"No? I hope not, because that would lead me to believe that you'd borne my child and were here to collect. That would be upsetting, surely you'd be willing to admit that."

She stood stock still, words lying in shambles about her tongue. She just stood there, staring at him stupidly. "I didn't have your child."

"Well, I'm relieved. I don't believe a gentleman should have b.a.s.t.a.r.ds scattered around the county. It doesn't speak well of him or of his family. So, we didn't bed together, then. Who are you?"

"When last I saw you, your grace, if you had taken me to your bed, then you would have been guilty of molesting a child."

He was still looking at her in that odd way. Now he c.o.c.ked his head to one side. She was impertinent. She was, it seemed to him, testing him in some way. That was surely odd. He would outdo her; at least he would try. He flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from the arm of his jacket. "Since that is something that turns my belly, I'm pleased it wasn't the case. Just how old are you? Still silent? Ah, a woman and her age. You never seem to begin too young with your coy protests. You could show me. I have the reputation of judging a woman's age nearly to the very year and month of her birth by studying her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her belly, her legs. Aren't you overly warm in that thick cloak?" He watched her swallow. He'd just bet her mouth was really dry now. No one could best him, in particular this unknown girl standing here in his library.

She realized then that he was a gentleman of the first order. She opened her mouth, only to see him slash his hand in front of him and say, "Enough games. Who the devil are you?" "Yes," she said. "I'm warm." "Then let me help you off with that cloak. You are safe. I've never been drawn to rape, ma'am. Whatever virtue you still possess is quite safe with me."

"I can't imagine you would ever have need to resort to such a thing. Also, just think of what it would do to your name."

"Is that some sort of backhanded compliment? No, don't answer that." He watched her untie the strings of her heavy wool cloak and slip it from her shoulders.

"Before you decide to examine my person, your grace, let me tell you that it could be considered a very rude thing to accord such treatment to your cousin."

"Cousin? The devil. You say you're my cousin? Now, that's an impossibility."

"You're right. I'm not precisely your cousin. Actually, I'm your cousin-in-law. Marissa was my first cousin, my father's niece."

He stared at her dumbfounded. It made her feel better that finally she'd managed to halt him in his tracks. That certainly must be some feat. Then he searched her face for the likeness to Marissa.

She c.o.c.ked a figurative gun at him and slowly pulled the trigger. "You do remember Marissa, don't you?" "Don't be impertinent," he said absently, his eyes roving over her face. "Yes," he said at last, "it's the shape of your eyes, just a bit slanted, that resemble Marissa." It was what had looked familiar to him. Marissa's cousin. "Your name, Mademoiselle?" "De la Valette, your grace." "My wife's family was Beauchamps." "Yes, it is my father's name as well. De la Valette is my husband's name."

"You're married? That's b.l.o.o.d.y ridiculous. You don't look married."

"Why is that? You wondered if you'd bedded me. Surely that is all that being married means."

"Well, not quite all. Not at all. Where is this wonderful husband of yours? Hiding in the pantry? Over there behind my desk?" "No."

"Surely you see my dilemma. I'm quite unused to finding ladies alone in my library, ready to accost me on the minute I walk through the doors. But there's a husband somewhere? Is he behind the wainscotting?" Suddenly it was much too much. "May I sit down, please? It's been a very long day."

"While you're resting, why don't I look behind that wing chair over there for this absent husband of yours?"

She didn't say anything, just eased herself down on a very large leather chair near the fireplace. The flames had died down. They were a warm glow now. She smoothed the outmoded dovegray gown about her, a gown that had been expensive four years before. It was a gown that screamed that she was a lady fallen upon hard times. Houchard had laughed, pleased with himself, when she'd first worn it for him. He'd told her that his mistress had selected it for her. He'd told her that the duke, a man of vast experience, despite his limited number of years on this earth, would know exactly what she was.

