Worth Any Price

CHAPTER 12

Bracing herself, Lottie looked up into the face of Arthur, Lord Radnor. Time had wrought an astonishing difference in him, as if ten years had passed rather than two. He was unnaturally pale, his skin the color of sun-bleached bone, his dark brows and eyes standing out in jarring contrast. Harsh grooves of bitterness divided his face into angular sections.

Lottie had known the inevitability of seeing Lord Radnor someday. In the back of her mind, she had assumed that he would regard her with hatred. But what she saw in his eyes was far more alarming. Hunger. A voracity that had nothing to do with sexual desire but something far more consuming. Instinctively she understood that his longing to own her had only intensified during her absence, and that her betrayal of him had given him the deadly resolve of an executioner.

"My lord," she acknowledged, her voice steady even though her lips were trembling. "You are importunate. Release my arm, please."

Ignoring her request, Radnor pulled her into the concealment of a greenery-laded column, his fingers tightening into a bruising vise. Lottie went with him easily, determined that this ugliness from her past would not result in a scene that would mar an evening so important for her husband. Ridiculous, that she should be so afraid in a room filled with people. Radnor certainly could not, would not, harm her here. If they were alone, however, she believed that he would feel absolutely justified in wrapping those long fingers around her throat and choking the last breath from her.

His gaze sliced over her. "My God, what has he turned you into? I can smell the lust on you. Only the thinnest veneer separated you from the ill-bred provincials you came from, and now it has vanished completely."

"In that case," Lottie replied, her imprisoned hand balling into a numb fist, "you will disassociate yourself from me at once, as I'm certain you will not wish to be contaminated by my presence."

"Stupid girl," Radnor whispered, his black eyes lit with cold fire, "you cannot begin to understand what you've lost. Do you know what you would be without me?Nothing . Imade you. I lifted you from the bowels of society. I was going to turn you into a creature of grace and perfection. And instead you betrayed me and turned your back on your family."

"I did not ask for your patronage."

"All the more reason you should have knelt to me in gratitude. You owe me everything, Charlotte. Your very life."

Lottie saw that it would be pointless to debate his insane certainty. "Be that as it may," she said softly, "I belong to Lord Sydney now. You have no claim on me."

His mouth twisted in a malevolent sneer. "My claim on you goes far beyond some piddling marriage vows."

"Have you deluded yourself into thinking that you could purchase me like some bit of goods in a shop window?" she asked scornfully.

"I own your very soul," Radnor whispered, clenching her wrist until she felt the delicate bones flex, and tears of pain came to her eyes. "I purchased it at the expense of my own. I've invested more than ten years of my life in you, and I will be repaid." "How? I am another man's wife. And I feel nothing for you now-not fear, not hatred-only indifference. What can you possibly think you will recoup from me?"

Just as Lottie thought her arm would break, she heard a quiet snarl from behind her. It was Nick, moving swiftly between them. His arm descended in a blur, and whatever he did, it caused Lord Radnor to let go of her with a grunt of pain. The abrupt release sent Lottie stumbling backward, and Nick caught her hard against his chest. Automatically she turned into the crook of his arm, and she heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke to Lord Radnor.

"Don't come near her again, or I'll kill you." It was a quiet statement of fact.

"Insolent swine," Radnor said hoarsely.

Risking a glance at Radnor from the safety of her husband's arms, Lottie saw a grayish-purple tide sweep over his pallid face. It was clear that the sight of Nick's hands on her was more than he could bear. Nick touched the back of her neck and slid his fingers along the top of her spine, taunting the earl deliberately.

"Very well," Radnor whispered. "I leave you to your debasement, Charlotte."

"Leave," Nick said."Now."

Radnor walked away, his frame stiff with the righteous fury of a deposed monarch.

Cradling her throbbing wrist with her free hand, Lottie saw that they had drawn more than a few curious stares from people passing through the gallery. In fact, some guests in the ballroom were becoming keenly aware of the scene. "Nick-" she whispered, but he went into action before she needed to say another word.

Keeping a supportive arm around her, Nick motioned to a servant who was passing with a tray of empty glasses. "You," he said tersely. "Come here."

The dark-haired footman obeyed with haste. "Yes, my lord?"

"Tell me where I can find a private room."

The footman thought rapidly. "If you proceed along that hallway, my lord, you will come to a music room that I believe is unoccupied at present."

"Fine. Bring some brandy there. Quickly."

"Yes, my lord!"

Dazedly Lottie went with Nick as he guided her through the hallway. Chaotic thoughts filled her mind, while the elegant din of the ballroom receded behind them. Her body was charged with peculiar battle-readiness. The long-dreaded confrontation with Lord Radnor had left her ill, elated, furious, and relieved. How was it possible to feel so many things at once?

The music room was quietly lit, the outlines of a piano, harp, and several assorted music stands casting deep shadows on the wall. Nick closed the door and turned to Lottie, his broad shoulders looming over her. She had never seen his face so hard.

"I'm all right," Lottie said, and the unusually high pitch of her own voice actually drew a giggle from her throat. "Really, there's no need to look so-" She paused with another uncontainable laugh, seeing that Nick clearly thought she had taken leave of her senses. She would never be able to explain the wild sense of freedom that flooded her, after having faced her greatest fear.

