Worth Any Price

CHAPTER 10

"Something in pale yellow, I think," Sophia said decisively, sitting in the midst of so many fabrics that it appeared as if a rainbow had exploded in the room.

"Yellow," Lottie repeated, chewing the side of her lower lip. "I don't think that would flatter my complexion."

As this was at least the tenth suggestion that Lottie had rejected, Sophia sighed and shook her head with a smile. She had commandeered the back room in her dressmaker's shop at Oxford Street specifically for the purpose of ordering a trousseau for Lottie.

"I am sorry," Lottie said sincerely. "I don't mean to be difficult. Clearly I have little experience with this sort of thing." She had never been allowed to choose the styles or colors of her gowns. According to Lord Radnor's dictates, she had always worn chaste designs in dark colors. Unfortunately it was now difficult to envision herself in rich blue, or yellow, or, heaven help her, pink. And the idea of exposing most of her upper chest in public was so discomfiting that she had cringed at the daring pattern-book illustrations that Sophia had showed her.

Nick's older sister, to her credit, was remarkably patient. She focused on Lottie with a steady blue gaze and a persuasive smile that bore an uncommon resemblance to her brother's.

"Lottie, dear, you are not being difficult in the least, but-"

"Fibber," Lottie responded immediately, and they both laughed.

"All right," Sophia said with a grin, "you are being confoundedly difficult, although I am certain that it is unintentional. Therefore I am going to make two requests of you. First, please bear in mind that this is not a life-or-death matter. Choosing a gown is not so very difficult, especially when one is being advised by an astute and very fashionable friend-which would be me."

Lottie smiled. "And the second request?"

"The second is...please trust me." As Sophia held her gaze, it was clear that the magnetism of the Sydney family was not limited to the males. She radiated a mixture of warmth and self-confidence that was impossible to resist. "I will not let you look frowzy or vulgar," she promised. "I have excellent taste, and I have been out in London society for some time, whereas you have been..."

"Buried in Hampshire?" Lottie supplied helpfully.

"Yes, quite. And if you insist on dressing in drab styles that are appropriate for a woman twice your age, you will feel out-of-place among your own crowd. Moreover, it would undoubtedly reflect badly on my brother, as the gossips will whisper that he must be stingy with you, if you go about so plainly garbed-"

"No," Lottie said automatically. "That would be unfair to him, as he has given me leave to buy anything I wish."

"Then let me choose some things for you," Sophia coaxed.

Lottie nodded, reflecting that she was probably far too guarded. She would have to learn how to rely on other people. "I'm in your hands," she said resignedly. "I'll wear whatever you suggest."

Sophia fairly wriggled in satisfaction. "Excellent!" She hefted a pattern book to her lap and began to insert slips of paper between the pages she particularly liked. The light played over her dark golden hair, bringing out shades of wheat and honey in the shining filaments. She was an uncommonly pretty woman, her delicate, decisive features a feminine echo of Nick's strong face. Every now and then she paused to give Lottie an assessing gaze, followed either by a nod or a quick shake of her head.

Lottie sat placidly and drank some tea that the dressmaker's assistant had brought. It was raining heavily outside and the afternoon was gray and cool, but the room was cozy and peaceful. Intricate feminine things were draped or heaped everywhere...spills of lace, lengths of silk and velvet ribbon, cunning artificial flowers, their petals adorned with crystal beads to simulate dewdrops.

Occasionally the dressmaker appeared, conferred with Sophia and made notes, then tactfully disappeared. Some clients, Sophia had told Lottie, required the dressmaker to attend them every minute. Others were far more decided in their preferences and liked to make decisions without interference.

Lost in a peaceful reverie, Lottie almost started when Sophia spoke. "You cannot imagine how thrilled I was when Nick wrote that he was taking a bride." Sophia held two fabrics together and examined them critically, turning them to see how the light affected the weave. "Tell me, what was it about my brother that first attracted you?"

"He is a fine-looking man," Lottie said cautiously. "I could not help but notice his eyes, and dark hair, and...he was also very charming, and..." She paused, her mind returning to those still, sun-warmed moments by the kissing gate near the forest...how world-weary he had looked, how much in need of comfort. "Desolate," she said, almost under her breath. "I wondered how such an extraordinary man could be the loneliest person I had ever met."

"Oh, Lottie," Sophia said softly. "I wonder why you could see that in him, when everyone else considers him to be invulnerable." Leaning forward, she held a length of pale amber silk beneath Lottie's chin, testing it against her complexion, then lowered it. "For most of his life, Nick has had to fight for survival. He was so young when our parents died...and he became so rebellious afterward..." She gave a quick little shake of her head, as if to elude a sudden swarm of painful memories. "And then he ran off to London, and I heard nothing of him, until one day I learned that he had been convicted of some petty crime and sentenced to a prison hulk. A few months after that, I was told that he had died of disease aboard ship. I grieved for years."

"Why did he not come to you? He could have at least sent a letter of some kind, to spare you such unnecessary distress."

"I believe that he was too ashamed, after what had happened to him. He tried to forget that John, Lord Sydney, had ever existed. It was easier to close everything away and create a new life for himself as Nick Gentry."

"Afterwhat had happened?" Lottie asked, perplexed. "Are you referring to his imprisonment?"

Sophia's dark blue eyes searched hers. Seeming to realize that Lottie had not been told about something significant, she turned secretive. "Yes, his imprisonment," she said vaguely, and Lottie knew that Sophia was protecting her brother in some mysterious way.

"How did you learn that he was still alive?"

"I came to London," Sophia replied, "to take revenge on the magistrate who had sentenced him to the prison hulk. I blamed him for my brother's death. But to my dismay, I soon found myself falling in love with him."