The duke said finally, "All right, then. No husband. I see that the gentleman has left you high and dry. Now, I'm surrounded by faithful retainers, Madame. Would you be so kind as to tell me how you managed to be in my library without my being informed of your presence?"

"I arrived but a few moments before you, your grace. Your butler was kind enough not to make me wait in the entrance hall. I was very cold, you see, and he did not wish me to be uncomfortable."

"So that's what Ba.s.sick wanted to tell me. I can just hear him now: 'Your grace, I've a pretty young piece bundled up in your library, waiting to see to your pleasure.' Yes, that would have been Ba.s.sick's style, but of course he would never intend that I-never mind that. I trust you're now sufficiently comfortable. Would you like some tea? Brandy? Something to eat, perhaps off my best china plates?"

He was elusive, swift as quicksilver, not at all like a soft, gentle rain falling through her fingers, but more like a typhoon roaring over her, flattening her, but at the same time drawing her admiration. He was charming, undoubtedly ruthless, his s.e.xual word play utterly inappropriate to a lady's ears. What was he thinking, really? "No, your grace."

He sat down on a settee opposite her. He stretched out his long legs, the cloak falling to the floor on either side of them. His boots were big and shiny black. He folded his hands over his belly. "So, when will this husband of yours make an appearance?"

"He isn't here. I don't know exactly where he is. He's dead, you see. I'm a widow."

He sat back, even more at his ease. "Aren't you very young to be left in that saddened state, Madame?"

"No more than you, your grace. You were made a widower quite young yourself." The words slipped smoothly from her mouth, and to her own ears, she sounded perfectly at her ease.

"I was married older than you, and I was made a widower older than you," he said after a moment. "Now I am twenty-eight. I daresay you haven't yet gained your twentieth birthday."

"I am just turned twenty last week." She lowered her eyes, but it didn't help. She hated this even more than she'd thought she would. "I was married when I was only seventeen. You were only twenty-two when you married Marissa, were you not? And Marissa had just gained her eighteenth year." "You are well informed."

"I have an excellent memory. I was at your wedding, your grace."

"I see. So, I did remember you, a bit. Do you have children?"

She shook her head. "Have you many more questions for me? I'm getting thirsty."

"Yes, certainly I have, but for the moment, let me reminisce. I married Marissa six and a half years ago. You would have been thirteen years old."

"Yes. After the wedding I never saw either of you again."

"So your husband is dead. Is your father in England?"

Safe ground, she thought, and although she hated giving the words any credence, just speaking them aloud gave them more that she imagined. It felt very strange, even terrifying, that she managed to say without hesitation, "No, he died just a short time ago. My mama, who was English, died three years ago. After Napoleon fell and the Bourbon king was returned to the throne, Papa and I returned to France. My papa was in poor health. But his pa.s.sing was easy, thank G.o.d." Actually, her papa was currently residing in Paris, in a room that was comfortable enough, for she'd seen it before she'd left to come to England. He had one servant to see to his comfort and a woman to cook for him. She'd insisted that he have all the books he wanted. Houchard had agreed, the d.a.m.nable b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And why shouldn't he agree? She was doing what he demanded of her. And there was a physician; she'd said she wouldn't budge unless there was a physician available to him. She'd begged him to be calm, told him again and again that she would be all right. But, she'd thought, how could her father remain calm when she was here in England against her will? What if something happened to him?

"I'm very sorry. The loss of parents is difficult. My own father died last year. I loved him dearly. I'm sorry."

"Thank you," she said, and lowered her eyes so he wouldn't see the lie in them. She had a sudden memory of his father, a beautiful man with charming manners, tall and straight as a post, darker even than his son. "I'm sorry about your father. I remember him. He was very kind to me."

He nodded, then sat back and eyed her, wishing she wasn't so pale, that her father hadn't died, for he knew what a difficult thing that was. "Yes, that makes sense." He balanced his elbows on the padded arms and tapped his fingertips thoughtfully together. "Marissa's father, as well as your own, was an emigre. Marissa's father also hated Napoleon, as did, I a.s.sume, your father. He wouldn't ever go back until Napoleon was out of power. Actually, Marissa's father still resides in London, quite content with his adopted country. Does your uncle know that you're here?"

