His gaze touched the old Louis IV furniture and returned again to the old man nearest him, attempting to sit tall as if his life's work were not being taken from him. Monsieur Valmont had once been in competition with Ryan's father. He looked like someone's great-grandfather, with a head of gray hair and a suit wrinkled with sweat. Looking away, Ryan knew he had been in Paris longer than anticipated, certainly longer than he wanted.

He'd spent evenings poring over ledgers and paperwork Brendan had given him, more annoyed by the bureaucratic wall of nonsense leveled at him than he was by the spillage of red ink and the work it would take to tear down this company. Ryan felt an urgency to leave this room, this building, and this entire city. If he walked out of this meeting, he would not return. Either way, three thousand people were about to lose their jobs. He didn't know why he cared. But he did. Empty coffers did not build inventory or pay debts. Any sane businessman knew that.

"Sir?" Brendan had just asked him a question.

A dossier sat in front of Ryan. Written in French it was a very complex list of negotiable assets that he would merely claim later and which they had already discussed yesterday. He put his elbows on the table, raised his head, and met each man's gaze in turn. Frankly, he was glad they all sweltered.

"I believe you have had my proposal for some time, messieurs. You argue over trivialities. I have already tendered a stock offer to this company. If I leave, someone else will sit in this chair, and I guarantee the offer will not be as lucrative."

"Perhaps it is not money that interests us, Monsieur Donally." The man who spoke was Valmont's son. "Perhaps some things are more valuable than money."

Ryan tightened his jaw. Only someone with too much money would voice that benign sentiment. Ryan never believed it for a moment. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he hadn't been fighting for something-as if success was the only embodiment of all that he was. Money represented success, his comfort, and his escape. He did not trust a man who was not interested in wealth. But he respected knowledge, and the elder Valmont was one of the pioneers of the steam engine that powered trains. D&B had built thousands of miles of tracks which this man's engines traversed.

"Then tell me, Monsieur Valmont?" Ryan looked pointedly at both father and sons. "What does interest you?"

"Lord Devonshire won't like what you've done, sir."

Brendan sat across from Ryan in the carriage. The city lights had begun to awaken with the Parisian night life, and Ryan spoke without turning his gaze from the window. "You work for me, Brendan."

"It's because you pay me to do a job that I speak, sir. We are not in the charity business."

Recalling that he'd once thought those very words about Rachel, Ryan turned his head, his dark gaze cool; yet, he was utterly relaxed as he waited for Brendan to say more. The younger man removed his hat and sat forward, impressing Ryan with his directness and prestigious Oxford training. "I only meant that it was unlike you. You are unlike you. His lordship will not be pleased to know that you have established a partnership with Valmonts to build trains."

"Locomotives," Ryan clarified.

"Locomotives," Brendan echoed, with less enthusiasm.

"A faster slimmer version of today's archaic models. By dissolving the weaker part of the business, we can take advantage of their strongest asset and the original purpose of that company's existence. More than that, it will benefit Ore Industries, who would supply the steel and iron," and D&B, he realized, as they managed the labor that would lay tracks on English and Irish soil. "I see nothing but a profitable partnership."

Brendan listened as if Ryan had lost his mind. "That is what is important in the end," he conceded, with a little more enthusiasm than he'd displayed since Ryan's arrival.

Ryan grinned. Brendan had been correct in asserting that today he had exhibited behavior unlike himself. But Ryan liked the feeling.

The unexpected sense of accomplishment as if he were an adolescent again and just discovering his father 's drafting table: the rush that came with the realization that action could give way to ingenuity.

He rested his elbow on a trio of frilly boxes all tied together with a red satin bow.

Earlier, when he and Brendan had arrived on the street after the meeting, Ryan had spotted a dress shop. Situated in the middle of a white satin-draped window, was the fanciest feathered emerald hat he'd ever seen. A pair of matching slippers, gloves, and the gaudiest most colorful fan had added to the charm. He thought of Rachel. His beautiful closet opera singer, who'd never wanted her father to know she played with dolls.

He thought about her life in the years she'd first left England. About the man who had abandoned her with child. She'd learned to survive on her own. She'd learned never to take anyone's help for a reason.

Maybe with his impending Valmonts contracts, they could reach a middle ground that would solve at least one of their problems. Ryan truly wanted to see Rachel's vision. He wanted to touch her passion. It was that very passion inside her he loved.

