"But why would you write your reason in a way that I cannot understand?"

"At your father's birthday party, you commented on Lord Nordnick's methods with regards to Lady Ophelia. You said he should recite something romantic to her in another language. This is the only other language I know."

Her startled gaze flew to his. He touched the edge of the vellum. "The first line reads You saved my life."

"I do not see how you can say that, as it is my fault that you were hurt tonight."

"Not tonight. Six years ago. The morning after I joined Philip at his camp, I came upon him sitting on a blanket near the banks of the Nile, reading a letter. From his sister, he told me. He read me some amusing snippets, and I sat there listening to the words you'd written him, filled with envy for the obvious affection in which you held each other. He went on to tell me a bit about you, the fact that your marriage was unhappy, the joy you found with your son, and also about Spencer's affliction. After we returned to camp, he showed me the miniature you'd given him before he'd left England."

He briefly closed his eyes, vividly reliving that instant when he'd first laid eyes on her image. "You were so lovely. I could not fathom how your husband did not worship the ground you walked on.

"From that moment on, with every story Philip told me about you, my regard and admiration grew, and I believe I antic.i.p.ated your letters to Philip even more than Philip himself. Your bravery, fort.i.tude, and grace in the face of your marital situation and Spencer's difficulties touched me deeply and inspired me to examine my deep shame and guilt over my past and the dissolute manner in which I'd lived my life since leaving America. Your goodness, your kindness, your courage inspired me to change my life. Redeem myself. I knew that someday I would return to England with Philip, and I was determined to be a person that Lady Catherine would be proud to know. You showed me that goodness and kindness still existed, and you gave me the will to want that again. I've wanted to thank you for that for six years." He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

Catherine's heart thumped in slow, hard beats from his words and the utter sincerity in his dark eyes. She swallowed. Her heart ached for him, for the despair he'd lived with for so long. "You're welcome. I had no idea my letters had... inspired you so. I'm very sorry for the pain you suffered, and I'm glad you were able to find peace within yourself."

Without wavering his gaze, he released her hand, then reached out and touched the edge of the vellum. "The second line reads I love you."

Catherine went perfectly still, except for her pulse, which jumped erratically. His feelings for her blazed from his eyes, without any attempt to hide them.

"My mind understands that my social status and past renders me not good enough for you. But my heart..."He shook his head. "My heart refuses to listen. My logic tells me I should wait, take more time to court you. But I almost lost you tonight and I simply cannot wait. Our friendship, our time together as lovers, everything we've shared, every touch, every word, has brought me more joy than I can describe. But being your lover is not enough."

He reached into his waistcoat pocket, and withdrew an item he held out to her. "I want more. I want it all. All of you. I want you to be my wife. Catherine, will you marry me?"

The bottom seemed to drop out of Catherine's stomach. She stared at the single, perfect, oval emerald set in a simple gold band resting in his callused palm. He must have purchased the gem while he was in London. Tears pushed behind her eyes. Dismay, confusion, unexpected longing all collided in her. Her emotions were a raw jumble, all vying for her attention until she simply couldn't differentiate one from the other. "You know how I feel about marriage."

"Yes. And given your experience, your reservations are understandable. But you also know how I feel about it. I told you in the carriage on our journey to Little Longstone that I wanted a wife and family. Did you think I'm the sort of man who would compromise you, then walk away?"

"Andrew, I am not a young virginal miss to be 'compromised.' I'm a grown, Modern Woman, indulging in a mutually pleasurable affair. When you said you wanted a wife, you described a paragon of perfection whom I doubt exists."

"No. I was looking right at her. You are all those things I described and so much more-a woman with flaws, who in spite of them, because of them, is the perfect woman for me. I'm asking you to reconsider your feelings on marriage. To instead consider your feelings for me." He studied her for several seconds, then said quietly, "I know you care. You never would have taken me into your bed, into your body, if you did not."

Heat stung Catherine's cheek. "I did not take you as a lover to pry a marriage proposal from you."