"No. He didn't even know that Papa and I had returned to France. We have no further ties to his family, or to yours."

"Did your husband die in England, Madame? Was he also an emigre?"

She knew he would ask. She knew because Houchard had known he would, and had asked her question after question until she was clear and smooth in her answers. Still, she felt a stab of nausea low in her stomach. The lies would stack up, higher and higher until she wouldn't be able to see beyond them. "He did, your grace. Like my father, he was also an emigre. I just realized that I'm now thirsty, your grace. May I have a cup of tea, before I leave?"

He rose and walked to the wall, and pulled the bell cord. Without saying anything more, he left her sitting alone in the library.

Now, this was certainly strange, she thought, rising to warm her hands in front of the fire. Where had he gone?

Chapter 5.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared, carrying a large tray himself. No servant accompanied him. "Am I so disreputable a visitor that you don't wish your servants even to see me? Are you afraid that they'll gossip about you, alone with a young woman who shouldn't be here in the first place?"

He grinned at her. It was devastating. In that instant she knew that he wasn't just a very wickedly handsome man; he was also a man of infinite charm, if he chose to be charming, and he appeared to wish it now. All that charm was in that grin of his. Even for a strong woman that grin could be a killing blow.

"How did you know? Ah, perhaps you've already heard my servants talking. Yes, I'm quite in the habit of entertaining young ladies in my den of iniquity." He set the tray down, then expertly poured both of them a cup of tea. "No fluid retort to that? I don't blame you. That was quite a detour into idiocy, Madame. Now, do try one of Cook's lemon tarts. I don't want to unleash you just yet on my people. Actually, I don't want them to see you until I know what I'm going to be doing for you. I cannot imagine that you just came to Chesleigh Castle on an afternoon lark.

"Yes, do try one of the lemon tarts. You're on the thin side, even though your endowments look quite sufficient, at least from my perspective. Now that you've got your mouth full, do tell me about your husband. Was he an emigre? Did you meet him here in England?"

"Yes, I did," she said around a lemon tart that tasted so crisp and sharp, it nearly made her eyes water. It was the best lemon tart she'd ever eaten in her life. She immediately reached for another. To her surprise, his hand covered her. "No, you don't want to fill yourself on just one thing. Here, try the apple patty. Cook has a way with the pastry that makes your belly sing."

She ate the apple patty in two bites. She reached for another, then drew her own hand back. It required all her resolution not to grab for that single small slice of what looked to be raisins and pears, all stuffed inside a round pastry.

"You're smart to desist. I admire anyone with such willpower. A friend of mine, Phillip Mercerault, is also the proud and possessive employer of an excellent cook. We've talked about a compet.i.tion between the two kitchens but haven't done it yet. Like Phillip, I'm very careful when I'm here, as was my father before me." He paused a moment, then gave her that devastating grin again. "My father always told me that ladies didn't particularly take to gentlemen with fat on their bellies."

"You don't have any."

"Thank you for noticing."

"But I really can't be certain. You're still wearing your cloak."

That was well done of her. He rose and untied his cloak, tossing it over the back of the settee. He stood there a moment, letting her look at him. "I suppose you are still without fat." "Naturally, I was a dutiful son. I always attended my father." He sat back down, folding his hands over his belly. "Now, about your husband."

"I met him here, since we lived in Kent. We married here."

"What was his full name?"

"Andre de la Valette. His father was the Comte de la Valette. The line is now dead. It is a pity." Say no more, Houchard had told her. Let him wonder. It will amuse him to wonder. He is a man easily bored.

"I see. Now, I suppose I must ask you why you are here."