He knew now he would not ask her to give up D&B.

Later, after sending his packages to his room, he ate dinner in a small quaint restaurant down the street from his hotel. Devonshire would have received Ryan's final offer by now. He wanted only to get back to London and begin his life with Rachel.

Dabbing the napkin to his lips, he lifted his gaze and hesitated on an attractive woman he'd noted earlier at another table. She had thick dark hair piled high on her head and painted lips, with a daringly cut gown. Ryan tipped back the glass of wine and stood. He was tall and had to be cautious of the hanging lamp.

"Did you enjoy the souffle, monsieur?" The server bowed over Ryan with his coat. He waited as Ryan shrugged into the garment before handing him the note in his hand. "From the mademoiselle, monsieur."

"Give her my apologies." Ryan refused the slip of paper.

He didn't look at the woman as he made his way outside the crowded room. Six months ago, he would have taken her up on the offer evident in her brown eyes.

Now he thought only of Rachel.

Ryan walked the two blocks to his hotel. The night was humid and rank, with the stench of unwashed streets, but he didn't care. The moon was high in a flawless sky. He thought of his purchase today. He'd had to squelch the desire to purchase the entire boutique of finery and present Rachel with every one of them. It was difficult, when he had the money to buy her anything, to buy her only what had been in the display case.

Ryan swept into the marble-and-granite lobby. He took the lift to his suites on the top floor. A single lamp lit the salon. Removing his coat, he walked to the window and looked out over the city. His hand worked loose the tie, and he tossed it on the settee. He was unbuttoning his waistcoat when Boswell suddenly appeared.

"Sir..." Ryan's valet stopped behind him. "One of your men brought over a missive delivered from your brother earlier."

Ryan met Boswell's gaze directly in the glass before turning and accepting the folded note. "Johnny? Has he returned from Scotland?"

"Mr. Brendan only said it needed your attention at once. Also..." Boswell cleared his throat and Ryan wondered what had gotten into the older man. "You have a guest."

The note forgotten, he looked past Boswell toward his private chambers, in no mood for banal dialogue with his valet. Ryan's gaze fell on the opened boxes, where the hat and slippers should have been.

"It is Lady Gwyneth, sir," Boswell said. "She's asleep."

Shoving the note in his pocket, Ryan walked past his valet through his dressing room into his private chambers. A massive four-poster bed with swags of crimson velvet dominated the room.

Lady Gwyneth was sitting in a chair beside the bed. Her blond hair crumpled and falling over one shoulder, she was fully dressed in some sort of pale pink traveling garment. Her sister lay asleep on the bed. A maid was asleep in another chair.

Gwyneth's eyes were wide and liquid bright in the dark. "Please don't tell me to go." She held Rachel's fancy Parisian hat in her hands. "I know I shouldn't be here. It's terribly improper. I even opened your gift. It's truly the most beautiful hat I've ever seen."

"Jaysus, my lady," he whispered. "Did you all come here alone?"

She looked too vulnerable for him to let loose his temper. "Just my maid and my sister." Gwyneth burst into tears and flew into his arms. "I had to see you."

The hat he had purchased for Rachel in one of her hands, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his. "I had to."

Finally, he was able to edge her away. His hands continued to hold hers captured against her waist. "Gwyneth..."

"I heard that your solicitors have been to see my uncle. That the visit was about me." She stubbornly swiped at her tears with the heel of her palm. "I couldn't bear to think that I had done something to make you angry."

"Did your uncle ask you to come here, my lady?"

Gwyneth's eyes widened. "Why would you assume that? Despite what the two of you think, I agreed to this betrothal because of you. Not because of him." She lowered her lashes. "I see I have made you angry."

Ryan saw the flush on her cheeks. "You have not made me angry. Except by coming here. How did you find me?"

"I come to Paris all the time. This hotel is where we stay." She brushed at the feathers on the hat. "I would have found my own rooms had the hotel not been full. Boswell was most kind." She stepped backward and, holding the hat, smiled tentatively. "I have ruined your surprise. But I couldn't resist opening the boxes."

"We need to talk, Gwyneth."

"Then it's true," she whispered. "You do intend to break the contracts. That's why I came here. I saw the gifts...I thought I might be wrong-"

"Don't you think we should discuss this in the other room?"