"Sir Ross?" Lottie stared at her in amazement. "No wonder Nick dis-" Realizing what she had been about to say, she stopped abruptly.

"Dislikes him so?" Sophia finished for her with a rueful smile. "Yes, the two of them have no fondness for each other. However, that has not prevented my husband from doing everything he can to help Nick. You see, even after Nick joined the runners, he was...quite reckless."

"Yes," Lottie acknowledged cautiously, "he has quite a vigorous constitution."

Sophia smiled without humor. "I'm afraid it was more than that, my dear. For three years Nick has taken insane chances, not seeming to care if he lives or dies."

"But why?"

"Certain events in Nick's past have made him rather embittered and detached. My husband and Sir Grant have both endeavored to help him change for the better. I haven't always agreed with their methods. I can assure you, Sir Ross and I have engaged in some spirited debates on the matter. However, as time has passed, it seems that my brother has improved in many ways. And Lottie, I am very much encouraged by the fact that he has married you." She took Lottie's hand and squeezed it warmly.

"Sophia..." Lottie averted her gaze as she spoke reluctantly. "I do not think the marriage could truly be characterized as a love match."

"No," the other woman agreed softly. "I am afraid that the experience of loving and being loved is quite foreign to Nick. It will no doubt take some time for him to recognize the feeling for what it is."

Lottie was certain that Sophia meant to be reassuring. However, the idea of Nick Gentry falling in love with her was not only improbable but alarming as well. He would never let his guard down to that extent, never allow someone such power over him, and if he did, he might very well become as obsessive and domineering as Lord Radnor. She did not want anyone to love her. Although it was clear that some people found great joy in love, such as Sophia and Sir Ross, Lottie could not help but regard it as a trap. The arrangement that she and Nick had devised was much safer.

Nick found himself strangely adrift after he left the public office. It had begun to rain, and the burgeoning clouds promised a heavier deluge yet to come. Hatless, striding along the slick pavement, he felt the cold, fat splashes of water sinking through his hair and pelting the broadcloth weave of his coat. He should seek shelter somewhere...The Brown Bear, a tavern located across from Bow Street No. 3...or perhaps Tom's coffeehouse, where the runners' preferred physician, Dr. Linley, was wont to appear. Or his own home...but he shied from that thought instantly.

The rain fell harder, in cold, soaking sheets that drove street sellers and pedestrians to huddle beneath shop awnings. Scrawny boys darted into the street to fetch cabs for gentlemen who had been caught unawares by the rain. Umbrellas snapped open, their frames strained by strong gusts of wind, while the sky was partitioned by jagged shafts of lightning. The air lost its characteristic stable-yard odor and took on the freshness of spring rain. Brown currents ran through the drains, washing them clear of the foul matter that the night-soil men had failed to remove during evening rounds.

Nick walked without direction, while the rain slid down his face and dripped from his chin. Usually in his off-time he went somewhere with Sayer or Ruthven to exchange stories over ale and beefsteaks, or they would attend a prizefight or a bawdy comedy at Drury Lane. Sometimes they would patrol the streets in a small pack, leisurely inspecting the thoroughfares and alleys for any sign of disruption.

Thinking of the other runners, Nick knew that soon he would lose their companionship. It was folly to hope otherwise. He could not move in their world any longer-Sir Ross had made that impossible. But why? Why couldn't the interfering bastard have left well enough alone? Nick's mind chased in circles, failing to apprehend the answer. Perhaps it had something to do with Sir Ross's unfailing pursuit of rightness, of order. Nick had been born a viscount and therefore must be restored to his position, no matter how unsuited he was for it.

Nick considered what he knew of the peerage, of their habits and rituals, the countless rules of conduct, the inescapable removal of landed aristocrats from the reality of common life. He tried to imagine spending the majority of his time lounging in parlors and drawing rooms, or rustling his freshly ironed newspaper at the club. Making speeches at the Lords to demonstrate one's social conscience. Attending soirees, and prattling about art and literature, and exchanging gossip about other silk-stockinged gentlemen.

A sense of panic filled him. He hadn't felt this trapped, this overwhelmed, since he had been lowered into the dark, stinking hold of the prison hulk and chained alongside the most degraded beings imaginable. Except that then he had known that freedom lay just outside the hulls of the anchored ship. And now there was no place to escape.

Like an animal in a cage, his mind cast about in angry sweeps, hunting for some kind of refuge.

"Gentry!" The friendly exclamation interrupted his thoughts.

Eddie Sayer approached Nick with his customary hail-fellow-well-met grin. Big, dashing, and congenial in nature, Sayer was liked by all the runners, and he was the one that Nick most trusted in a tight situation. "You're finally back," Sayer exclaimed, exchanging a hearty handshake. His brown eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his dripping hat. "I see you've just come from the public office. No doubt Sir Grant's given you a devil of an assignment to make up for your long absence."

Nick found that his usual arsenal of ready quips was depleted. He shook his head, finding it difficult to explain how his life had turned upside down within the space of a week. "No assignment," he said hoarsely. "I've been dismissed."

"What?" Sayer stared at him blankly. "You mean for good? You're the best man Morgan's got. Why the hell would he do that?"

"Because I'm going to be a viscount."

Suddenly Sayer's puzzlement disappeared, and he laughed. "And I'm going to be the duke of Devonshire."

Nick did not crack a smile, only stared at Sayer with a grim resignation that caused the other man's amusement to fade slightly.

"Gentry," Sayer asked, "isn't it a bit early for you to be this fox-faced?"

"I haven't been drinking."

Ignoring the statement, Sayer gestured to Tom's coffeehouse. "Come, we'll try to sober you with some coffee. Perhaps Linley is there-he can help figure out what has made you so addlepated."

