"I must admit that soliciting funds is not my favorite pastime, Lady Catherine. I owe you a boon for affording me this moment of sanctuary."

She was tempted to tell him that she owed him a boon for a similar reason, but refrained. "I noticed you speaking to Lords Borthrasher and Kingsly, and also Mrs. Warrenfield," she said. "Were your efforts successful?"

"I believe so, especially in Mrs. Warrenfield's case. Her husband left her a sizable fortune, and she possesses a love of antiquities. A good combination as far as Philip and I are concerned."

She smiled, and Andrew's bream hitched. d.a.m.n but she was lovely. The entire thread of their conversation disintegrated from his mind as he continued to look at her. Finally his inner voice coughed to life. Cease gawking at her and speak, you nodc.o.c.k. Before Lord What's-His-Name comes back, no doubt bearing a huge bouquet and spouting sonnets.

He cleared his throat. "And how is your son, Lady Catherine?"

A combination of pride and sadness flitted across her face. "Spencer's overall health is fine, thank you, but his foot and leg do pain him."

"He did not travel with you to London?"

"No." Her gaze flicked over the a.s.sembled guests, and her expression chilled. "He dislikes traveling, and he especially dislikes London, a sentiment I equally share. Nor is he fond of parties. If not for my father's birthday celebration, I would not have ventured to Town. I plan to depart for Little Longstone directly after breakfast tomorrow."

Disappointment coursed through him. He'd hoped she might remain in London at least a few days, to afford him the opportunity to spend time with her. Invite her to the opera. Show her the progress on the museum. Ride in Hyde Park and stroll through Vauxhall. d.a.m.n it all, how was he to launch his campaign to court the woman if she insisted on hiding out in the country? Clearly a visit to Little Longstone was in order, yet as she hadn't issued him an invitation, he'd have to think up some plausible excuse to venture there. But in the meanwhile, he needed to stop wasting precious time and make the most of his present opportunity. The strains of a waltz floated on the air, and his entire body quickened at the prospect of dancing with her, of holding her in his arms for the first time.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her to dance, she leaned closer, and whispered, "Oh, dear. Look at that. He's going about it all wrong."

"I beg your pardon?"

She nodded toward the punch bowl. "Lord Nordnick. He's trying to entice Lady Ophelia, and he's making a complete muck of it."

Andrew turned his attention to the couple standing next to the ornate silver punch bowl. An eager-looking young man, presumably Lord Nordnick, was handing an attractive young lady, presumably Lady Ophelia, a cup of punch.

"Er, there is a wrong way to hand a woman a beverage?" Andrew asked.

"He is not merely handing her a drink, Mr. Stanton. He is courting her. And doing a very poor job of it, I'm afraid."

Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, then shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't see anything wrong." She leaned a fraction closer. The intoxicating scent of flowers filled his head, and he had to grit his teeth to remained focused on her words. "Note his overeager manner." "Overeager? 'Tis clear he is smitten and wishes to please her. Surely you don't think he should have allowed Lady Ophelia to fetch her own punch?" "No, but he clearly didn't ask her preference. From her expression it is obvious that Lady Ophelia did not desire a gla.s.s of punch-no doubt because he'd already handed her one not five minutes ago." "Perhaps Lord Nordnick is merely nervous. I believe it is common for sanity to flee a man's head when he's in the company of a lady he finds attractive." She made a tsking sound. "That is indeed unfortunate. Observe how bored she clearly is with his inept attentions." Hmmm. Lady Ophelia did indeed look bored. Blast. When had courting become so b.l.o.o.d.y complicated? Hoping he sounded like a coconspirator rather than an information seeker, he asked, "What should Lord Nordnick do?" "He should shower her with romance. Find out her favorite flower. Her favorite food." "So he should send her roses and confections?" "As your friend, Mr. Stanton, I must point out that that is a sadly typical male a.s.sumption. Perhaps Lady Ophelia prefers pork chops to confections. And how do you know her favorite flower is a rose?" "As your friend, Lady Catherine, I must point out that it would be very odd for a suitor to come calling with a gift box filled with pork chops. And don't all women love roses?" "I couldn't say. I like them. However, they aren't my favorite." "And what is?"