"I'm sorry," she said giddily, even as tears of relief dampened her eyes. "It's just.... I've been so afraid of Lord Radnor for my entire life...but as I saw him just now, I realized that his power over me is gone. He can do nothing to me. I don't feel any obligation to him wh-whatsoever...and I don't even feel guilty about it. The burden of it is gone, as well as the fear, and it feels so strange..."

As she trembled and laughed and blotted her eyes with her gloved fingers, Nick took her into his arms and tried to soothe her. "Easy...Easy...," he whispered, while his hands moved gently over her shoulders and back. "Take a deep breath. Hush, everything's all right." The warm brand of his mouth pressed against her forehead, her wet lashes, her cheeks. "You're safe, Lottie. You're mine, my wife, and I'll take care of you. You're safe."

As Lottie tried to explain that she wasn't afraid, he murmured for her to be quiet, to rest against him. She began to breathe deeply, as if she had just run for miles without stopping, and lay her head on the center of his chest. Nick tore off his gloves and placed his warm hands on her chilled skin, his strong fingers kneading the rigid muscles of her neck and upper shoulders.

Someone knocked at the door.

"The brandy," Nick said quietly and guided Lottie to an armchair.

Lottie sank into the chair, listening to the footman's appreciative exclamation as Nick gave him a coin in return for his trouble. Returning with a tray bearing a bottle and a snifter, Nick set it on a nearby table.

"I don't need that," Lottie said with a wan smile.

Ignoring her, Nick poured a finger of brandy into the snifter and held the bowl of the glass between his palms. After warming the spirits with his hands, he gave it to her. "Drink."

Obediently Lottie took the snifter. To her surprise, her hands trembled so badly that she could barely hold it. Nick's face darkened as he saw her difficulty. He sank to his knees before her, his muscular thighs spread on either side of her legs. Covering her fingers with his own, Nick steadied her hands and helped guide the rim of the snifter to her lips. She took a sip, grimacing as the brandy scalded her throat.

"More," Nick murmured, forcing her to take another swallow, and another, until her eyes watered from the velvet fire.

"I think it's a bit off," she said scratchily.

Nick's eyes flickered with sudden amusement. "It's not off. It's a Fin Bois '98."

"It must have been a bad year."

He grinned at that, his thumbs caressing the backs of her hands. "Someone should tell the wine merchants, then, as it usually goes for fifty pounds a bottle."

"Fifty pounds?" Lottie echoed, aghast. Closing her eyes, she finished the brandy in a few determined gulps and coughed as she gave him the empty glass.

"Good girl," Nick murmured, sliding a hand around the back of her neck and squeezing gently. She could not help reflecting that although Nick's hand was much larger and infinitely more powerful than Radnor's, he had never caused her a single moment of pain. Nick's touch had given her only pleasure.

She winced as she rested her sore wrist on the arm of the chair. Subtle as the movement was, Nick detected it immediately. He swore beneath his breath as he took her arm and began to peel away the long glove.

"It's nothing," Lottie said. "Really, I would prefer to leave the glove on...Lord Radnor did take hold of my arm, but it wasn't all that-" She broke off with a gasp of discomfort as Nick eased the glove from her hand.

Nick froze as he saw the black finger marks that had been left by Lord Radnor's vicious grip. The murderous fury that suffused his face caused Lottie to start in alarm. "I bruise quite easily," she said. "You mustn't look like that. The marks will be gone in a day or two, and then-"

"I'm going to kill him." Nick bared his teeth in feral rage. "When I get through with him, all that will be left is a stain on the ground, damn him to everlasting hell-"

"Please." Lottie laid a soft hand on his stiff cheek. "Lord Radnor intended to ruin this evening for both of us, and I refuse to let him succeed. I want you to bind my wrist with a handkerchief, and help me to put my glove back on. We must hurry back before we're missed. Sir Ross will be making his speech, and we-"

"I don't give a damn about that."

"I do." Regaining her composure, Lottie stroked his cheek with soft fingertips. "I want to go out there and waltz with you. And then stand by your side while Sir Ross tells everyone who you really are." Her lashes lowered as she glanced at his mouth. "And then I want you to take me home and carry me to bed."

As Lottie had intended, Nick was momentarily distracted. His savage gaze began to soften. "And then what?"

Before she could answer, the door vibrated with a demanding thump. "Sydney," came a muffled voice from the other side.

"Yes," Nick said, rising to his feet.

Sir Ross's tall form filled the doorway. His face was expressionless as he looked at the two of them. "I was just told of Lord Radnor's presence." He went directly to Lottie, crouching before her much as Nick had. Seeing her bruised arm, Sir Ross gestured toward it carefully. "May I?" His voice was more gentle than she had ever heard it.

"Yes," Lottie murmured, allowing him to take her hand in his. Sir Ross examined the darkened wrist with a gathering frown. His face was very close, and his gray eyes were so kind and concerned that Lottie wondered how she could have ever thought him aloof. She recalled his reputed compassion for women and children-a focal point of his magisterial career, Sophia had told her.

Sir Ross's mouth flexed in a faint, reassuring smile as he released her hand. "This won't happen again-I can promise you that."

"Wonderful party," Nick said sarcastically. "Perhaps you can tell us who the hell included Lord Radnor on the guest list?"