After numerous cups of coffee that had been liberally sweetened with lumps of brown sugar, Nick felt like a pocket watch that had been wound too tightly. He found little comfort in the company of Sayer and Linley, who clearly did not know what to make of his implausible claim. They pressed him for details that he was unable to give, as he could not bring himself to discuss a past that he had spent a decade and a half trying to forget. Finally he left them at the coffeehouse and walked back out into the rain. Bitterly he thought that the only period of his life in which he had been able to make decisions for himself had been his years as a crime lord. It would be damned easy to overlook the violent squalor of those years and think only of the savage enjoyment he'd taken in outwitting Sir Ross Cannon at every turn. Had someone told him back then that he would someday be working for Bow Street, andmarried , and compelled to take up the cursed family title...holy hell. He would have taken any and all measures to avoid such a fate.

But he could not think of what he could have done differently. The bargain with Sir Ross had been unavoidable. And from the moment he had seen Lottie standing on that wall on the river-bluff in Hampshire, he had wanted her. He knew also that he would never stop wanting her, and he should probably abandon all attempts to puzzle out why. Sometimes there were no reasons-a thing was just so.

Thinking of his wife's sweetly erotic scent and her eloquent brown eyes, he suddenly found himself before a jeweler's shop. The place was devoid of customers, save one who was preparing to dash out into the downpour beneath the questionable cover of a battered umbrella.

Nick went inside just as the other man plunged out. Pushing the dripping hair out of his eyes, he glanced around the shop, noting the felt-covered tables and the door that led to the safe room in back.

"Sir?" A jeweler approached him, his neck hung with a large magnifying loupe. He gave Nick a glance of pleasant inquiry. "May I assist you?"

"I want a sapphire," Nick told him. "For a lady's ring."

The man smiled. "You have done well to come here, then, as I have recently imported a magnificent selection of Ceylon sapphires. Is there a particular weight you have in mind?"

"At least five carats, without flaws. Something larger, if you have it."

The jeweler's eyes gleamed with patent eagerness. "A fortunate lady, to receive such a generous gift."

"It's for a viscount's wife," Nick said sardonically, unfastening his rain-soaked coat.

It was afternoon by the time Nick returned to Betterton Street. Dismounting at the entrance of his house, he gave the reins to the footman, who had dashed out into the storm with an umbrella.

Refusing the umbrella, which would do him little good at this point, Nick sloshed up the front steps. Mrs. Trench closed the door against the bluster of the storm, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Then Lottie appeared, neat and dry in her dark gray gown, her hair silvery in the lamplight.

"Good Lord, you're half-drowned," Lottie exclaimed, hurrying forward. She enlisted a maid to help tug the sodden coat from his shoulders and bid him remove his muddy boots right there in the hall. Nick barely heard what she said to the servants, all his awareness focused on Lottie's small form as he followed her upstairs.

"You must be cold," she said in concern, glancing over her shoulder. "I'll start the shower-bath to warm you, and then you can sit before the fire. I was out earlier with your sister-she came to call, and we went to Oxford Street and spent a delightful morning at the dressmaker's. I vow, you will regret giving me carte blanche with your credit, as I allowed Sophia to persuade me into ordering a shocking number of gowns. A few were positively scandalous-I fear I shall never have the courage to wear them outside the house. And then we made an excursion to the bookshop, and it was there that Itruly lost my head. No doubt I've made paupers of us now..."

An extensive description of her various purchases ensued, while she nudged him into the changing-room and bid him to remove his wet clothes. Nick moved with unusual care, his intense awareness of her making him almost clumsy. Lottie ascribed his slowness to a chill taken from outside, saying something about the health risks of walking about in a storm, and that he must drink a cup of tea with brandy after the shower-bath. He was not cold at all. He was burning inside, remembering details from the night before...her breasts, her open thighs, the places where silken smoothness flowed into light, intimate curls.

He could not simply fall on her the moment he entered the house, as if he had no modicum of self-control. But oh, how he wanted to, he thought with a wry smile, fumbling with the fastenings of his clothes. The wet garments came off with difficulty. Despite his inner heat, he realized that he was indeed chilled. He heard the rattle of pipes as Lottie started the shower-bath, and then her hesitant tap at the door.

"I've brought your dressing robe," came her muffled voice. Her hand appeared around the door-frame with the burgundy velvet clutched between her fingers.

Nick looked at her small hand, the tender inside of her wrist with the little tracing of veins. Last night it had been easy to find every throb of her pulse, every vulnerable place of her body. He found himself reaching out, ignoring the robe in favor of wrapping his fingers around her delicate wrist. He pushed the door fully open and pulled her in front of him, looking down into her flushed face. It was not difficult for her to see what he wanted.

"I don't need a robe," he said gruffly, pulling the garment from her hand and dropping it to the floor.

"The shower-bath..." Lottie murmured, falling silent as he reached for the front placket of buttons on her gown. His fingers became swift and self-assured, peeling the bodice apart to reveal the construction of linen and stays that molded her flesh. He pushed down her sleeves, taking the straps of the chemise with them, and set his mouth to the bare curve of her shoulder. Miraculously she relaxed in his hold with a willingness he had not expected. Inflamed, he tasted the fine skin of her shoulder, kissed and licked his way to her throat, while he coaxed her hands free of the gown and pushed it over her hips.

The shower-bath began to heat, saturating the air with steam. Nick unhooked the front of the corset, briefly compressing the hard edges of the garment, then releasing them completely. Lottie held onto his shoulders as she moved to help him strip away the rest of her undergarments. Her eyes were closed, her translucent lids trembling slightly as she began to breathe in long sighs.