"I know. And there is no need to pry. I offer my proposal willingly. And with great hope that in spite of all I told you tonight, you will accept."

"When we entered into our liaison, we agreed it was only temporary."

"No, you insisted it was temporary. I never agreed. And even if I had, I hereby formally renege. I do not want temporary. I want forever. I want to be your husband. I want to be a father to Spencer-if he wishes me to be so. At the very least, I want to be his friend and champion." He drew a deep breath. "I've told you about my past. I've told you how I feel about you. My heart, my soul are yours. Tell me what you want to do with them."

Catherine locked her knees to steady their trembling. "You don't understand what you're asking of me, and clearly you don't know what marriage means to a woman. It means I cease to exist. I would lose everything because it would no longer belong to me, it would belong to my husband. My husband could banish me to the country, neglect our child, sell off my personal belongings-and all legally. I've already lived through that horror. I do not require more money, or family connections. Marriage has nothing to offer me."

"Clearly we use different dictionaries, because to me, marriage means caring for one another. Loving together. Sharing laughter and helping through pain. Always knowing that there is another person standing beside you. For you."

"I must admit, your definition sounds lovely, but experience has taught me marriage is not that way. Do you honestly believe your definition is realistic?"

"I suppose that depends on why a person marries. If one marries for money or social position, then I agree it could prove disastrous. But if the marriage is based on love and respect, because you cannot imagine not spending every day of your life with the person who owns your heart, then yes, I believe it can be all those wonderful things." He reached for her hand. After gently placing the ring on her palm, he folded her fingers closed and nestled her fist between his hands. "Catherine, if you decide you don't want to marry me, let it be because I'm not from your social cla.s.s. Because I'm a common American. Because I have a scarred past. Because you don't love me. Please don't refuse me because you think I'll take things away from you when all I want to do is give to you. Everything. Always. I want to take care of you."

"I believe I've demonstrated quite well over the past decade that I do not need a man to take care of me." A sick feeling of loss washed through her at the hurt that flared in his eyes. True, she did not want a husband, but she realized with sudden stinging clarity, neither did she want Andrew simply to disappear from her life. "Why don't we just continue on as we have?" she said, hating the note of desperation she heard in her voice.

"Having an affair?"

"Yes."

Her breath stilled while she waited for his answer. Finally, very quietly, he said, "No. I cannot do that to you. Or Spencer. Or myself. If we continue, eventually someone would discover the truth, and the gossip would only hurt you and Spencer. I've no desire to sneak around, grabbing stolen moments, and keeping my feelings hidden. I want it all, Catherine. All or... nothing."

The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. There was no mistaking the resolution in his voice and eyes, and anger shot through her. "You have no right to issue such an ultimatum."

"I disagree. I believe the facts that I'm painfully in love with you and have shared your bed gives me that right."

"The fact that we shared a bed changes nothing."

"You're wrong. It changes everything? "He squeezed her hand tighter. "Catherine, either you feel the same things I do, or you don't. Either you love me, or you don't. Either you want to spend your life with me, or you don't."

"And you expect me to give you an answer right now? All or nothing?"

"Yes."

Catherine stared at him, the pressure of the ring pressing into her palm. A myriad of conflicting emotions battered her from every direction, but she shoved the jumble aside and focused on the anger-toward him for forcing her to make a decision like this and toward herself for even hesitating. Her choice was clear. She didn't want a husband. So why was it so d.a.m.nably difficult to say the one word that would send him away?

Because that word would do just that-send him away.

She moistened her dry lips. "In that case, I'm afraid it's nothing."

Several long, silent seconds pa.s.sed, and she watched his expression go blank, as if he'd pulled a curtain over his feelings. A muscle jerked in his jaw, and his throat worked as she imagined him swallowing his disappointment. He slowly released her hand, and a small voice inside her cried out No!, but she kept her lips pressed firmly together to contain it. She slowly opened her hand and held out the ring to him. He stared at the gem for so long, she thought he would refuse to take it. And actually he did just that by finally holding out his hand, forcing her to place the ring into his palm. After she did, he quickly stepped away from her and quit the room, softly closing the door behind him without a backward glance.