"Nick," Lottie interceded, "it's all right, I am certain that Sir Ross did not-"

"It is not all right," Sir Ross countered quietly. "I hold myself responsible for this, and I humbly beg your forgiveness, Charlotte. Lord Radnor was most certainly not included on the guest list that I approved, but I will find out how he managed to obtain an invitation." His brow creased as he continued. "Lord Radnor's behavior tonight was irrational as well as reprehensible...it bespeaks an obsession with Charlotte that will likely not end with this incident."

"Oh, it's going to end," Nick said darkly. "I have several methods in mind that will cure Radnor's obsession. To start with, if he hasn't left the premises by the time I go back out there-"

"He's gone," Sir Ross interrupted. "Two of the runners are here-I bid them to remove him in as discreet a manner as possible. Calm yourself, Sydney-it will do no good for you to rampage like a maddened bull."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "Tell me how calmyou would be if someone had left those bruises on Sophia."

Sir Ross nodded with a short sigh. "Point taken." His dark brows drew together as he continued. "Obviously it is your right to deal with Radnor as you will, Sydney, and I would not presume to stop you, or to interfere. But you should be aware that I intend to approach him myself and make it clear that Charlotte is under my protection as well as yours. The fact that Radnor would dare accost a member of my family is an untenable outrage."

Lottie was touched by his concern. She had never imagined that she would have two such powerful men to defend her from Lord Radnor-not only her husband but her brother-in-law as well. "Thank you, Sir Ross."

"No one would blame you if you wished to go home now," he told her. "As for the speech I had planned to give this evening, other arrangements can be made-"

"I'm not going anywhere," Lottie said steadily. "And if you do not give your speech tonight, Sir Ross, I vow I will do it in your stead."

He smiled suddenly. "All right, then. I would hate to gainsay your wishes." He sent Nick a questioning look. "Will you return to the ballroom soon?"

Nick's mouth twisted. "If Lottie wishes it."

"Yes," she said decisively. Despite the pain in her wrist, she felt ready to confront the devil himself, if need be. She saw the glances the two men exchanged as they silently agreed to discuss the problem of Radnor at a more appropriate time.

Sir Ross left them in private once more, and Lottie stood resolutely. Nick was at her side immediately, his hands framing her waist as if he feared she would topple over. Lottie smiled at his overprotectiveness. "I am fine now," she told him. "Truly."

She waited for the familiar glimmer of wry humor to appear in Nick's eyes, for him to return to his usual insouciant self, but he remained tense, his gaze searching her face with strange gravity. He looked as though he wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and carry her far away from here.

"You're staying by my side for the rest of the evening," he told her.

Lottie tilted her head back to smile at him. "That might be wise, as the brandy seems to have gone to my head."

Warmth kindled in his eyes, and one of his hands slipped upward to cradle the shape of her breast. "Do you feel dizzy?"

She relaxed into the cupping pressure of his fingers, his touch releasing a glow of sensuality from her susceptible flesh. The pain in her wrist was nearly forgotten, her nerves tingling wildly as his thumb teased her nipple into a thrusting point. "Only when you touch me like that."

Finishing the tantalizing caress with a gentle rotation of his palm, Nick returned his hand to safer territory. "I want this damned evening to be done with," he said. "Come...the sooner we go out there, the sooner Cannon can make his bloody speech."

Extending her bare hand, Lottie steeled herself not to flinch as he eased the tight-fitting glove over her swollen wrist. By the time he was finished, Lottie was white-faced, and Nick was sweating profusely, as if the pain had been his rather than hers. "Damn Radnor," he said raspily, going to pour her another brandy. "I'm going to tear his throat out."

"I know something that would hurt him far more than that." Carefully Lottie raised a folded handkerchief to blot his damp brow.

"Oh?" His brows arched in sardonic inquiry.

Her fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. She paused for a long moment before replying, while a wave of hope rose in her throat and nearly threatened to choke her. Taking the brandy from him, she took a bracing swallow. "We could try to be happy together," she said. "That is something he could never understand...something he'll never have."

She could not bring herself to look at him, afraid that she might see mockery or rejection in his eyes. But her heart slammed heavily in her chest as she felt his mouth drift along the top of her head, his lips playing with white rose petals as they fluttered against the pinned-up silk of her braid.

"We could try," he agreed softly.

After the two glasses of brandy, Lottie's head was swimming pleasantly, and she was grateful for Nick's steady guidance as they returned to the ballroom. The hardness and strength of his arm fascinated her. No matter how heavily she leaned on him, he took her weight easily. He was a strong man...but until tonight, she had not suspected that he was capable of offering her such tender comfort. Somehow she did not think that he had suspected it of himself, either. Their reactions had been unthinking-hers, to turn to him, and his, to engulf her in reassurance.

They walked into the ballroom and approached Sir Ross. Ascending a moveable step to become easily visible to the huge crowd in the ballroom, Sir Ross signaled the musicians to stop playing, and asked for the guests' collective attention. He possessed the kind of elegant, innately authoritative voice that any politician would have envied. An expectant hush fell over the ballroom, while more guests poured in from the outside circuits, and a virtual army of servants moved rapidly through the assemblage with trays of champagne.

Sir Ross began the speech with a reference to his magisterial career and the satisfaction it had always given him to see that certain wrongs were put right. He followed with a string of approving remarks about the inviolable traditions and obligations of hereditary peerage. The remarks obviously gratified the gathering, which was liberally salted with viscounts, earls, marquesses, and dukes.