Hungrily, Nick pulled her with him into the hot rain of the shower-bath. Turning her face out of the stream of water, Lottie rested her head on his shoulder, standing passively as his hands slid over her body. Her breasts were small but plump in his hands, the nipples turning hard in the clasp of his fingers. He shaped his hands over her unrestricted waist, the swell of her hips, her round backside...caressing her everywhere, moving her against the engorged length of his sex. Moaning, she parted her thighs in compliance with his exploring hand, pushing her delicate flesh against his stroking thumb. As he entered her with his fingers, she gasped and instinctively relaxed at the gentle penetration. He caressed her, stroking in deep, secret places that brought her to the brink of climax. When she was ready to come, he lifted her against the tiled wall, one arm beneath her hips, the other behind her back. She made a sound of surprise and clung to him, her eyes widening as he pushed his cock inside her. Her flesh closed tightly around him, swallowing every inch of his shaft as he let her settle against him.

"I've got you," he murmured, her slippery body locked securely in his arms. "Don't be afraid."

Breathing fast, she rested her head back against his arm. With the hot water falling against his back, and the lush female body impaled on his, every lucid thought promptly evaporated. He filled her in heavy upward surges, again and again, until she cried out and clamped around him in luxurious contractions. Nick held still, feeling her quiver around him, the depths of her body becoming almost unbearably snug. Her spasms seemed to pull him deeper, drawing waves of pleasure from his groin, and he shuddered as he spent inside her.

Releasing her slowly, he let her drift down his body until her feet touched the tiled floor. He cupped a hand around her wet head and rubbed his mouth over her sodden hair, her saturated lashes, the round tip of her nose. Just as he reached her lips, she turned her face away, and he growled in frustration, dying for the taste of her. He had never wanted anything so badly. For a split second he was tempted to hold her head in his hands and crush his mouth on hers. But that wouldn't satisfy him...he could not get what he wanted from her with force.

Carrying Lottie from the shower-bath, he dried them both before the hearth in the bedroom and combed Lottie's long hair. The fine strands were dark amber when wet, turning to a pale shade of champagne when they were dry. Admiring the contrast of the shining locks against his velvet robe, he smoothed them with his fingers.

"What was said between you and Sir Grant?" Lottie asked, leaning back against his chest as they sat on the thick Aubusson rug. She was wearing another of his robes, which was at least three times her size.

"He supported Sir Ross's decision, naturally," Nick said, inwardly surprised to realize that his bitter desperation of the morning had faded considerably. It seemed that his mind was reconciling itself to the prospect of what lay ahead, however unwillingly. He told her what Morgan had said about the runners being disbanded soon, and Lottie twisted to look at him with a thoughtful frown.

"London without the Bow Street runners?"

"Things change," he said flatly. "So I'm learning."

Lottie sat to face him, unthinkingly curving her arm around his propped-up knee for support. "Nick," she said cautiously, "as Sophia and I were talking today, she mentioned something that I believe you will wish to know, even though it is supposed to be a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," he muttered. "I've had enough of them lately."

"Yes, that's what I thought."

Her eyes were clear, dark brown, like cups of shimmering caravan tea. Nick stared into her sweetly curved face, the chin too pointed, the nose too short. The little imperfections made her beauty unique and endlessly interesting, whereas more classically shaped features would have bored him quickly. His body reacted with pleasure to the pressure of the slim arm hooked around his leg and the side of her breast brushing his knee.

"What did my sister tell you?" he asked.

Lottie smoothed the loose folds of the silk robe. "It concerns your family estate in Worcestershire. Sophia and Sir Ross are having it restored, as a gift to you. They are repairing the manor and landscaping the grounds. Sophia has taken great pains to select fabrics and paints and furnishings that closely resemble the ones she remembered. She says it is rather like taking a journey back in time...that when she walks through the front entrance, she half-expects to hear your mother's voice calling her, and to find your father smoking in the library-"

"My God," Nick said through his teeth, rising to his feet.

Lottie remained before the fire, extending her hands toward its warmth. "They want to take us there after the writ of summons arrives. I thought it best to give you advance warning, to allow you time to prepare yourself."

"Thank you," Nick managed to say tautly. "Although no amount of time would be sufficient for that." The family manor...Worcestershire...he had not been back there since he and Sophia had been orphaned. Was there no damned escape from this? He felt as if he were being hauled inexorably toward a bottomless pit. The Sydney name, the title, the estate, the memories...he wanted none of it, and it was being shoved upon him regardless.

A sudden suspicion spread through him. "What else did my sister tell you?"

"Nothing of significance."

Nick would have been able to see if his sister had confided in her. But it seemed that Sophia had not betrayed him in that way. And if she had not told Lottie by now, she would probably continue to hold her silence. Relaxing marginally, he scrubbed his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Damn everyone and everything," he said in a low voice. But as he saw the indignant expression on Lottie's face, he added, "Except for you."

"I should hope so," she retorted. "I am on your side, you know."

"Are you?" he asked, drawn to the idea in spite of himself.

"Your life isn't the only one that's been turned topsy-turvy," she informed him. "And to think that I was worried about the problems thatmy family would cause!"

Nick was tempted to smile in the midst of his aggravation. He went to where she sat and lowered a hand to her. "If the rain stops," he said, pulling her up, "we'll visit your parents tomorrow."

Lottie's expressive face betrayed both consternation and eagerness. "If it isn't convenient...that is, if you have other plans...I am willing to wait."

"I have no plans," Nick said, thinking briefly of his dismissal. "Tomorrow will be as convenient as any other day."

