"All of that changed when he went public with Donally & Bailey five years ago. Ryan put everything he owned back into the company for working capital just to keep it afloat. He could have personally retained the majority stock in the company, but he did not."

Ryan did that? "I don't understand," she said after a moment, "but doesn't the lack of a majority shareholder make a company vulnerable to attack?"

"As set down by the company charter Ryan created, there are two kinds of stock, Miss Bailey. Preferred company stock, which is owned equally by you, Ryan, and John Donally, and common stock, which is bought and sold on the market. By charter rules, the two founding families together will always own 51 percent of D&B. None of you can sell your stock except to each other, and no common stock holder can hold a board position without majority board consent. In this case, since all of you own the same percentage, you each possess one vote."

"But common stock held by the public accounts for 49 percent of company shares. So, conceivably, once I obtain my proxy back from Ryan, I could purchase enough common stock to own a majority in the company. I could appoint who I wanted to the board. Even set new policy."

"Even if you possessed that capability, the instant you tried, Mr. Donally would stop you. Unlike you, he does have the means to buy common stock. He would never allow anyone else to take control of the board of directors of this company."

Drawing in her breath, she disregarded the helplessness she so disliked. But she had to find a way to keep her Irish division afloat. "I want you to obtain the list of shareholders. Such a list is public. Am I correct?"

"Miss Bailey-"

"I only want the list, Mr. Williams." Rachel rose to her feet in a shush of airy skirts. "That is all."

It wasn't as if she had the power to do anything else at the moment.

Mr. Williams stood. "Where would you have me to send the information?"

"I'm staying at the Palace Hotel."

At least she would be for a few more days.

Ryan didn't want her in London, and she didn't particularly want to be there either.

She had not seen him since he'd kissed her. Two days to be exact. She knew he'd returned to London last night. His house was less than a quarter mile from her hotel, and she'd accidentally passed it during her evening constitutional before she realized where she was and turned around. Gaslights snaked around the quiet street and had glowed in the mist, leaving a shine on the damp brick walkway. But she'd seen his carriage parked out front, cloaked by the shadows of huge elms, and knew he was there.

"I thank you for seeing me today, Mr. Williams."

"I am, as always, your servant, Miss Bailey." He walked around the desk and opened the library door. "I was a good friend of your father's." The clap of their steps on the wooden floor filled the narrow hallway. "I would have had you here during your stay had my wife still been alive."

"How have you been doing since she passed on?"

"We were married thirty-two years." A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. "How does one do alone after that?"

Rachel didn't know. She didn't know about love, or husbands, or even that much about fathers and daughters. Her father had spent twelve years of his life mourning the son who had died with his wife in birth, never thinking that Rachel had lost her mother. Then she'd spent the remaining years of his autocratic existence seeking validation from a man who would rather find oblivion in a bottle than pride in his daughter. It was no wonder that Christopher Donally had become her white knight, her paragon in scarlet-until she'd realized that the only person capable of saving her life was herself.

Rachel stepped onto the porch. The rain had lessened to a sprinkle. "My son is a full barrister now," Williams said. "I'll be a grandfather again next month."

"Congratulations." She held out a gloved hand, and he grasped it firmly. She was happy for him.

Hands sliding into his pockets, he glanced over her shoulder at the cab awaiting her return. The driver stood beside his horse. "I will get back to you about the estate. Good-bye, Miss Bailey."

"Thank you."

Good-byes always sounded so forever to her, and she could not reciprocate in kind. Rachel returned to her hotel later that afternoon, buried in the hood of her cloak as she swept up the stairway to her second-floor room. Her steps were quiet in the long corridor, her focus intent as she reached the doorway of her room and let herself inside. Her maid, Elsie, had fallen asleep on the settee. Rachel leaned her head back against the door.

Now, it was done. She had severed her ties to England.

Rachel closed her eyes and, with a sigh, rested her head back against the porcelain tub. Champagne bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her arms rested on the smoothly curved sides. Fragrant cinnamon-and-apple-scented steam wafted from the water, and she let the ambiance of the moment capture her. Somewhere she heard knocking on one of the doors in her suite. Unfortunately, she was more sober than she realized, and she opened her eyes, purely maddened to have absolutely no peace in her life.

"Tell whoever it is to go bugger himself, Elsie," she yelled, perturbed that anyone would disturb her privacy. "I've paid for this room through the rest of the week. If I want to sing, I will."