"I was under the impression that Sir Ross was not a great supporter of hereditary principle," Lottie whispered to Nick.

He smiled grimly. "My brother-in-law can be quite a showman when he wishes. And he knows that reminding them of their strict adherence to tradition will help them to swallow the idea of accepting me as a peer."

Sir Ross went on to describe an unnamed gentleman who had been deprived for far too long of a title that was rightfully his. A man who was in the direct line of descent of a distinguished family, and who in the past few years had devoted himself entirely to public service.

"Therefore," Sir Ross concluded, "I am grateful for the rare privilege of announcing Lord Sydney's long overdue reclamation of his title, and the seat in the Lords that accompanies it. And I have every expectation that he will continue to serve the country and queen in the role that is his by birth." Raising a glass in the air, he said, "Let us toast Mr. Nick Gentry-the man who shall be known to us from now on as John, Viscount Sydney."

A ripple of amazement went through the crowd. Although most of them had already known what Sir Ross would announce, it was startling to hear the words spoken aloud.

"To Lord Sydney," came hundreds of obedient echoes, followed by as many cheers.

"And to Lady Sydney," Sir Ross prompted, drawing another enthusiastic response to which Lottie curtsied in gracious recognition.

Rising, Lottie touched Nick's arm. "Perhaps you should offer a toast to Sir Ross," she suggested.

He gave her a speaking glance but complied, lifting his glass toward his brother-in-law. "To Sir Ross," he said in a resonant voice, "without whose efforts I would not be here tonight."

The crowd responded with a round of hurrahs, while Sir Ross grinned suddenly, aware that Nick's carefully worded toast did not include the barest hint of gratitude.

Toasts to the queen, the country, and the peerage itself ensued, and then the orchestra filled the room with buoyant melody. Sir Ross came to claim Lottie for a waltz, while Nick went to dance with Sophia, who wore an irrepressible smile as she sailed into his arms.

Beholding the pair, one so fair, one so dark, and yet both so similar in their striking attractiveness, Lottie smiled. She turned to Sir Ross and carefully rested her sore hand on his shoulder as they began to waltz. As might have been expected, he was an excellent dancer, self-assured and easy to follow.

Feeling a mixture of liking and gratitude, Lottie studied his severely handsome face. "You've done this to save him, haven't you?" she asked.

"I don't know that it will," Sir Ross said quietly.

The words sent a fearful pang through her. Did he mean that he still believed Nick was in some kind of peril? But Nick was no longer a Bow Street runner-he had been removed from the hazards that his profession had entailed. He was safe now...unless Sir Ross was implying that the greatest danger to Nick came from somewhere inside himself.

In the days following the public revelation of Nick's identity, the house on Betterton was under siege from callers. Mrs. Trench spoke to everyone from Nick's old underworld cohorts to representatives of the queen. Cards and invitations were brought to the front door until the silver tray on the entrance hall table was laden with a mountain of paper. Periodicals dubbed him "the reluctant viscount," recounting his heroism as a former Bow Street runner. As reporters followed the lead that Sir Ross had established, Nick was generally depicted as a selfless champion of the public who would have modestly preferred to serve his common man rather than accept his long-dormant title. To Lottie's amusement, Nick was outraged by his new public image, for no one seemed to regard him as dangerous any longer. Strangers approached him eagerly, no longer intimidated by his air of subtle menace. For a man who was so intensely private, it was nearly intolerable.

"Before long, their interest in you will fade," Lottie said in consolation after Nick had to push through an admiring throng to reach his own front door.

Harried and scowling, Nick shed his coat and flopped onto the parlor settee, his long legs spread carelessly. "It won't be soon enough." He glared at the ceiling. "This place is too damned accessible. We need a house with a private drive and a tall fence."

"We have received more than a few invitations to visit friends in the country." Lottie came beside him and sank to the carpeted floor, the skirts of her printed muslin skirts billowing around her. Their faces were nearly level as Nick reclined on the arm of the low-backed settee. "Even one from Westcliff, asking if we would stay a fortnight or so at Stony Cross Park."

Nick's face darkened. "No doubt the earl wants to assure himself that you're not being maltreated by your husband from hell."

Lottie couldn't help laughing. "You must admit that you were not at your most charming then."

Nick caught at her fingers as she reached over to loosen his necktie. "I wanted you too badly to bother with charm." The pad of his thumb stroked over the smooth tips of her fingernails.

"You implied that I was interchangeable with any other woman," she chided.

"In the past I learned that the best way to get something I wanted was to pretend that I didn't want it."

Lottie shook her head, perplexed. "That makes no sense at all."

Smiling, Nick released her hand and toyed with the lace edge of her scooped neckline. "It worked," he pointed out.

With their faces close together and his vivid blue eyes staring into hers, Lottie felt a blush climbing her face. "You were very wicked that night."

His fingertip eased into the shallow valley between her breasts. "Not nearly as wicked as I wanted to be..."

The sound of the front door being soundly rapped echoed through the entrance hall and drifted into the parlor. Withdrawing his hand, Nick listened as Mrs. Trench went to answer the door, telling the visitor that neither Lord Sydney nor his wife was receiving callers.

The reminder of their beleaguered privacy caused Nick to scowl. "That does it. I want to get out of London."

"Whom shall we visit? Lord Westcliff would be perfectly-"

"No."