"Thank you. I do want to see them. I only hope-" Lottie fell silent, her brows knitting together. The hem of the robe dragged in a long train as Lottie went to the fire. Nick followed immediately, wanting very much to cuddle and reassure her, to kiss her lips until they softened beneath his.

"Try not to think about it," he advised. "Distressing yourself won't change anything."

"It won't be a pleasant visit. I can't think of a situation in which two parties could feel more mutually betrayed. Although I am certain that most people would hold me at fault."

Nick stroked the sides of her arms over the silk sleeves. "If you had it to do over again, would you have stayed to marry Radnor?"

"Certainly not."

Turning Lottie to face him, he smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "Then I forbid you to feel guilty about it."

"Forbid?"she repeated, arching her brows.

Nick grinned. "You promised to obey me, didn't you? Well, do as I say, or face the consequences."

"Which are?"

He unfastened her robe, dropped it to the floor, and proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he meant.

The Howard family lived in a hamlet two miles west of fashionable London, a residential outgrowth surrounded by farming land. Nick remembered the well-structured but shabby house from his much earlier visit, at the beginning of his search for Lottie. The irony of returning to them as their new, very much unwanted son-in-law would have made him smile, as the situation contained strong elements of farce. However, his private amusement was tamped down by Lottie's impenetrable silence. He wished he could spare her the difficulty of seeing her family. On the other hand, it was necessary for Lottie to face them and at least try to make peace.

The small Tudor-style home was one in a row of architecturally similar houses. It was fronted with small, overgrown garden plots, its red brick exterior sadly dilapidated. The front door was raised four steps from the ground, the narrow entrance leading to two downstairs rooms that served as parlors. Beside the entrance, another set of stone steps led to the cellar below, which contained a kitchen and a water-storage tank filled from the main in the road.

Three children played in the garden plots, brandishing sticks and running in circles. Like Lottie, they were flaxen blond, fair skinned, and slim of build. Having seen the children before, Nick had been told their names, but he could not recall them. The carriage stopped on the paved coachway, and the small faces appeared at the front gate, staring through the peeling slats as Nick helped Lottie descend from the carriage.

Lottie's face was outwardly calm, but Nick saw how tightly clenched her gloved fingers were, and he experienced something he had never known before-concern for someone else's feelings. He didn't like it.

Lottie stopped at the gate, her face pale. "Hullo," she murmured. "Is that you, Charles? Oh, you've grown so, I can scarcely recognize you. And Eliza, and-good gracious, is that baby Albert?"

"I'm not a baby!" piped the toddler indignantly.

Lottie flushed, poised on the verge between tears and laughter. "Why, no indeed. You must be three years old by now."

"You're our sister Charlotte," Eliza said. Her serious little face was sided by two long braids. "The one who ran away."

"Yes." Lottie's mouth was touched with sudden melancholy. "I don't wish to stay away any longer, Eliza. I have missed all of you so very much."

"You were supposed to marry Lord Radnor," Charles said, regarding her with round blue eyes. "He was very angry that you wouldn't, and now he's going to-"

"Charles!" A woman's agitated voice came from the doorway. "Hush and come away from the gate at once."

"But it's Charlotte," the boy protested.

"Yes, I'm aware of that. Come now, children, all of you. Tell the cookmaid to make you some toast with jam."

The speaker was Lottie's mother, a breakably slender woman in her early forties, with an unusually narrow face and light blond hair. Nick recalled that her husband was of stocky build with full cheeks. Neither of the pair was particularly handsome, but by some trick of nature Lottie had inherited the best features of each.

"Mama," Lottie said softly, gripping the top of the gate. The children promptly fled, eager for the promised treat.

Mrs. Howard regarded her daughter with a dull gaze, harsh lines scored between her nose and mouth, and across her forehead. "Lord Radnor came not two days ago," she said. The simple sentence contained both an accusation and indictment.

Bereft of words, Lottie looked back over her shoulder at Nick. He went into action immediately, joining her at the gate and unlatching it himself. "May we come in, Mrs. Howard?" he asked. He ushered Lottie toward the house without waiting for permission. Some devil prompted him to add, "Or shall I call you Mama?" He put a mocking emphasis on the last syllable of the word, as Lottie had.

For his effrontery, Lottie surreptitiously knocked an elbow into his ribs as they entered the house, and he grinned.

The interior of the house smelled musty. The drapes at the windows had been turned many times, until both sides were unevenly sun-bleached, while the aged carpets had been worn so thin that no regular pattern was discernable. Everything from the chipped porcelain figures on the mantel to the grimy paper on the walls contributed to the picture of decayed gentility. Mrs. Howard herself gave the same impression, moving with the weary grace and self-consciousness of someone who had once been accustomed to a far better life.

"Where is Father?" Lottie asked, standing in the center of the parlor, which was hardly bigger than a closet.

"Visiting your uncle, in town."

The three of them stood in the center of the room, while awkward silence thickened the air. "Why have you come, Charlotte?" her mother finally asked.

"I've missed you, I-" Lottie paused at the resolute blankness she saw on her mother's face. Nick sensed his wife's struggle between stubborn pride and remorse as she continued carefully. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for what I did."

"I wish I could believe that," Mrs. Howard replied crisply. "However, I do not. You do not regret abandoning your responsibilities, nor are you sorry for placing your own needs above everyone else's."

Nick made the discovery that it was not easy for him to listen to someone criticizing his wife-even if that person happened to be her own mother. For Lottie's sake, however, he concentrated on keeping his mouth shut. Clasping his hands behind his back, he focused on the indistinct design of the ancient carpet.

"I regret causing you so much pain and worry, Mama," Lottie said. "I am also sorry for the two years of silence that have passed between us."

Finally Mrs. Howard displayed some sign of emotion, her voice edged with anger. "That was your fault-not ours."