Her voice was hardly that bad anyway. Taking a long sip from the champagne bottle in her hand, she sank lower into the tub. She was a woman on her own. Independent. She didn't need anyone else to make her complete. Bubbles crackled around her ears. Tilting her chin, she inhaled from the cigarette; then, flinching, she glared at the burning tip. This newfangled fad was gawd-awful terrible, she thought as she ground the thing out in the ash tin. She'd tried to enjoy tobacco but could see no appeal in what was the current rage among enlightened women. She closed her eyes and, this time, slid beneath the water.

"Miss Bailey." Elsie was standing beside her tub when Rachel came up for air. Twisting her hands, her young maid lowered her voice. "A Mr. Donally is here to see you, mum."

She couldn't imagine what Johnny would be doing there. He and Moira were attending the opera tonight. "A Mr. Ryan Donally, mum," Elsie whispered.

"Ryan is here?" Rachel sat up. Water sluiced down her breasts and over the rim of the tub. "At this time of night?"

"It's only six o'clock, mum."

"Lord." Rachel set down the champagne bottle and struggled to get out of the tub. Maybe she'd drunk more than she thought. The world tilted ever so slightly off its axis. "Why is he here?" Water sloshed over the floor as she stumbled from the tub.

"I don't know, mum"-her maid helped Rachel to hurriedly dry off and slide into her wrapper-"but he is very nicely attired."

Rachel bent over the tiny pearl buttons on her wrapper and struggled to work each through a hole as Elsie applied a comb to her hair to pick out the tangles. "Does he have anything with him?" she asked. "Like a large packet of papers?"

"I didn't notice, mum."

Rachel moved in front of the glass and attempted to clear it of steam. Her hand squeaked on the mirror. The bath had flushed her face pink. Her hair fell in dripping tangles to her waist. He'd seen her in a worse state.

"Never mind about my hair, Elsie. Where is he?"

"In your sitting room, mum."

Rachel padded barefoot out of the tiled room into her suite, tripped on the edge of a carpet, and hastily straightened. She was too worried that he would tire of waiting and leave. Then she wondered if he'd heard her tell him to go bugger himself.

Ryan stood with his hands in his pockets in front of the large window facing the street, the white lace curtains opened to St. Paul's distant dome. He had not removed his overcoat, and his hat and satchel sat next to hers on the table beside him. His coat was unbuttoned, to reveal a formal jacket with tails and black waistcoat. As he turned and saw her, she glimpsed a flash of silver buttons. He was dressed very much as he had been for the ball last week, and his very masculine presence filled the small distance between them. His eyes went over her.

He was remembering their kiss as she was.

"I'm sorry about what happened this weekend between us." His voice came to her, oddly humble for aman who practically owned the world. "I shouldn't have kissed you. It was...""Out of character?" She peered at him. "An accident?"He shook his head and looked away. "That happened in full view of my staff."Rachel rubbed her fingers against her temple. She didn't feel sorry for him, but her shoulders began to shake as an odd mood struck her. Obviously inebriated, she decided, as she couldn't help laughing. She looked up when she sensed his approach. "How many times have we apologized to each other this week?" she asked, aware of the heat of him.

"I believe you hold the winning number," he magnanimously conceded.

Rachel leaned back against the doorjamb. She still disliked him immensely. "And I believe it is a sign that

we have unfinished business between us," she challenged. "Why did we never finish that kiss all those years ago?"

"Perhaps because you slapped me?"

"Or maybe I slapped you because you thought it was all a joke?"

"Or maybe you were young, and your father would have had me keelhauled."

Sometimes Rachel disliked logic.

Drawing in her breath, she accepted that the truth didn't take away the reality that she was in love with

him and that he was to be married in October. Johnny had told her Lady Gwyneth was the woman he wanted. What she felt for Ryan and what he probably felt for her on a physical level might be electric; but they both knew it would proceed no further than it had a few days ago.

She watched his gaze go over the white lace-and-lavender sitting room that looked as if an overzealous

demirep had decorated it. "Nice room," he said.

"This is the Palace Hotel bridal suite." She hiccupped and, suddenly perturbed at him for coming to visit without notice, lifted her chin. "Surely you don't think I would have accepted this room on purpose? It was all Johnny could find for me."

A black-gloved hand tipped her chin. "How much have you had to drink?"

"None of your business." She removed his hand from her chin. "If I want to drink myself under the table, I will. With or without your approval."

"How much?" he asked Elsie, who was standing behind her.