Ryan stood aside to let her pass. He followed her through the dressing room and sat down beside her on the settee in the salon. She folded her hands around the hat, clearly aware of his dispositional frame of mind as he shoved his fingers through his hair.

"You can't break the contracts," she blurted out in a Joan of Arc sort of melodrama that made him flinch. "I'm in love with you, Mr. Donally."

"No, you're not, my lady." Ryan forced himself to turn his head and look at her. "I thought you were in Brighton. Or was it Bath?"

She chatted about her trip, and all the things she and her sister had done, while he'd been coming to grips with the mistakes in his life. "We traveled there to attend the function at the Royal Pavilion, with half the people from London present. I thought that you would be there. Or your sister and her husband. Despite the fact that the Duchess of Bedford publicly cut Lady Ravenspur at the Green Lilly ball.... I am happy to call her my friend and would have lent her my fullest support."

Ryan doubted very much that Brianna needed anyone's support, but Gwyneth had a good heart. "Have you considered that the same people who are so eager to snub my sister will treat me any differently? Or you, if we were to marry?"

"You are one of the richest men in all of England." Her voice grew stubborn. "No woman could possibly snub you. No man would dare."

Ryan laughed at her Byronic notion of reality. Most would gladly see him ruined. Her uncle the foremost on the list. "I think that you are very young, my lady."

"I am twenty, Mr. Donally."

"I am thirty-one. You don't want to marry me." His voice was soft and not unkind. "I don't even like to attend balls."

"But you dance so well," she protested.

"So do a lot of other more eligible men."

"But we've enjoyed our moments together." She leaned against him. Ryan felt no guilt. Their relationship had always been patently platonic. If Rachel hadn't appeared in his life when she had, things probably would have been different, he realized. "I would enjoy being your wife," she said, and blushed, before looking away.

"Gwyneth..." He took one of her hands in his. "I've offered a very substantial settlement to you."

"It won't matter." Her eyes were wet in the lamplight. She drew in a breath. "Anything you settle on me,he will only keep in the end, and it will not be nearly enough for his satisfaction.""I'm aware of that and have taken steps to keep the settlement from his hands.""You don't understand. He truly hates you. He has never forgiven you-""Are you afraid of him?"She lowered her gaze to the hat. She'd already crushed one of the feathers from her kneading, and attempted to smooth the damage. Ryan tilted her chin and asked a second time. "Are you afraid of him,

Gwyneth?""Seven days from now, I will reach my majority," she said, "and will no longer be under my uncle'scontrol in accordance with my parents' will. I will then be able to keep my own money." The thoughtnever having crossed her mind, she widened her eyes. "And he'll have no control, will he?"

"No. We'll only need to find someplace for you to go until then."

The possibilities suddenly became endless for her. "I can break the betrothal without recrimination.

Quietly, of course. And he could not go after you."

"I've already put the house in Bristol in your name," he said, and for the next few minutes they discussed

terms, and she became less and less bothered that she had been in love with him ten minutes ago.

"I would rather have a man who does nothing but pay attendance on me." She smiled. "I will be rich, won't I?"

"Very."

She looked down at her hands. "This hat was never meant for me, was it?"

Ryan considered telling her the truth. But something in the wobbly tenor of her voice forbade him to

embarrass her. Or maybe he wanted only to protect Rachel. To keep her name as far away from him as he could until this was over.

"Do you like it?" He took it from her and set it on her head.

Her blue eyes held his. "I like it very much."

Boswell appeared in the doorway with one of his bags. Gwyneth looked up at him as he stood to greet his valet. "We have run you from your room," she said.

"It would appear that you have, my lady."

"Where will you sleep?"

Ryan looked out across the city landscape, positive that he was not going to enjoy anyplace that Boswell

might have found on short notice. "As long as it isn't a pallet of straw, any clean bed at the moment would be acceptable," he said. "I'll be back in the morning for the rest of my clothes. Be ready to leave by noon."

He would be home in four days-feeling free for the first time in his entire life.

Chapter 20.

"S uck it in, Rachel."

Glaring at Ryan's youngest sibling, Rachel gasped as Elsie yanked one ?nal time with what Rachel was sure bordered on amusement. With both hands braced on the tall bedpost, she pulled in her breath. Her breasts swelled over the corset rim. "Is it possible that this thing might be too tight?"

From her place on the settee, her yellow morning gown spilling gracefully around her, Brianna popped a bonbon in her mouth. "Can you still breathe?"