"Of course," her daughter acknowledged humbly. "I would not presume to ask you to forgive me, but-"

"What's done is done," Nick interrupted, unable to tolerate Lottie's chastened tone. He would be damned if he stood by while she was brought to her knees in contrition. He placed a hand at Lottie's neatly corseted waist in a possessive gesture. His cool, steady gaze caught Mrs. Howard's. "There is nothing to be gained by talking about the past. We've come to discuss the future."

"You have no involvement in our future, Mr. Gentry." The woman's blue eyes were icy with contempt. "I blame you for our situation fully as much as my daughter. I never would have talked with you, answered your questions, if I had known that your ultimate design was to take her for yourself."

"It was not my plan." Nick let his fingers nestle in the curve of Lottie's waist, remembering the delicious softness beneath the confining stays. "I had no idea that I would want to marry Lottie until I met her. But it was obvious then-as it is now-that Lottie will be better served by a marriage to me than to Radnor."

"You are very much mistaken," Mrs. Howard snapped. "Arrogant scoundrel! How dare you compare yourself to a peer of the realm?"

Feeling Lottie stiffen at his side, Nick squeezed her subtly in a silent message not to correct her mother on that point. He was damned if he would use his own title to compare himself in any way with Radnor.

"Lord Radnor is a man of great wealth and refinement," Mrs. Howard continued. "He is highly educated and honorable in every regard. And if it weren't for my daughter's selfishness and your interference, Charlotte would now be his wife."

"You've omitted a few points," Nick said. "Including the fact that Radnor is thirty years older than Lottie and happens to be as mad as cobbler's punch."

The color on Mrs. Howard's face condensed into two bright patches high on her cheeks. "He is not mad!"

For Lottie's sake, Nick struggled to control his sudden fury. He imagined her as a small, defenseless child, being closed alone in a room with a predator like Radnor. And this woman had allowed it. He vowed silently that Lottie would never again go unprotected. He gave Mrs. Howard a hard stare. "You saw nothing wrong in Radnor's obsessive attentions to an eight-year-old girl?" he asked softly.

"The nobility are allowed their foibles, Mr. Gentry. Their superior blood accommodates a few eccentricities. But of course, you would know nothing about that."

"You might be surprised," Nick said sardonically. "Regardless, Lord Radnor is hardly a model for rational behavior. The social attachments he once enjoyed have withered because of his so-called foibles. He has withdrawn from society and spends most of his time in his mansion, hiding from the sunlight. His life is centered around the effort to mold a vulnerable girl into his version of the ideal woman-one who isn't allowed even to draw breath without his permission. Before you blame Lottie for running from that, answer this question in perfect honesty-would you want to marry such a man?"

Mrs. Howard was spared from having to reply by the sudden arrival of Lottie's younger sister Ellie, a pretty sixteen-year-old girl with a full-cheeked face and heavily lashed blue eyes. Her hair was much darker than Lottie's, light brown instead of blond, and her figure was far more generously endowed. Coming to a breathless halt in the doorway, Ellie beheld her prodigal sister with a crow of excitement. "Lottie!" She rushed forward and seized her older sister in a tight embrace. "Oh, Lottie, you're back! I missed you every day, and thought of you, and feared for you-"

"Ellie, I've missed you even more," Lottie said with a choked laugh. "I didn't dare write to you, but oh, how I wanted to. One could paper the walls with the letters I wished to send-"

"Ellie," their mother interrupted. "Return to your room."

She was either unheard or ignored, as Ellie drew back to look at Lottie. "How beautiful you are," she exclaimed. "I knew you would be. I knew..." Her voice trailed away as she caught sight of Nick standing nearby. "Did you really marry him?" she whispered with a scandalized delight that made Nick grin.

Lottie glanced at him with a curious expression. Nick wondered if she disliked having to acknowledge him as her husband. She didn't seem disgruntled, but neither did she sound wildly enthusiastic. "Mr. Gentry," Lottie said, "I believe you have met my sister?"

"Miss Ellie," he murmured with a slight bow. "A pleasure to see you again."

The girl flushed and curtsied, and looked back at Lottie. "Will you be living in London?" she asked. "Will you have me there for a visit? I so long to-"

"Ellie," Mrs. Howard said meaningfully. "Go to your room now. That is quite enough nonsense."

"Yes, Mama." The girl threw her arms around Lottie for one last hug. She whispered something in her older sister's ear, a question that Lottie answered with a comforting murmur and a nod. Guessing that it had been another request to be invited for a visit, Nick suppressed a smile. It seemed that Lottie was not the only willful daughter in the Howard family.

With a shy glance at Nick, Ellie left the room and heaved a sigh as she walked away from the parlor.

Heartened by her sister's obvious delight in seeing her again, Lottie sent Mrs. Howard a glance of entreaty. "Mama, there are so many things I must tell you-"

"I am afraid there is no point in further discussion," her mother said with brittle dignity. "You have made your choice, and so have your father and I. Our connection with Lord Radnor is too entrenched to break. We will fulfill our obligations to him, Charlotte-even if you are unwilling."

Lottie stared at her in confusion. "How would you accomplish that, Mama?"

"That is no longer your concern."

"But I don't see-" Lottie began, and Nick interrupted, his gaze fastened on Mrs. Howard. For years he had successfully negotiated with hardened criminals, overworked magistrates, the guilty, the innocent, and everyone in-between. He would be damned if he couldn't come to some sort of compromise with his own mother-in-law.