"All right, then," Lottie continued, unruffled. "The Cannons are in residence at Silverhill-"

"God, no. I'm not spending a fortnight under the same roof as my brother-in-law."

"We could go to Worcestershire," Lottie suggested. "Sophia says that the restoration of the Sydney estate is nearly complete. She has made no secret of the fact that she wants you to view the results of her efforts."

He shook his head instantly. "I have no desire to see that accursed place."

"Your sister has gone to great effort-you wouldn't want to hurt her feelings, would you?"

"No one asked her to do all that. Sophia took it upon herself, and I'll be damned if I have to shower her with gratitude for it."

"I've heard that Worcestershire is quite beautiful." Lottie let a wistful note enter her voice. "The air would be so much nicer there-London in summer is dreadful. And someday I would like to see the place where you were born. If you do not wish to go now, I understand, but-"

"There are no servants," he pointed out triumphantly.

"We could travel with a skeleton staff. Wouldn't it be pleasant to stay in the country at our own home, rather than visit someone else? Just for a fortnight?"

Nick was silent, his eyes narrowing. Lottie sensed the conflict in him, the desire to please her warring with his fierce reluctance to return to the place he had left all those years ago. To confront those memories and recall the pain of being orphaned so suddenly would not be pleasant for him.

Lottie lowered her gaze before he could see the compassion that he would surely misread. "I will tell Sophia that we will accept her invitation some other time. She will understand-"

"I'll go," he said brusquely.

Lottie looked at him in surprise. He was visibly tense, clad in invisible armor. "It isn't necessary," she said. "We'll go somewhere else, if you prefer."

He shook his head, his mouth twisting sardonically. "First you want to stay in Worcestershire, then you don't. Damn, but women are perverse."

"I'm not being perverse," she protested. "It's just that I don't want you to go and then be vexed with me for the entire stay."

"I'm not vexed. Men don't get 'vexed.'"

"Annoyed? Exasperated? Irked?" She offered him a tender smile, wishing that she could protect him from nightmares and memories and the demons inside himself.

Nick began to reply, but as he stared at her, he seemed to forget what word he would have chosen. Reaching for her, he suddenly checked the movement. As Lottie watched him, he stood from the settee and left the parlor with startling swiftness.

The journey to Worcestershire would normally last a full day, long enough that most travelers of reasonable means would elect to travel for part of one day, stay overnight at a tavern, and arrive later in the morning. However, Nick insisted that they make the trip virtually without stopping, except to change horses and obtain a few refreshments.

Although Lottie tried to take the arrangement in stride, she found it difficult to maintain a cheerful facade. The carriage ride was arduous, the roads were of uneven quality, and the constant rattling and swaying of the vehicle made her slightly nauseous. As Nick saw her discomfort, his expression became grim and resolute, and the atmosphere disintegrated into silence.

A skeleton staff had been sent the day before their arrival, to stock the kitchen and ready the rooms. As had been previously agreed, the Cannons would visit the estate the following morning. Conveniently, Sir Ross's country seat at Silverhill was only an hour away.

The last faint glow of the setting sun was retreating from the sky by the time the carriage reached Worcestershire. From what Lottie could see, the county was fertile and prosperous. Rich green meadows and tidily groomed farms covered the level earth, occasionally giving way to verdant hills covered with fat white sheep. The webbing of canals that spread from the rivers graced the area with easy routes for trade and commerce. Any average visitor to Worcestershire would surely react to the scenery with pleasure. However, Nick became increasingly morose, emanating sullen reluctance from every pore with each turn of the wheels that brought them closer to the Sydney lands.

At last they turned onto a long, narrow drive that extended for a mile before a stately house came into view. Light from the outside lamps cast a warm glow over the entranceway and caused the front windows to glitter like black diamonds. Eagerly Lottie pushed aside the curtains at the carriage windows to obtain a better view.

"It's lovely," she said, her heart beating fast with excitement. "Just as Sophia described." The large Palladian-style house was handsome, if unexceptional, the combination of red brick, white columns, and precise pediments designed with tidy symmetry. Lottie loved it at first sight.

The carriage stopped before the entranceway. Nick was expressionless as he descended from the vehicle and helped Lottie down. They climbed the steps to the double doors, and Mrs. Trench welcomed them into a large, oval-shaped hall floored with gleaming rose-colored marble.

"Mrs. Trench," Lottie said warmly, "how are you?"

"Very well, my lady. And you?"

"Tired, but relieved to be here at last. Have you encountered any difficulties with the house so far?"

"No, my lady, but there is much to be done. A single day was scarcely sufficient to prepare things..."

"That is all right," Lottie said with a smile. "After the long journey, Lord Sydney and I will require nothing more than a clean place to sleep."

"The bedrooms are in order, my lady. Shall I show you upstairs at once, or will you want some supper..." The housekeeper's voice trailed away as she glanced at Nick.

Following her gaze, Lottie saw that her husband was staring at the main hall of the house as if transfixed. He seemed to be watching a play that no one else could see, his gaze following invisible actors as they crossed the stage to speak their lines. His face was flushed, as if from fever. Wordlessly he wandered through the hall as if he were alone, exploring with the hesitancy of a lost young boy.

Lottie did not know how to help him. One of the hardest things she'd ever have to do was to summon a casual tone as she replied to the housekeeper, but somehow she managed it.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Trench. I don't believe that we will require supper. Perhaps you will have some water and a bottle of wine sent to our room. And have the maids take out just a few things for tonight. They can unpack the rest of it tomorrow. In the meanwhile, Lord Sydney and I will have a look around."