Still staring at the closed door, Catherine sank onto the settee. The warmth from where his hand had held hers only seconds ago had disappeared, leaving a chill in its wake that shivered through her entire body. Her mind, her logic, told her she'd made the right choice. The eviscerating ache in her heart, however, indicated that she might have just made a terrible mistake.

Just before dawn Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows propped on his knees, hands cradling his aching head. But the dull throbbing there was nothing compared to the soul-ripping pain in his chest.

How was it possible for his heart to hurt so badly yet continue to beat? He wished he could blame the outcome of his proposal on its precipitous delivery, but he suspected that even if he'd taken months to court Catherine, in the end, she still would have refused him.

But at least then you would have had those months with her, his inner voice taunted. Now you have... nothing.

He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Clearly he'd made a mistake forcing her to choose all or nothing, but d.a.m.n it, he'd wanted her for so long, been waiting so long. Had been so hopeful that she'd come to care for him. Would realize they belonged together.

An image of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Carmichael dragging her toward the springs flashed in his mind and his hands clenched. What had triggered such deep hatred of the Guide that he'd been driven to kill the author? Yes, the Today's Modern Woman premises and explicit content were scandalous-but to the point of inciting murder?

He recalled meeting Carmichael after the shooting at Lord Ravensly's birthday party. Something odd, almost familiar, had struck him about Carmichael while he'd listened to him give his account of witnessing a man running into Hyde Park after the shot was fired. And he'd experienced that same sensation at both the duke's soiree and at the museum yesterday. Philip had said Carmichael had spent time in America...

Andrew closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall every detail of his encounters with Carmichael, first at the parties, then at the museum- An image flashed in Andrew's mind, of Carmichael stroking his chin, prisms of light bouncing off the square-cut diamond-and-onyx ring he wore. Recognition hit Andrew, and everything inside him froze. Carmichael had been wearing that ring at both parties as well. It wasn't the man who had inspired that flare of memory-it was the ring.

Andrew dragged his hands down his face, his heart pumping hard. If he hadn't relived the day Emily died, he would have missed it. He'd buried that hurt, that image so deeply... but there was no mistake. Carmichael's unusual diamond-and-onyx ring was identical to the one that Lewis Manning was wearing the day Andrew had shot him.

Carmichael isn't after Charles Brightmore. He's after me.

The truth struck him like a blow, and his mind reeled. Carmichael must have some connection to Lewis Manning. There was a resemblance, around the eyes, he realized as pieces rapidly clicked into place. Was Carmichael Lewis's father? Uncle? Father, most likely, Andrew decided. Which would certainly give him a motive to hate Andrew.

When Catherine was shot, Andrew had been standing next to her. The bullet had been meant for him. And tonight, Carmichael had planned to kill him-a plan set awry by Catherine's presence. She'd unknowingly saved his life and nearly drowned in the process.

He blew out a long breath and raked unsteady hands through his hair. Jesus. All he'd ever wanted to do was protect her, and he was the danger. Which meant he had to get away from her. Immediately.

After eleven years, it appeared his past had finally caught up with him. And had twice nearly killed Catherine. Well, Carmichael wouldn't get another chance.

Andrew walked swiftly to the wardrobe, pulled his leather satchel from the bottom, and quickly began shoving his belongings inside.

Don't worry, Carmichael. You'll find me. I'm going to make it very easy for you.

Catherine sat in her wing chair, staring at the grate of the fire that had burned out hours ago, the dead, gray ash a perfect reflection of her mood.

With a sound of disgust, she rose and paced. What on earth was wrong with her? She'd made the right decision, the only decision she could have made under the circ.u.mstances. All or nothing? How could she possibly have agreed to give him "all"? She couldn't have, and it was that simple. Yet in spite of that logic, she somehow still felt as if she'd been sliced in half.