"Mrs. Howard, I understand that I am not your first choice as a husband for Lottie." He gave her the wry, charming smile that worked well with most women. "The devil knows that I wouldn't be anyone's preference. But as things stand, I will prove a far more generous benefactor than Radnor." He glanced deliberately at their dilapidated surroundings and returned his gaze to hers. "There is no reason you shouldn't make improvements to the house and refurbish it to your satisfaction. I will also pay for the children's education and see to it that Ellie has a proper coming-out. If you like, you can travel abroad and spend the summer months at the coast. Tell me whatever you want and you shall have it."

The woman's expression was frankly disbelieving. "And why would you do all that?"

"For my wife's pleasure," he replied without hesitation.

Lottie turned to him with a round-eyed gaze of wonder. Casually he fingered the collar of her bodice, thinking that it was a small price to pay for what she gave him.

Unfortunately the intimate gesture seemed to harden Mrs. Howard against him. "We want nothing from you, Mr. Gentry."

"I understand that you're in debt to Radnor," Nick persisted, feeling there was no way to address the issue other than with bluntness. "I will take care of that. I've already offered to repay him for Lottie's years at school, and I will assume your other financial obligations as well."

"You can't afford to keep such promises," Mrs. Howard said. "And even if you could, the answer would still be no. I bid you take your leave, Mr. Gentry, as I will not discuss the matter any more."

Nick gave her a searching stare, detecting desperation...uneasiness...guilt. His every instinct warned him that she was hiding something. "I will call on you again," he said gently, "when Mr. Howard is at home."

"His answer will be no different than mine."

Nick did not indicate that he had heard the refusal. "Good day, Mrs. Howard. We take our leave with every wish for your health and happiness."

Lottie's fingers clenched tightly through Nick's coat sleeve as she fought to master her emotions. "Good-bye, Mama," she said huskily and walked out with him.

Nick handed her carefully into the carriage and glanced back at the empty garden plot. All the windows of the house were vacant, except for one on the upper floor, where Ellie's round face appeared. She waved forlornly and rested her chin on her hands as the carriage door closed.

The vehicle pulled away with a jolt before the horses settled into their rhythm. Lottie leaned her head back against the velvet upholstery, her eyes closed, her mouth trembling. The glitter of unshed tears appeared beneath her rich gold lashes. "Foolishly I had hoped for a warmer reception," she said, trying for an ironic tone and failing completely as a half sob escaped her throat.

Nick sat there unnerved and damnably helpless, his body tensing all over. The sight of his wife crying filled him with alarm. To his relief, she managed to gain control over her emotions, and she pressed the heels of her gloved hands to her eyes.

"They couldn't afford to turn down my offer," Nick said, "unless they were still receiving money from Radnor."

Lottie shook her head in confusion. "But it makes no sense that he would continue to support my family now that I've married you."

"Do they have any other source of income?"

"I can't think of one. Perhaps my uncle may be able to give them a little. Not enough to keep them indefinitely, however."

"Hmmm." Considering various possibilities, Nick leaned back into the corner of his seat, his gaze fixed on the scenery that jostled past the window.

"Nick...did you really tell Lord Radnor that you would repay my school tuition for all those years?"

"Yes."

Strangely, Lottie did not ask why, only occupied herself with arranging her skirts and tugging her sleeves down to cover her wrists. Removing her gloves, she folded them and set them beside her on the carriage seat. Nick watched her through half-closed eyes. When she could find nothing left to adjust or straighten, she brought herself to look at him. "What now?" she asked, as if preparing for a new round of difficulties.

Nick considered the question, feeling a tug in the center of his chest as he saw the resolution in her expression. She had endured the past few days with an equanimity that was extraordinary for a girl her age. No doubt any other young woman would have been reduced to a sobbing heap by now. He wanted to remove the strained look from her eyes and for once see her carefree and relaxed.

"Well, Mrs. Gentry," he said, moving to the space beside her, "for the next day or two, I propose that we have some fun."

"Fun," she repeated, as if the word were unfamiliar. "Forgive me, but my capacity for enjoyment is rather diminished at present."

Nick smiled and settled his hand on the outline of her thigh. "You're in the most exciting city in the world," he murmured, "in the company of a virile young husband and his ill-gotten gains." He kissed her ear, making her shiver. "Believe me, Lottie, there is a great deal of fun to be had."

Lottie would not have thought that anything could shake her from her despondency after the cold reception from her mother. However, Nick engaged her so thoroughly during the next few days that she found it difficult to think about anything but him.

That night Nick took her to a theatrical tavern where music and comical acts were staged to draw in customers. Located in Covent Garden, the Vestris-named after a once-popular Italian opera dancer-was a meeting ground for theatrical folk, slumming nobles, and all manner of colorful characters. The place was dirty and reeking of wine and smoke, the floor so sticky that Lottie was in danger of walking right out of her shoes. She crossed the threshold with reluctance, as young women of quality were never seen in such places unless in the company of their husbands-and even then it was highly questionable. Nick was immediately hailed by the occupants of the tavern, many of them appearing to be complete ruffians. After a brief interval of backslapping and an exchange of friendly insults, Nick took Lottie to a table. They were served a dinner of beefsteak and potatoes, a bottle of port, and two mugs of something called "heavy wet."

Although Lottie had never eaten in public before and felt absurdly self-conscious, she gamely attacked a beefsteak that could easily have served a family of four. "What is this?" she asked, gingerly taking her mug and peering into the foaming brown depths.

"Ale," Nick replied, resting his arm along the back of her chair. "Try some."

Obediently she took a sip of the thick grain-flavored beverage, and her entire face wrinkled in distaste. Laughing at her expression, Nick told a nearby barmaid to fetch her some gin punch. More patrons crowded into the building, mugs were clanked heavily on the battered wooden tables, and barmaids moved busily among the crowd with large pitchers.