"Yes, my lady. I will see that your personal articles are set out immediately." The housekeeper strode away, calling out instructions to a pair of maids, who rushed quickly through the hall.

As the overhead chandelier had been left unlit, the shadowy atmosphere was relieved by only two lamps. Following her husband, Lottie approached the archway at one end of the hall, which opened to a portrait gallery. The air was laced with the crisp scents of new wool carpeting and fresh paint.

Lottie studied Nick's profile as he gazed at the conspicuously bare walls of the gallery. She guessed that he was remembering the paintings that had once occupied the empty spaces. "It seems we'll have to acquire some artwork," she remarked.

"They were all sold to pay off my father's debts."

Moving closer, Lottie pressed her cheek against the broadcloth of his coat, where the edge of his shoulder flowed into the hard swell of his muscular arm. "Will you show me the house?"

Nick was silent for a long moment. When he glanced into her upturned face, his eyes were bleak with the knowledge that there was nothing left of the boy who had once lived here. "Not tonight. I need to see it alone."

"I understand," Lottie said, slipping her hand into his. "I am quite fatigued. Certainly I would prefer to tour the house tomorrow morning, in the daylight."

His fingers returned the pressure with a barely discernable squeeze, and then he let go. "I'll take you upstairs."

She pressed her lips into the shape of a smile. "No need. I'll have Mrs. Trench or one of the servants accompany me."

A clock from somewhere in the house chimed half past midnight by the time Nick finally entered the bedroom. Unable to sleep despite her exhaustion, Lottie had retrieved a novel from one of her valises and had stayed up reading until the book was half finished. The bedroom was a cozy haven, the bed richly appareled with an embroidered silk counterpane and matching hangings, the walls painted in a soft shade of green. Becoming absorbed in the story, Lottie read until she heard the creak of a floorboard.

Seeing Nick in the doorway, Lottie set the novel on the bedside table. Patiently she waited for him to speak, wondering how many memories had been stirred by his walk through the house, how many silent ghosts had traversed his path.

"You should sleep," he said eventually.

"So should you." Lottie turned back the covers. After an extended pause, she asked, "Will you come to bed with me?"

His gaze slid over her, lingering on the ruffled front of her nightrail, the kind of prim, high-necked gown that never failed to arouse him. He looked so alone, so disenchanted...very much the way he had appeared when they had first met.

"Not tonight," he said for the second time that evening.

Their gazes caught and held. Lottie knew that she would be wise to maintain a facade of relaxed unconcern. To be patient with him. Her demands, her frustrations, would only drive him away.

But to her horror, she heard herself say baldly, "Stay."

They both knew that she was not asking for a few minutes, or a few hours. She wanted the entire night.

"You know I can't do that," came his soft reply.

"You won't harm me. I'm not afraid of your nightmares." Lottie sat up, staring at his still face. Suddenly she could not stem a flood of reckless words, her voice becoming raw with emotion. "I want you to stay with me. I want to be close to you. Tell me what I should do or say to make that happen. Tell me, please, because I can't seem to stop myself from wanting more than you're willing to give."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"I promise you that I would never-"

"I'm not asking for reassurances or promises," he said harshly. "I'm stating a fact. There is a part of me that you don't want to know."

"In the past you've asked me to trust you. In return I ask you to trust me now. Tell me what happened to give you such nightmares. Tell me what haunts you so."

"No, Lottie." But instead of leaving, Nick remained in the room, as if his feet would not obey the dictates of his brain.

Suddenly Lottie understood the extent of his tortured longing to confide in her, and his equally potent belief that she would reject him once he did. He had begun to sweat heavily, his skin gleaming like wet bronze. A few strands of sable hair adhered to the moist surface of his forehead. Her longing to touch him was untenable, but somehow she remained where she was.

"I won't turn away from you," she said steadily. "No matter what it is. It happened on the prison hulk, didn't it? It has to do with the real Nick Gentry. Did you kill him, so that you could take his place? Is that what torments you?"

She saw from the way Nick flinched that she had struck close to the truth. The crack in his defenses widened, and he shook his head, trying to navigate past the breach. Failing, he gave her a glance filled with equal parts of rebuke and desperation. "It didn't happen that way."

Lottie refused to look away from him. "Then how?"

The lines of his body changed, relaxing into a sort of wretched resignation. He leaned one shoulder against the wall, facing partially away from her, his gaze arrowing to some distant point on the floor.

"I was sent to the hulk because I was responsible for a man's death. I was fourteen at the time. I had joined a group of highwaymen, and an old man died when we robbed his carriage. Soon afterward we were all tried and convicted. I was too ashamed to tell anyone who I was-I simply gave my name as John Sydney. The other four in the gang were hanged in short order, but because of my age, the magistrate handed me a lesser sentence. Ten months on the Scarborough ."

"Sir Ross was the magistrate who sentenced you," Lottie murmured, remembering what Sophia had told her.

A bitter smile twisted Nick's mouth. "Little did either of us know that we would someday be brothers-in-law." He slouched harder against the wall. "As soon as I set foot on the hulk, I knew that I wasn't going to last a month there. A quick hanging would have been far more merciful. Duncombe's Academy, they called the ship, Duncombe being the officer in command. Half of his prisoners had just been cleared out by a round of gaol fever. They were the lucky ones.