Elsie dipped into a curtsy, her mobcap bobbing over blond curls. "Perhaps a half bottle of champagne.

She hasn't eaten, sir."

"Excuse me"-Rachel waved a hand in front of his face-"but I am in the room."

Ryan stepped past her into her bedroom, as if he had been there a hundred times. She could only stare, before her feet leapt to follow him past her four-poster bed and canopy drawn back to reveal disheveled covers. "Do you have anything nice to wear tonight?"

He walked to her wardrobe and flung open the doors, his gloved hands holding each edge. Rachel shut the doors and, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, braced her back against the panels. "What are you doing?"

"You're going with Johnny and Moira to the opera."

"I am?"

He strode to the end of her bed, his coat batting at his calves. "Every D&B and Ore Industries board member will be there tonight. Do you want to be included or not?"

Rachel stared at him in disbelief. Hands on his hips, he brought his gaze back around to her. There was a frown in those dark eyes. He was a bastard for not telling her about the opera sooner, and knew it, too.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" she asked.

"I'm saying something now."

He strode to her trunks and flung open the lid. Her ball gown was suddenly in his hands, and she lifted her gaze as he walked back to her. "Why?" Her voice whispered.

"You're on the board," he said. "I'm not going to bloody let you sit alone in your room again tonight getting drunk. You're going out this evening. I've already spoken to Johnny. He will be here later to pick you up."

"How do you know what I've been doing or not doing in my room at night?" Rachel snatched her gown from him. He had no right to come into her room like some Roman Caesar and dictate to her.

Ryan reclaimed the shimmering gown and handed it to Elsie. "See that this gets pressed. I've already warned the staff that you may be down." A glance at Rachel, and he added, "She'll need coffee, too. Turkish coffee. Black. Never mind-" His dark eyes caught the light in her room as they came to rest on her face and held her pinned with subtle humor. "I'll see dinner brought up. You need to do her hair."

"How do you want me to dress her hair, Mr. Donally?"

"Never you mind, Elsie Tompkins," Rachel snapped. The girl was positively young and quite as flaky as dishrag paper. "It's not that difficult. We'll manage."

"Yes, mum." The dress clasped to her bosom, Elsie hurried out of the room, leaving Ryan alone with her.

Neither moved.

Muted noises from the busy street two floors below pulled somewhere at the back of her mind. She watched as he returned to the adjoining salon. She heard the click of a metal clasp. He reappeared with the folders she'd left at his house. Her levee project folders.

"Your project is sound, Rachel." When she didn't take the folders, he dropped them on the bed. "I've never questioned your talent or dedication. You're an excellent engineer. If you were a man, you could find a place for yourself in any firm in the world."

"But if you put my name on the report, D&B will never be hired for another job in Ireland," she continued for him. "You have to consider our stockholders."

"That is my job, Rachel. You should have known better than to ask special consideration when you knew I could give you none. My decision would be no different for Johnny if he did something that was not for the good of the company." Ryan jammed his hands into his pockets. "We can agree about the unfairness of it all until we turn blue, or you can accept your position at D&B as is and get dressed to attend the opera with Johnny."

Rachel stared down at her arms folded against her breasts, aware that her long hair had dripped water on the floor and she was naked beneath the thin wrapper.

He'd come there when he needn't have come at all. And found a seat at the opera when there was none to be had. She'd inquired. It seemed wrong to throw away tonight on an emotional broadside that would only leave her listing in deeper water. She was twenty-nine years old, after all. She could manage her life -and her heart.

"Everyone I know has already seen that gown on me."

"You don't know that many people, Rache." His voice was filled with gentle humor. "Do you have anything else suitable to wear then?"

She shook her head. "It's not that I don't wish to drape myself in lavish gowns. I just don't socialize on the grand scale you do." The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and she raised her gaze. "I didn't even know you liked opera."

One corner of his mouth lifted. "I find the required sponsorship of such functions a necessary part of my life."

"You've become too pragmatic, Ryan. Where do your passions lie?"

"Fencing?" he said. "I've discovered I have a passion for the sword."

Rachel almost rolled her eyes. But he'd softened her mood.

"I'll see that dinner is brought up here," he said, turning away, and she leaned her head tiredly against the armoire at her back.

He returned a moment later, satchel in hand, to the doorway between her bedroom and sitting room, an elegant portrait in black-hair, eyes, and clothes-against the frilly white lace and lavender behind him.