Dear G.o.d, the things he'd told her. His past should have shocked her, but after hours of thought, the ordeal he'd been through only served to reinforce her sympathy and admiration for him. Yes, he'd killed a man, but a man who only seconds before had tried to kill him. A man who had killed his wife-a young woman he'd risked a great deal to help. Andrew had lost everything, and all in the name of love.

Yet he clearly had not turned his back on love, on marriage, as she had. He was kind, n.o.ble, generous, thoughtful, and...

Oh, my, the way he'd looked at her, his heart in his eyes, all raw desire and naked emotion. She halted, and her own eyes slid closed, picturing him as clearly as if he stood before her. No one had ever looked at her like that before. And G.o.d help her, as much as she hadn't wanted it, as much as she'd tried to deny it, she wanted Andrew to look at her like that again. She simply wasn't ready to give him up as a lover.

She opened her eyes and resumed pacing, her mind racing. Surely if she put some effort into it she could convince him that his proposal was precipitous and persuade him to continue their liaison. Today's Modern Woman would not allow him simply to have the last word and walk away. No, Today's Modern Woman would use all the ammunition in her feminine a.r.s.enal to tempt, allure, entice, and seduce him around to her way of thinking.

The instant the realization hit her, it was as if the sun broke through a bank of dark clouds. Why had it taken her all night to realize something that now seemed so obvious? She roundly cursed her stubborn streak, but at least she'd come to her senses.

The sooner she began her persuasive campaign, the better. And what better way to start than issuing him an invitation to return to Little Longstone next week? Even better if she were to issue the invitation right now. In the warm intimacy of his bedchamber. While she was dressed in her nightrail and robe.

The pale light of dawn was just breaking through the windows as she left her bedchamber and hurried quietly down the corridor. When she reached his door, she tapped lightly. "Andrew?" she said softly.

Silence greeted her, and she tapped again, but still heard nothing from within. Concerned, she turned the handle and opened the door enough to peer inside. Her heart stuttered, then she slowly pushed the door wide.

The room was empty, his bed undisturbed. She scanned the room, noting with stunned dread that none of his personal items remained. As if in a trance, she crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the oak doors. Empty.

A sharp, acute ache stole her bream. With hot moisture pushing at the backs of her eyes, she turned toward the bed, and her heart leapt at the small bundle set on the pillow. She dashed across the carpet and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the note on top of the parcel. Breaking the seal, she scanned the words.

My Dearest Catherine: I believe Carmichael is Lewis Manning's father, and that it is not you, but me whom he seeks. In my attempt to protect you from danger, I brought it right to you. Keep the doors and windows locked, and you, Spencer, and the staff remain in the house. I'll see to it that Carmichael never hurts anyone again.

I leave as a parting gift my most prized possession. Philip was going to leave these behind when we departed Egypt, so I took them. From that very first time I heard the words you 'd written to Philip, I felt as if I'd been turned inside out. I fell deeply, hopelessly in love with you the moment I saw your beautiful image in his miniature. You've lived in my heart since that day. I lived off your every word for years, and I thank you for the courage and hope they brought me. Please keep the ring as a token of my grat.i.tude and affection.

Andrew With shaking fingers, she unwrapped the white linen, realizing with a heavy heart it was the handkerchief she'd given him. Unfolding the last piece of material she looked down. The emerald ring rested on top of a thick bundle of faded letters tied with a worn piece of leather. She instantly recognized her own handwriting.

She felt the blood drain from her face. These were the dozens of letters she'd written to Philip while he was abroad. Andrew's most prized possession.

The truth hit her like a backhanded slap, and she felt an overwhelming need to sit down. His love for her was not of a recent nature as she'd a.s.sumed. He'd been in love with her for... six years. He'd rescued these letters before leaving Egypt, keeping them with him all this time. And now had given them to her. Wrapped in the handkerchief she'd made him, leaving everything of her behind. Because she'd sent him away.