"The hulk was smaller than the others anchored just offshore. It was fitted for one hundred prisoners, but they crammed half again that amount into one large area belowdeck. The ceiling was so low that I couldn't stand fully upright. Prisoners slept on the bare floor or on a platform built on either side of the deck. Each man was allowed to have sleeping space that was six feet long, twenty inches wide. We were double-ironed much of the time, and the constant rattling of chains was almost more than I could stand.

"The smell was the worst of it, though. We were seldom allowed to wash-there was always a shortage of soap, and we had to rinse with seawater. And no through ventilation, just a row of portholes left open on the seaward side. As a result, the reek was so powerful that it would overcome the guards who first opened the hatches in the mornings-once I even saw one of them faint from it. During the time that we were locked down from early evening until the hatches were opened at daybreak, prisoners were left entirely to themselves, with no guards or officers to observe them."

"What did the prisoners do then?" Lottie asked.

His lips parted in a feral grin that made her shiver. "Gambled, fought, made escape plans, and buggered each other."

"What does that word mean?"

Nick shot her a swift glance, seeming startled by the question. "It means rape."

Lottie shook her head in bewilderment. "But a man can't be raped."

"I assure you," Nick said sardonically, "he can. And it was something I had a rather strong desire to avoid. Unfortunately boys of my age-fourteen, fifteen-were the most likely victims. The reason I stayed safe for a time was because I had made friends with another boy who was a bit older and a damned sight more hard-bitten than I."

"Nick Gentry?"

"Yes. He watched over me when I slept, taught me ways to defend myself...he made me eat to stay alive, even when the food was so foul that I could barely swallow it. Talking with him kept my mind occupied during the days when I thought I would go insane from having nothing to do. I wouldn't have lived without him, and I knew it. I was terrified of the day he would leave the hulk. Six months after I'd boarded the Scarborough, Gentry told me that he was due to be released in a week." The look on his face caused Lottie's insides to tighten into cold knots. "Only one week left, after surviving two years in that hellhole. I should have been glad for him. I wasn't. All I could think about was my own safety, which wasn't going to last five minutes after he left."

He stopped, sliding deeper into the memories.

"What happened?" Lottie asked quietly. "Tell me."

His face went blank. His soul had clenched hard around the secrets, refusing to release them. A strange, cold smile flickered on his lips as he spoke with utter self-contempt. "I can't."

Lottie stiffened her legs to keep from leaping out of bed and rushing to him. The heat of unshed tears filled her eyes as she stared at his dark, shadowed form. "How did Gentry die?" she asked.

His throat worked, and he shook his head.

Faced with his silent struggle, Lottie sought for some way to tip the balance. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I'll stay with you no matter what."

Averting his face, he squinted fiercely, as if he had just been exposed to brilliant light after spending too long in the dark. "One night I was attacked by one of the prisoners. His name was Styles. He dragged me off the platform while I was sleeping and pinned me to the floor. I fought like hell, but he was twice my size, and no one was going to interfere. They were all afraid of him. I called out to Gentry, to pull the bastard off of me before he could-" Breaking off, he made a strange sound, a shaky laugh that contained no trace of humor.

"And did he help you?" Lottie asked.

"Yes...the stupid bastard." His breath caught in a low sob. "He knew there was no point in doing a damn thing for me. If I wasn't buggered right then, I would be after he was released. I shouldn't have asked for his help, and he shouldn't have given it. But he drove Styles off, and..."

Another long silence passed. "Did Nick die during the fight?" Lottie made herself ask.

"Later that night. He'd made an enemy of Styles by helping me, and retribution wasn't long in coming. Just before morning, Styles strangled Nick in his sleep. By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late. I went to Nick...tried to make him wake up, to breathe. He wouldn't move. He turned cold in my arms." His jaw shook, and he cleared his throat roughly.

Lottie couldn't let it end there, without knowing the full story. "How did you switch places with Gentry?"

"Every morning the assistant medical officer and one of the guards came down to collect the bodies of the men who had died during the night, of disease, or starvation, or something they called 'depression of the spirits.' Those who hadn't finished dying were taken up to the forecastle. I pretended to be ill, which wasn't difficult at that point. They took us both up to the deck, and asked who I was, and if I knew the dead man's name. The guards knew hardly any of the prisoners-to them we were all the same. And I had changed clothes with his...his corpse, so they had little reason to doubt me when I told them I was Nick Gentry, and the dead boy was John Sydney. For the next few days I stayed in the forecastle, feigning illness so I wouldn't be sent back down to the prison deck. The other men who'd been brought there were too sick or weak to give a damn what I called myself."

"And soon you were released," Lottie said quietly, "in Gentry's place."

"He was buried in a mass grave near the docks, while I went free. And now his name is more real to me than my own."

Lottie was overwhelmed. No wonder he had wanted to keep Nick Gentry's name. In some way he must have felt that he could keep a part of him alive by retaining it. The name had been a talisman, a new beginning. She couldn't begin to understand the amount of shame he had attached to his true identity, believing that he was responsible for his friend's death. It wasn't his fault, of course. But even if she could make him admit the flaws in his reasoning, she could never expunge his guilt.