"Dicentra spectabilis."

"I fear Latin is not my strong suit."

"You see?"

"Actually, no-"

"That's but yet another problem with Lord Nordnick's unoriginal methods. He should recite something

romantic to her in another language. But I digress. Dicentra spectabilis means 'bleeding heart.' "

He pulled his gaze from the couple and turned his head to stare at her. "Something called bleeding heart is your favorite flower? That hardly rings of romance." "Nevertheless, it is my favorite, and that's what makes it romantic. I happen to know that Lady Ophelia is especially fond of tulips. But do you suppose Lord Nordnick will bother to discover that? I think not.

Based on his fetching of numerous gla.s.ses of unwanted punch, I'm certain he'll send Lady Ophelia roses because that's what he thinks she should like. And because of that, he is doomed to failure."

"All because he fetched punch and would send the wrong flowers?" Andrew turned back to the couple, and a wave of pity for Lord Nordnick engulfed him. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He made a mental note to pa.s.s along the tulip information to the hapless fellow. In these perilous courting endeavors, men needed to stick together.

"Perhaps such clumsy attempts would have gained a lady's favor in the past, but no longer. Today's Modern Woman prefers a gentleman who takes into consideration her preferences, as opposed to a gentleman who arrogantly believes he knows what is best for her."

Andrew chuckled. "Today's Modern Woman? That sounds like something out of that ridiculous Ladies' Guide everyone is talking about."

"Why do you say 'ridiculous'?"

"Hmm, yes, perhaps that was a poor choice of word. 'Scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash' is closer to what I meant."

Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, trying to decipher the apparently misguided Lord Nornick's errors so as not to make them himself, but in truth he couldn't figure out what the man was doing wrong. He was being polite and attentive-two strategies Andrew himself had deemed important in his own wooing campaign.

He turned back toward Lady Catherine. "I'm afraid I don't see-"

His words cut off when he noted she was regarding him with raised brows and a noticeably cool expression. "Is something amiss?"

"I wasn't aware you'd read A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment, Mr. Stanton."

"Me? A ladies' guide?" He chuckled, torn whether he was more astonished or amused by her words. "Of course I haven't read it."

"Then how can you possibly call it 'scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash'?"

"I don't need to read the actual words to know the content. That Guide has become the main topic of conversation in the city." He smiled, but her expression did not change. "As you've spent the past two months in Little Longstone, you couldn't know the stir that book has caused with the nonsensical ideas put forth by the author. You've only to listen to the gentlemen in this very room to realize that not only is the book filled with idiotic notions, but apparently it is poorly written as well. Charles Brightmore is a renegade, and possesses little, if any, literary talent."

Twin flags of color rose on her cheeks, and her narrowed gaze grew positively frosty. Warning bells rang in Andrew's mind, suggesting-unfortunately a few words too late-that he'd committed a grave tactical error. She lifted her chin and shot him a look that somehow managed to appear as if she were looking down her nose at him, quite a feat, considering he stood a good six inches taller than she.

"I must say that I'm surprised, not to mention disappointed, to discover that you hold such narrow views, Mr. Stanton. I would have thought that a man of your vast traveling experience would be more open to new, modern ideas. And that at the very least, you were a man who would take the time to examine all the facts and form your own opinions on a topic, rather than relying on hearsay from others-especially others who most likely also have not read the book."

Andrew's brows rose at her tone. "I do not hold narrow ideas at all, Lady Catherine. However, I don't believe it is necessary to experience something to know it is not to my liking or does not mesh with my beliefs," he said mildly, wondering how their conversation had veered onto this out-of-the-way path. "If someone tells me that rotten fish smells bad, I am perfectly content to take their word for it-I do not feel the need to stick my nose in the barrel to sniff for myself." He chuckled. "It almost sounds as if you've read this Guide-and found favor with its farfetched ideals."