She sat forward in her chair. "As you know, your grace, I have never seen my cousin Edmund. Mama was quite ill throughout those years, and I could not leave her. Also, I believe, there was some sort of falling out with your family, and such visits, had they been possible, were discouraged."

She saw a sudden flash of anger in the duke's eyes. "I don't suppose that your father or your esteemed uncle told you the reason for the estrangement? Oh, yes, most a.s.suredly there is one, of many years standing."

She shook her head. "I should like to know, your grace, for I was very fond of Marissa and missed her. I always wanted to meet her son."

The duke laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh, but an angry one, that held not a whit of humor. Then he shrugged and drank some of his tea. "Perhaps someday you will know. If you father did not tell you, it is not my place to do so. As for your cousin and my son, he is the very best of lads, five years old now."

She heard the softening of his voice, saw the pride in his dark eyes. He loved his son. She waited. He set down his empty teacup. "Now, no more thrashing the bushes, Madame. I don't imagine you came here to see the view from my windows, although it is spectacular when the blasted rain doesn't turn everything gray. Tell me what I can do to a.s.sist you."

She looked at him full face and said baldly, "I have no money. After my father's death the French took everything left, not that there was very much. They claimed that my father and I weren't really loyal to the country of our birth, and thus with his death I would get nothing from his estate." "Why did you not write to me and tell me of this?" "There was not time. Besides, you might have simply ignored a letter. You cannot ignore me, at least now that I'm here, you can't." He said nothing, just looked at her. "I had nowhere else to go. I have given this a lot of thought, your grace. I don't wish to be a poor relation, clutching at your sleeve. I don't wish to be dependent. In short, your grace, I would like to remain here at Chesleigh Castle and become Edmund's nanny." There, it had all spilled out of her mouth, much more quickly than was wise, but she couldn't bear the suspense any longer. She added, "Please, your grace. I'm not a frivolous ninny. I'm educated, my father saw to that. He was a brilliant philosopher. I know the cla.s.sics. I love children." "That relieves my mind greatly." Suddenly she looked very alone and vulnerable. "I spent my last francs on a packet from Calais to Dover. One of the blacksmiths was coming this way. He gave me a ride in his cart."

He didn't know where the blasted words came from, but they did come out of his mouth. "Was it raining?" "It stopped shortly after we left Dover." "Did you know I was in residence here?" She shook her head. She drank a sip of tea. "I didn't know. I prayed you would be." Of course she'd known he was here, but she couldn't tell him that. "Did your father turn you against me?" "No, not at all. I believe he approved of you. Not only was there a rift between your family and my uncle's family, my father also didn't speak to his brother. I don't know the reasons for either rift. I wish I did know." If it was true. She didn't know anything. She'd heard servants' gossip some years before, something about her uncle being in love with her mother, but she hadn't said anything to either of them. After her mother had died, it seemed cruel to ask her father. Naturally, it could be something else entirely.

Before she'd been bundled out of Paris, it hadn't occurred to her to speak of such unimportant things to her father.

"If I hadn't been here, then what would you have done?"

She managed a crooked grin. "I suppose I would have had to build a willow lodge at the edge of the Grampston forest and wait you out."

"It's the dead of winter. It rains all the time. You would have caught an inflammation of the lung."

"But you were here." She drew a very deep breath and plunged forward. "Will you let me meet Edmund? If we suit, will you let me remain here as his nanny?" "I had no clue of your existence yesterday, and now here you are, sitting in my library, offering yourself up as a nanny. It is unexpected, Madame." "I know, and I'm sorry for it. I had no choice. I didn't want to become Monsieur Dumornay's mistress. That was my only other option." "Who is this Dumornay?"

"He was one of my papa's supposed friends. I'm certain his wife had no idea that he would have gladly set me up in a house and supported me. She is a very nice woman. He is a lecherous idiot."

"Most men of his stripe are idiots. Now, did you bring a maid?"

She shook her head and looked down at a particularly round and seductive scone. It looked to have raisins in it. It looked delicious. She said, "There was no money to pay for one. I left Margueritte in France."

