And so, while out on her regular daily walk, she had slowly filled the smuggler's chest with necessities, including money, food, and a set of men's clothes she'd altered from an old one of her father's. As for boots, she'd had no choice but to steal a pair from one of the smaller stable boys. Not wanting the lad to suffer for his loss, she'd anonymously left him enough coin to purchase new ones. He'd grinned about the odd theft and his propitious windfall for weeks.

To her knowledge, no one but a few old-time smugglers knew about this hide-out, despite the thriving business of sneaking contraband tea and French brandy past the noses of the local excise men. Certainly her stepfather wasn't aware of the caves. To most Cornishmen, he was still considered an outsider, despite having lived here for five years-ever since marrying her mother and taking up residence at Bainbridge Manor.

Five years, Lily sighed. Five years to wear the life out of a good woman who'd deserved far, far better than she'd received.

A familiar lump swelled in her throat, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Ruthlessly, she dashed it away, telling herself that now was not the time to dwell upon her mother's untimely demise. If only she'd been able to convince Mama to leave years ago! If only she'd been able to keep her mother from falling prey to the blandishments of a handsome charmer, who'd turned out to have the heart of a poisonous viper! But having been a child at the time, her opinion had not been sought, nor heeded.

Toweling dry the worst drips from her hair, Lily crossed to a pile of kindling stacked against the far wall. Using some of the wood, she built a small fire. Blessed heat soon warmed the space, calming the worst of the shivers that continued to rack her body. Returning to the trunk, she dressed in a shirt, trousers, and coat, the masculine attire feeling strange against her skin. At least the clothing is warm, and-even better-dry, she mused. And until I reach London, I had best get used to being dressed like a boy.

She wasn't so foolish as to imagine she could journey to London on her own, at least not dressed as a woman. A female traveling without escort would invite comment, but worse, she would be subject to all manner of predators wishing to make her their prey-out to steal her reticule, or, shudder the thought, her virtue. And in addition to providing her some measure of safety, the ruse would allow her to leave the area without detection. Rather than accept help of any kind, she planned to make the long walk to the coaching inn at Penzance. That way, should her stepfather question anyone later, they would have no cause to remember a redheaded girl matching her description.

Nerves made her wish she could leave now, but until the worst of the storm subsided she would be better off staying here inside the cave. Pulling on a pair of long woolen socks that eased the cold from her toes, she reached once more into the trunk for a cloth-covered wedge of cheese. Belly growling, she broke off a chunk and ate, enjoying the sharp, satisfying flavor.

Minutes later, her meal finished, she prepared to complete one last task-an act she had been dreading. Just the thought of proceeding made her cringe. But the deed must be done.

Locating her ivory comb, she drew the teeth through her damp, waist-length hair, careful to remove every last tangle before tying it back with a thin, black silk ribbon. Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, she lifted a pair of scissors and began to cut.

Three days later, Ethan Andarton, Fifth Marquis of Vessey, swallowed a last bite of shepherd's pie, then set his knife and fork at an angle onto his plate and pushed it away. Reaching for the wine bottle, he refilled his glass with a dry red of questionable vintage-apparently the best The Ox and Owl in Hungerford could provide.

Crowded full of men come to town for a nearby boxing mill, the public room hummed with noise and the occasional raucous burst of laughter. Drifting in spirals near the ceiling lay an acrid blue cloud of pipe smoke, combined with the yeasty scent of ale and the heavy aroma of fried meat. With the inn's only private parlor already occupied, Ethan had decided to sit among the locals, tucking himself into a surprisingly comfortable corner table. From his vantage point, he could see all the boisterous goings-ons. But such matters were not on his mind as he quaffed another mouthful of wine.

It will be good to get back to London, he mused. Good to return to my usual amusements and haunts now that I've taken the necessary first steps to see my future arranged.

Not that he was eager to have his future arranged, but a long span of serious reflection on the matter had convinced him he could no longer afford to put off his duty. At thirty-five, he knew he had to wed. He had a responsibility to his lineage, an obligation to sire sons who would carry on the family name and title. And in order to do so he needed a bride-whether he truly desired one or not.

Of course, were his older brothers, Arthur and Frederick, alive, he wouldn't be facing this particular dilemma. Arthur would be marquis now-no doubt long since married, with children of his own. But by some cruel twist of fate, both of his brothers had lost their lives during an attempt to save a tenant's child from drowning in a storm-swollen river. Frederick had dived in first; then, when his brother failed to emerge, Arthur had followed. In the end, all three had perished, both men and the child.

Ethan had often wondered what might have happened had he been home that fateful day instead of traveling on the Continent. Would he have been able to save them? Or would he, too, have lost his life? He knew he would gladly have traded places, gladly have died in order to save the life of even one of his brothers. Instead, in an instant, he'd gone from third in line to being marquis, a position he had never once craved for himself.

After the accident, he'd arrived home raw with grief over the loss of his brothers only to find every eye upon him-family, servants, and tenants, all looking to him for guidance and reassurance. Feeling his old, carefree life slip like sand from his grasp, he'd done his best to step into Arthur's shoes and honor what his older brother had left behind.

In the twelve years since, Ethan had risen to the challenge, learning what he had to, meeting each expectation and every demand with determination and fortitude. There was one obligation, however, upon which he had long turned his back, stubbornly retaining that last bit of independence-until now.

He remembered his friend the Duke of Wyvern's reaction when he'd mentioned his decision last week.

"You cannot mean it," Anthony Black had said, his brandy snifter frozen halfway to his mouth. "Why on earth do you want to go and get leg-shackled? Especially when you've a surfeit of beautiful, willing women climbing in and out of your bed. Women, I might add, who have no expectations of achieving a ring out of the deal."

Leaning back in his chair at Brooks's Club, Ethan met his friend's midnight-blue gaze. "Because it's time, Tony, whether I want it to be or not. I can't put this off forever. I need to think to my future, the family's future. It's my duty to set up my nursery and father an heir or two to assure the title."

Also by Tracy Anne Warren.

The Husband Trap.

The Wife Trap.

The Wedding Trap.