’s lack of foresight. “My name is Noble.”

Another smile lit Gillian’s face. “Oh, your name is Noble. How interesting. Is there a story behind it?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

The pair stood looking at one another. Weston felt obliged to break the silence. He leaned in closer to her. “Gillian—”

At the sound of her name on those wonderful lips, the goosebumps trailed up her arms and down her back. She was willing to wager her entire year’s pin money that he was going to kiss her.

“I wouldn’t take that wager,” he said with a smile just before he leaned down and brushed his lips briefly against hers. The embarrassment she felt that she had once again spoken her thoughts was quickly drowned in the overwhelming surge of emotion generated by his touch. He stepped back, watching her carefully.

“Oh,” she said, words failing her. She wondered what he would do if she threw herself back into his arms and claimed the kisses she had been dreaming of the last few nights.

“Do you think it is possible, my lord, that one or both of us might die in the very near future?”

Lines appeared between the two lovely black wings that were his eyebrows. “Do you know something I do not?”

“No. I just think it is best to live one’s life to the fullest. I would hate to die leaving something undone.”

Weston stared at her for the count of seven. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “What is it you wish to do?”

“This,” she replied, and threw herself on him. Unfortunately, having his newly betrothed fiancée spring upon him was the last thing the Black Earl was expecting at that moment and, caught off balance, he fell backwards against an incidental table, knocking over both the table and a large vase of flowers. The vase struck him squarely on the head, rendering him unconscious.

Gillian Anne Honoria Leigh married Noble Edward Benjamin Nicholas Britton, twelfth Earl of Weston, two days later by special license. The groom, presenting a dramatic picture with his forehead swathed in bandages, was dignified and appeared his usual expressionless self. The bride, owing to a somewhat stupefying state of shock, managed to get through the ceremony without maiming or disabling anyone.