"I see." He had become the formal n.o.bleman. He was looking at the narrow arcs of flame that leapt upward from the smoldering embers in the fireplace. He looked about ready to nap.

If she'd had a rock, she would have thrown it at him. She jumped to her feet, grabbing her cloak. He had no interest in her at all. He didn't care if she died on the side of the road. He didn't care if she caught an inflammation of the lung.

She was interrupting his solitude, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She wanted nothing more than to march out of his d.a.m.ned library, out of his d.a.m.ned castle and never look back. But she couldn't.

She drew a deep breath, took a hold of herself. "I'm hungry. Surely before you dismiss me I may eat something? Perhaps in the kitchen with this G.o.ddess cook of yours?"

"Eat the scone you've been eyeing." He rose slowly to face her. She found herself staring at his snowy white cravat. Evangeline was tall, taller than just about any woman she'd ever met. She been called a maypole by Tommy Barkly when she was twelve years old and he'd been thirteen. As she raised her eyes to the duke's face, she felt suddenly quite short. It was the strangest feeling. He was giving her this brooding look that she couldn't begin to decipher.

And he remained silent, merely looking down at her. It was over. She'd failed.

She was angry. He was cold. He wasn't a gentleman. She drew up, stiffer than the fireplace poker. "Very well, I'm not all that hungry. I don't want that scone. I'm leaving."

He said mildly, even as he snagged her arm in one of his big hands, "No, it's all right. I'll feed you, although I don't think you'll still be all that hungry if you satisfy your gluttony with that scone. Ah, yes, now I understand. It's meat and substantial vegetables you want. Very well."

He paused again, then added, "I can't believe you, a young lady, traveled all the way from France here, with no escort."

"What would I have used to pay an escort? One of my boots?"

"If I had been the escort, I would have demanded both boots and a chance to put my hands on you."

He couldn't believe he'd insulted her like that, but what was said was said. He watched her brown eyes change color, literally change from a rich dark brown to a lighter whiskey color. It was fascinating.

She said, very low, "I'm a widow, your grace, not a trollop."

"Dammit, I know that." Still, he didn't apologize, saying instead, "First thing, I will have Mrs. Raleigh, my housekeeper, show you to a room. At the very least, you will meet Edmund in the morning. Do you have any luggage?"

He hadn't made up his mind. Well, had she been in his boots, she wouldn't have either. It was his son, his heir, and he loved the boy. He would be very careful whom he allowed near Edmund. "I have one valise. Ba.s.sick has it." Then, because she couldn't bear it, she said, "I didn't come to plead for you to a.s.sist me. I came to offer myself as a nanny. Honest work, that's all I'm asking for, your grace. I won't steal the silver. I'm responsible, I swear it. You'll not be disappointed in me."

Her voice was defensive. She didn't look much like a nanny. At least she didn't look like his own Mrs. Tucker, who'd spanked him, hugged him against her ma.s.sive bosom, sung to him, rapped his knuckles when he was rude, and loved him until she'd died ten years before.

He thought about sitting here all evening in solitude, anger smoldering in him, and helplessness, because the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who'd killed Robbie Faraday was still loose, doubtless laughing at them because he'd escaped whole-hide. No, even brandy didn't sound all that appealing now.

He couldn't very well have dinner served to her in her bedchamber. That wouldn't be well done of him. There was no hope for it. Actually, he didn't mind at all.

"I know," he said finally, not really remembering what she'd said, only that it had been pitiful. He turned back to her. He dashed his fingers through his thick hair, standing it on end. "d.a.m.nation."

"Goodness. I didn't realize what I was about to say would upset you so much, your grace."

There was wit in her, when she wasn't terrified that he would kick her out. No, that wasn't precisely true. She'd used that tongue of hers to try to outdo him from the moment he'd stomped into his library. He said, "The proprieties, Madame. My mother is in London. There is no one here to be your chaperone, to protect your good name."