"If it only almost sounds as if I've read the Guide, then I don't believe you are listening closely enough, Mr. Stanton, an affliction I fear you share with most men."

Certain his hearing had indeed become afflicted, Andrew said slowly, "Don't tell me you've read that book."

"Very well, I won't tell you that."

"But you... have?" His words sounded more like an accusation man a question.

"Yes." She shot him an unmistakably challenging glare. "Numerous times, in fact. And I did not find the ideals it put forth the least bit far-fetched. Quite the opposite in fact."

Andrew could only stare. Lady Catherine had read that scandalous rag? Numerous times? Had embraced its precepts? Impossible. Lady Catherine was a paragon. The epitome of a perfect, gently bred, sedate lady. But clearly she had read it, for there was no mistaking her words or obstinate expression.

"You appear quite stunned, Mr. Stanton."

"In truth, I am."

"Why? By your own admission, nearly every woman in London has read the Guide. Why should it surprise you so that I would read it?"

Because you are not every woman. Because I don't want you to be "independent" and "modern." I want you to need me. Want me. Love me. As I need and want and love you. Good G.o.d, if that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Brightmore's drivel had turned Lady Catherine into some sort of upstart bluestocking, the man would pay dearly. All this b.l.o.o.d.y nonsense about "today's modern woman" certainly wouldn't help Andrew in his quest to court her. Based on what she'd said about Lord Nordnick, he already ran the risk of distancing Lady Catherine by the simple act of fetching her a gla.s.s of punch.

"The book just doesn't seem like the sort of thing a lady such as you would read."

"And precisely what sort of lady am I, Mr. Stanton? The sort who is unable to read?"

"Of course not-" "The sort who is not intelligent enough to understand words containing more than one syllable?"

"Certainly not-"

"The sort who is incapable of forming her own opinions?"

"No." He raked a hand through his hair. " 'Tis abundantly clear that you're fully capable of that." How had this conversation gone so wrong so quickly? "I meant that it did not seem the sort of reading material for a proper lady."

"I see." She gave him a cool, detached look that tightened his jaw. Definitely not the way he'd hoped to have her looking at him by the end of this evening. "Well, perhaps the Guide is not as scandalous as you've been led to believe, Mr. Stanton. Perhaps the Guide could be better described as scintillating. Provocative. Intelligent. But of course, you wouldn't know as you haven't read it. Perhaps you should read it."

He raised his brows at the unmistakable challenge shining in her eyes. "You must be joking."

"I'm not. In fact, I'd be happy to lend you my copy."

"Why on earth would I want to read a ladies' guide?"

She offered him a smile that appeared just a bit too sweet. "Why, so that you could offer an informed, intelligent opinion when next you discussed the work. And besides, you might actually learn something."

Good G.o.d, the woman was daft. Perhaps the victim of too much wine. He took a discreet sniff, but smelled only alluring flowers. "What on earth could I possibly learn from a ladies' guide?"

"What women like, for one thing. And do not like. And why Lord Nordnick's wooing attempts directed at Lady Ophelia are bound for failure. Just to name a few."

Andrew's jaw tightened. He knew what women liked... didn't he? He couldn't recall hearing any complaints in the past. But his inner voice was warning him that maybe he didn't know quite as much about what Lady Catherine liked as he'd thought. Actually, maybe he didn't know Lady Catherine as well as he'd thought-a notion that simultaneously unsettled and intrigued him. G.o.d knows she'd revealed an unexpected side of herself this evening. He recalled Philip's warning about her newfound headstrong, blunt behavior. He'd put no stock in Philip's comment at the time, but it appeared his friend was correct. And it further appeared that the blame for this change rested on the Ladies' Guide's shoulders.

d.a.m.n you, Charles Brightmore. You and your foolish book have made courting the woman I want-an already Herculean task-even more difficult. I'll relish exposing you and putting an end to your writing career.