At the front of the tavern, a comic musical ditty was being performed by a slender woman wearing men's clothing and a portly gentleman with a luxuriant moustache who was dressed as a country maid, with a huge false bosom that swayed from side to side as he moved. As the "lad" chased the "maid" around the tavern, singing a soulful love song that praised her beauty, the place erupted in bellows of laughter. The sheer silliness of the performance was impossible to resist. Tucked against her husband's side, with a cup of astringent gin punch in her hands, Lottie tried without success to stifle a fit of giggles.

More performances followed...bawdy songs and dances, comic verse, even a display of acrobatic tumbling and juggling. The hour grew late, the corners of the tavern became shadowy, and in the relaxed atmosphere, more than a few couples began to indulge in some indiscreet fondling and kissing. Lottie knew that she should have been shocked, but the gin punch had made her sleepy and thickheaded. She discovered that she was sitting on Nick's lap, her legs tucked between his, and that the only reason she was able to sit upright was the fact that his arms were around her.

"Oh, dear," she said, staring into her nearly empty cup. "Did I drink all of that?"

Nick took the cup from her and set it on the table. "I'm afraid so."

"Only you could undo my years of training at Maidstone's in one evening," she said, making him grin.

His gaze lowered to her mouth, and he traced the edge of her jaw with his fingertip. "Are you completely corrupted now? No? Then let's go home, and I'll finish the job."

Feeling unsteady and very warm, Lottie giggled as he guided her through the tavern. "The floor is uneven," she told him, leaning hard against his side.

"It's not the floor, sweetheart, it's your feet."

Pondering that, Lottie glanced from his amused face to her own feet. "They do feel as if they've been put on the wrong legs."

Nick shook his head, his blue eyes gleaming with laughter. "You have no tolerance for gin, do you? Here, let me carry you."

"No, I don't wish to be a spectacle," she protested as he lifted her against his chest and carried her out to the street. Catching sight of them, a waiting footman hurried to the end of the street, where their carriage waited in a long row.

"You'll be more of a spectacle if you fall on your face," Nick replied.

"I'm not that far gone," Lottie protested. However, his arms were so solid and his shoulder so inviting that she snuggled against him with a sigh. The slightly musky scent of his skin mingled with the crisp smell of starch from his necktie, a blend so alluring that she inched closer to inhale deeply.

Nick stopped by the side of the street. His head turned, his shaven cheek brushing hers and making her skin tingle. "What are you doing?"

"Your smell..." she said dreamily. "It's wonderful. I noticed it the first time we met, when you nearly knocked me off the wall."

A laugh stirred in his throat. "I saved you from falling, you mean."

Intrigued by the scratchy texture of his skin, Lottie pressed her lips beneath his jaw. She felt him swallow hard, the movement rippling against her mouth. It was the first time she had ever made an advance to him, and the small gesture was surprisingly effective. He stood there holding her tightly, his chest rising and falling in increasingly labored breaths. Intrigued by the notion that she could arouse him so easily, Lottie tugged at the knot of his necktie and kissed the side of his throat.

"Don't, Lottie."

She drew the tip of her fingernail over the hair-roughened skin, scraping delicately.

"Lottie..." he tried again. Whatever he had intended to say was forgotten as she kissed his ear and took the lobe between her teeth in a soft bite.

The carriage stopped before them, and the footman busied himself with setting out the removable step. Schooling his features into a blank mask, Nick thrust Lottie inside the carriage and climbed in after her.

As soon as the door closed, he hauled her into his lap and tugged roughly at the front of her gown. She reached up to play with his hair, tangling her fingers in the thick sable locks. Unlacing the top of her corset, he eased one breast out and fastened his mouth over the soft nipple. The teasing suction caused her to arch against him with a whimper of pleasure. His hands delved frantically beneath her skirts, slipping past masses of broadcloth and linen to find the damp slit of her drawers. His hand was too large to slip inside the undergarment, and he ripped it with an ease that made her gasp. Her thighs spread in helpless welcome, and her vision blurred as one long finger eased inside her. Cradled in his lap, with his hand working gently between her legs, she felt her inner muscles begin to tighten rhythmically.

A groan escaped him, and he pulled her hips over his, fumbling roughly with the front of his trousers. "You're so wet...I can't wait, Lottie, let me...sit in my lap, and put your legs...oh, God, yes, right there..."

She straddled him willingly, sucking in her breath as he penetrated her, his hands urging her hips down until he had buried himself to the hilt. He was deliciously hard and thick inside her, holding still while the motion of the carriage jostled their bodies together. Surreptitiously Lottie rubbed the aching peak of her sex against him, feeling waves of heat rising from the place they were joined. One of his hands passed gently over her upper back.

Lottie gasped as a vigorous jolt of the carriage wheels impelled him farther inside her. "We don't have long," she managed to say against his throat. "The tavern is very close to home."

Nick responded with a tortured groan. "The next time I'll make the driver take us around the whole of London...twice." He slid his thumb to the top of her wet sex and flicked it with soft, rapid strokes, building her pleasure rapidly until she curled against him with a sob, overwhelmed by explosive sensation. Hitching his hips upward in desperate thrusts, he growled and buried his face in the curve of her neck, his passion reaching a blinding culmination.

They both breathed in long gasps, while their naked flesh was locked together beneath the layers of disheveled clothing. "It's never enough," Nick said gruffly, his hand cupping over her soft buttocks, holding her firmly against him. "It feels too good to stop."

Lottie understood what he was attempting to express. The unquenchable need between them was more than mere physical craving. She found a satisfaction in being together that went far beyond the joining of their bodies. Until this moment, however, she hadn't known that he felt it too...and she wondered if he was as afraid to acknowledge the feeling as she was.