Something wet plopped onto her hand. Dazed, she stared at the tear, as another, then another, fell onto her skin. All those years she'd ached with loneliness, endured her husband's cruel neglect and rejection of her and Spencer, Andrew had been wanting her. Needing her. Loving her.

The realization, the depth of his feelings, his devotion, humbled her, enervated her, and she could almost feel the wall she'd built around herself and her heart crumbling, leaving her exposed and her feelings utterly bare. Undeniable. She could hide from them no longer. She did not simply desire Andrew. She loved him.

A sob escaped her, and she pressed her trembling lips together. With an impatient exclamation, she dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. Later. She could cry later, although she dearly hoped she would not need to. Right now she needed to figure out where Andrew had gone, think of a way to help him find Carmichael. Then tell him what a fool she'd been. And pray he'd forgive her for the hurt her fears and confusion had caused both of them.

Clutching the letters and ring to her chest, she paced to the window and stared out at the soft, golden light signaling dawn. Her gaze drifted toward the stables in the distance, and she blinked at the sight of Andrew's familiar, broad-shouldered figure approaching the wide double doors. Her heart jumped in relief. He was still here. If she hurried, she could reach the stables before he left. But with Carmichael possibly about, she needed some protection.

She dashed to her bedchamber, then dropped to her knees before her wardrobe and pulled out a worn hatbox. After opening the lid, she removed the small, pearl-handled pistol hidden beneath a pile of old gloves. She then set Andrew's letters and the ring on top and replaced the hatbox. Cursing the further delay, she hurriedly dressed, then, slipping the pistol into the pocket of her gown, left the room.

Chapter 20.

Today's Modern Woman should always practice prudence and caution where matters of the heart are concerned. Sometimes, however, fate will present her with the one man who slips under her guard and turns her heart to porridge. If the gentleman should happen to feel the same way about her, she needs to recognize that fir the miracle it is and not hesitate to carpe hominis-seize the man!

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore Andrew paused in the doorway of the stables to allow his vision to adjust to the dimness of the interior, his pistol balanced in his palm. He slowly scanned the vast interior, eyes and ears straining for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing appeared amiss, and a quick search ascertained that Carmichael wasn't hiding in one of the stalls or the loft. Fritzborne wasn't about, which concerned Andrew. Surely he'd returned from Mrs. Ralston's cottage by now.

He allowed himself another quick peek over the door of the third stall where Shadow slept, curled up in the corner on a blanket-covered bed of hay. He'd have to make arrangements for someone to retrieve the puppy for him. And return Aphrodite. G.o.d knew he wouldn't have the strength to come back to Little Longstone again himself.

Forcing his feet to move, he walked into the tack room. After setting down his pistol on a worn bench, he was preparing to reach for Aphrodite's saddle when he heard Spencer's voice ask, "You're leaving, Mr. Stanton?"

Andrew turned swiftly. Spencer stood framed in the doorway, his eyes reflecting confusion and hurt.

Alarm rushed through Andrew. With Carmichael looking for him, the last place Andrew wanted Spencer was here.

Andrew approached him, his stomach tight with concern. "What are you doing here, Spencer?"

"I wanted to play with Shadow. As I left the house, I saw you entering the stables. You're leaving?" he asked again.

"I'm afraid so."

A stricken look came over Spencer's face. "Without saying good-bye?"

Guilt kicked Andrew squarely in the gut. "Only for now. And only because time is very short. I planned to write you." He quickly told him what was going on, concluding with, "As soon I've saddled Aphrodite, I'll take you back to the house. You must remain inside until Carmichael is caught. Protect your mother. Do you understand?"

Spencer nodded. "When will you come back?"

Andrew pulled in a deep breath. There was no time to say all the things he wanted to, but he couldn't do

less than give Spencer the truth.

"Do you recall all those bothersome suitors who wish to court your mother?"