Yes, more difficult indeed, for not only had the Guide clearly filled Lady Catherine's head with ideas of independence, but this discussion, which was supposed to lead to him asking her to dance and the start of his courting campaign, had turned contentious-a turn of events he needed to correct immediately. No, this meeting was not going at all the way he'd envisioned. According to his plans, Lady Catherine should be in his arms, gazing up at him with warmth and affection. Instead, she'd backed away from him and was glaring at him with annoyance, a feeling he shared, as he was more than a little irritated himself.

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore Voices, jagged and disjointed, echoed through Catherine's mind, along with a myriad of inexplicable, contradictory sensations. Her head ached as if someone had smashed it with a rock. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the h.e.l.lfire burning in her shoulder. And who precisely had set the swarm of angry bees upon her bottom lip? Yet she somehow felt as if she were floating, engulfed in a strong, comforting embrace that suffused her with warmth, like being wrapped in her favorite velvety blanket. Her cheek rested against something warm and solid. She inhaled, filling her aching head with the scent of clean linen, sandalwood, and something else... a delightful aroma she couldn't define, other than to know she liked it.

She became aware of the hum of voices. One voice, low, deep, and fervent, and very close to her ear infiltrated past the noise of the others. Please wake up... G.o.d, please.

Something jounced her, shooting pain through her, and she groaned.

"Hold on," the voice next to her ear whispered. "We're almost there."

There? Forcing her eyelids open, she found herself looking up at Mr. Stanton's profile. His face appeared pale, his jaw tight, his rugged features stark with some unreadable emotion. A breeze dislodged a curl of her hair, blowing it across her cheek, and she realized that she was moving swiftly down a corridor... a corridor in her father's town house, cradled tightly against Mr. Stanton's chest, her knees draped over his one arm, his other arm supporting her back.

He glanced down, and she found herself staring into intense ebony eyes, which burned like twin braziers. His gaze locked on to hers, and a muscle jerked in his cheek.

"She's awake," he said, turning his head slightly, but his gaze never wavering from hers.

Awake? Had she fallen asleep? Surely not. She blinked several times, but before she could force her sore mouth to form a question, they pa.s.sed through a doorway and entered a room she recognized as her father's bedchamber. Seconds later, Mr. Stanton gently laid her upon the maroon counterpane. She instantly missed his warmth as a chilled shudder rushed through her, but seconds later her eyes widened when he hitched one hip upon the mattress, and sat next to her on the bed, the heat of his hand pressing against her stinging shoulder. Some small corner of her mind protested that his nearness reeked of impropriety, but his presence was so comforting... and she felt so inexplicably in need of that comfort.

A movement caught her eye, and her gaze shifted over Mr. Stanton's shoulder, where she noted her father looking down at her with an anxious expression.

"Thank G.o.d you've come around, my dear," Father said, his voice rough. "Dr. Gibbens is on his way."

Mr. Stanton leaned closer to her. "How do you feel?"

She licked her dry lips, wincing when her tongue, which felt oddly thick, touched a sensitive spot. "Shoulder hurts. Head, too." She tried to turn her head, but immediately thought better of it when a sharp pain bounced behind her eyes, roiling a wave of nausea through her. "Wh... what happened?"

Something undecipherable flashed in his eyes. "You don't remember?"

Trying to ignore the aches thumping through her, she forced herself to concentrate. "Father's party. His birthday. You and I were arguing... and now I'm here." Lying in bed, with you sitting so very close. Touching me. "Feeling as if I were coshed... hopefully not the outcome of our disagreement."

"You were shot," Mr. Stanton said, harshness evident in his quiet voice. "In the shoulder. And it appears you hit your head quite hard when you fell. I'm sorry for the pain-I'm keeping pressure on your shoulder wound to stem the blood until the doctor arrives."

His words echoed through her pounding head. Shot? She wanted to scoff at his statement, but the burning ache in her shoulder and gravity of his intense regard left no doubt that he spoke the truth. And it certainly explained his nearness and touch. And obvious concern. "I... I do recall a loud noise."