Lottie slipped out of bed, the thick-piled wool carpeting prickling beneath her bare soles. As she approached him, she was swamped in a sense of utter inadequacy. If she treated him with kindness, he would receive it as pity. If she said nothing, he would take it as a sign of scorn or disgust.

"Nick," she said softly, but he would not face her. She went to stand before him, listening to the broken pattern of his breathing. "You did nothing wrong in calling out for help. And he wanted to help you, as any true friend would. Neither of you did anything wrong."

He dragged his sleeve over his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. "I stole his life."

"No," she said urgently. "He wouldn't have wanted you to stay there-whom would it have served?" A hot trickle touched the corner of her lips, flavoring them with salt. How well she understood guilt, the self-hatred it caused, especially in the absence of forgiveness. And the person that Nick needed forgiveness from was dead. "He can't be here to absolve you," she said. "But I'm going to speak for him. If he could, he would tell you, 'You're forgiven. It's all right now. I'm at peace, and you should be as well. And it is long past time for you to forgive yourself.'"

"How do you know he would say that?"

"Because anyone who cared for you would. And he did care for you, or he wouldn't have risked his life to protect you." Stepping forward, Lottie put her arms around his rigid neck. "I care for you, too." She had to use her full weight to make him bend to her. "I love you," she whispered. "Please don't turn me away." And she brought her mouth to his.

It took a long time for him to respond to the soft pressure of her lips. He made a faint sound in his throat, and slowly his shaking hands came to her face, holding her still while his mouth molded over hers. His cheeks were wet with sweat and tears, and his kiss was bruising in its fervor.

"Does it help to hear those words?" Lottie whispered when his mouth lifted.

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

"Then I'll say them whenever you need to hear them, until you begin to believe." She slid her hand behind his neck and tugged his head down for another kiss.

Nick startled her with his sudden wildness. Picking her up with frightening ease, he carried her to the bed and dropped her to the mattress. He tore his own clothes off, ripping plackets of buttons rather than take the time to unfasten them. Climbing over her swiftly, he straddled her and split the front of her gown with his hands. Dimly she realized that Nick's need to be inside her was so violent that he had lost all self-control. Kneeing her legs wide apart, he pushed the head of his sex against her, demanding entry. Her body was unprepared, her flesh dry and tight despite her willingness to receive him.

Sliding down her body, Nick took her with his mouth, his large hands gripping her hips and pressing them firmly to the bed as she arched upward in surprise. His tongue plunged into her, wetting and softening the tender flesh. Finding the delicate peak just above the vulnerable opening, he drew the flat of his tongue against it, over and over, until he caught the intimate scent of her desire. Levering his body upward, he mounted her again, and drove his hard organ inside her.

As soon as Nick entered her warm body, his blind ferocity seemed to drain away. He hung over her, his muscular arms braced on either side of her head, his chest moving in deep, irregular breaths. Lottie was pinned beneath him, her flesh throbbing around the thick shaft that impaled her.

His mouth came to hers again, this time gentle as he possessed her with long, teasing kisses, the tip of his tongue stroking the insides of her mouth. She had secretly cherished the memory of his other kisses, the sweetly fervent brushes of a stranger's lips...but this was so different, dark and heady and powerful. She ached for his touch, gasping with relief at the soft tugs of his fingers on her nipples. He used all his skill to arouse her, teasing her with shallow strokes that enticed rather than satisfied. Wanting more, Lottie tried to pull him closer. He resisted, maintaining the languid rhythm, hushing her with kisses when she protested. Suddenly he plunged inside her with one long drive. Bewildered, Lottie stared at his intent face. "What are you doing?" she asked faintly.

His mouth brushed over hers with kisses of soft fire. And as he possessed her, she gradually came to understand the pattern he was working within her...eight shallow thrusts, two deep...seven shallow, three deep...progressing until he finally gave her ten heavy, penetrating plunges. Lottie cried out with wrenching pleasure, her hips lifting against his sleek weight as she was filled with volatile sensation. When the burning delight had begun to fade, Nick altered their positions subtly, moving farther over her, nudging her knees wider, adjusting the angle of his sex. He thrust deeply, sealing their bodies together, and circled his hips in a slow, steady rhythm.

"I can't," Lottie said breathlessly, realizing what he wanted, knowing that it was impossible.

"Let me," Nick whispered, tireless and wickedly adept as he continued the gentle circling, using his body to pleasure her.

She was astonished by how quickly the heat rose again, her senses welcoming the patient stimulation, her sex turning slick and swollen as he moved inside her, over her, against her. "Oh...oh..." The sounds were torn from her throat as she reached another crest, her limbs jerking, her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder.

And then he began the entire cycle again. Nine shallow, one deep...

Lottie lost count of how many times he brought her to ecstasy, or how much time passed while he made love to her. He whispered in her ear...endearments...intimate praise...telling her how hard she made him...how sweet she felt around him...how much he wanted to satisfy her. He gave her more pleasure than it seemed possible to bear, until finally she begged him to stop, her body trembling with exhaustion.

Nick complied with reluctance, pushing deep inside one last time, releasing his pent-up desire with a shuddering groan. Compulsively he kissed her again, as he withdrew from her sated body. Lottie barely had the strength to lift her hand, but she caught at his arm and murmured thickly, "Will you stay?"

"Yes," she heard him say. "Yes."

Relieved and tired, she sank quickly into a fathomless sleep.