His head jerked in a nod. "That was the shot. It came from outside, from the direction of Park Lane."

"But who?" she whispered. "Why?"

"That is precisely what we're going to find out," interjected her father, "although the why is quite obvious. These d.a.m.nable criminals are everywhere. What is this city coming to? The recent rash of crimes in the area must be stopped. Why just last week Lord Denbitty came home from the opera to find his house ransacked. Tonight's debacle is clearly the doing of some b.l.o.o.d.y footpad whose weapon discharged while committing a robbery in the street."

Father's jaw clenched, and he dragged visibly shaking hands down his face. "Thank G.o.d for Mr. Stanton here. While pandemonium reigned, he kept a cool head. He ordered a footman to fetch the doctor, another to locate the magistrate, then rallied several gentlemen to conduct a search outdoors for the culprit and perhaps another victim, all while examining your injuries. Once he'd determined the ball wasn't lodged in your shoulder, he carried you here."

Catherine shifted her gaze to Mr. Stanton, who regarded her with such an intense expression, her toes curled inside her satin slippers. "Thank you," she whispered.

For several seconds he said nothing, then, with what appeared to be an effort, he offered her a half smile. "You're welcome. Thanks to my adventures with your brother, I have some experience in these matters, although you may retract your thanks when you see the mess I made of your gown. I'm afraid I had to cut off your sleeve."

She attempted a smile in return, but wasn't sure she succeeded. "No doubt the bloodstain would have proved ruinous anyway."

Father reached out and clasped her hand. "We can only be thankful you were merely grazed, and that the lead ball didn't hit anyone else before lodging itself in the wall. Egad, a mere inch or two, and you might have been killed." His lips narrowed with determination. "I vow I'll not rest until the scoundrel who did this is caught, Catherine."

The room seemed to take a sickening spin as the full ramifications of what had happened clicked into place in her mind. Before she could form a reply, a knock sounded on the door, and her father called, "Come in."

Dr. Gibbens entered the room, carrying his black leather medical bag, his long face the picture of concern as he approached her. "How is the bleeding?" he asked, setting his bag on the end of the bed.

She felt a lessening of the pressure against her shoulder. "Nearly stopped," Mr. Stanton said, with unmistakable relief. "There's a sizable lump on the back of her head, but she's coherent. She also bit her lip when she fell, but that bleeding has subsided as well."

"Excellent," said Dr. Gibbens. He stood for several seconds, then cleared his throat. "And as soon as you gentlemen leave the room, I shall examine the patient."

Mr. Stanton glowered at the doctor and appeared about to argue, but Dr. Gibbens said firmly, "I'll give you both my report as soon as I finish. In the meanwhile, you are needed downstairs. The magistrate arrived just after me."

There was no mistaking Mr. Stanton's or Father's reluctance to leave her, but they did as the doctor bid. Watching them close the door behind them, a shudder racked her, a shiver of dread that had nothing to do with the pain throbbing incessantly through her.

Father appeared convinced that she'd been shot by random accident. A robbery gone astray. But he didn't know that a growing number of people wished Charles Brightmore dead.

And that tonight someone had nearly succeeded.

Andrew paced the confines of the corridor outside Lord Ravensly's bedchamber, his insides clenched with impatience and frustration. And stark fear. How the h.e.l.l long did it take to examine and dress a wound? Certainly not this long. d.a.m.n it, the party guests had departed, a witness had been found and interviewed, the magistrate had been dealt with, and still Dr. Gibbens had not emerged. He'd encountered many precarious, unsettling, and even dangerous situations in his life, but the unconditional terror and numbing horror of looking down at Lady Catherine's bleeding, unconscious form...

G.o.d. He paused in his pacing and leaned his back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he tunneled his hands, which still didn't feel quite steady, through his hair. All the fear and anger and desperation he'd felt since the moment that shot had rung out burst through the dam of control and restraint with which he'd surrounded himself. His knees shook, and with a low moan, he sank down to his haunches and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead.