Grace had never had any modest illusions about her looks, nor any conceit. She was beautiful, and she accepted it, just as she accepted other irrefutable facts of life. Her beauty was what had first caused the great Cheval to fall in love with her, beauty that had impelled Etienne's friends and pupils to constantly ask if they could paint her. There must be artists in England who would be willing to do the same. She would have to pose nude, of course, since she required more than the usual payment of a free meal and indecent suggestions. To pay Mrs. Abbott, she needed cold, hard sterling.

She had never posed without her clothes for anyone but Etienne, and the idea of doing so made her uneasy, especially since she would have to deal with forceful male expectations that had nothing to do with art, but it was a far better choice than prost.i.tution.

Her stomach rumbled with hunger. A few bits of tongue and ham from the ball last night and an orange from her basket this morning hadn't been enough to sustain her through an entire working day. She pressed her free hand to her midsection. As she traced the hard, unmistakable lines of her ribs beneath her wool cloak and gown, Grace realized that not many artists would want to paint nudes of her now. They liked their models with lush, generous curves, and she was so thin.

Grace resumed walking. Tomorrow, she would write to James, but it would take longer than two days for her to receive the money, even if he sent it. In the meantime, she would try to earn money posing. If that did not work, she would have to p.a.w.n her violin. If James refused to send her money, prost.i.tution would be the only choice she had left.

To distract her mind from such grim circ.u.mstances, Grace thought instead of her cottage in the country. As she walked, she envisioned its thatched roof, fat dormers, and blue shutters. On dark, dreary days like this, when she was afraid to think of the harsh realities in her life now, it helped to believe finding such a place was possible. It had been so long since she'd had a home.

She and Etienne had traveled all over the Continent, back and forth to England, going anywhere his whims to paint had taken them. At first, their life together had seemed like such a grand, romantic adventure, and the first two years had been the happiest of her life. She could not pin down just when everything had started to go wrong, but sometime in their third year together, the dark side of her husband's temperament had begun to show itself. Etienne had become h.e.l.l to live with, but G.o.d, how she had loved him. Far longer than she should have.

He was dead two years now, and it was very hard for Grace to remember what had prompted a respectable Cornish girl of seventeen to disgrace her family and run off with a Frenchman she'd known only a week. Looking back on it years after the love had died, the fact that Cheval had been captivated by the color of her eyes didn't seem quite so romantic any more.

It was dark by the time Grace turned into Crucifix Lane. As she walked toward her lodging house halfway down the block, she noticed the luxurious town coach nearby, but she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to wonder what such a vehicle was doing in her neighborhood. She paused before the front door of her lodgings, reluctant to go in and face the inevitable confrontation with her landlady, but she was already soaking, it was cold, and she couldn't afford to catch a chill. Grace gave a resigned sigh and pulled her door key out of her pocket.

A hand touched her shoulder. Startled, she jumped with a cry of alarm as the key slipped from her fingers. It hit the cobblestones with a clink as she turned around to find herself face-to-face with Dylan Moore.

"You!" she cried, not knowing if it was panic at his sudden appearance that surged through her, or relief that he wasn't some thug bent on stealing her precious oranges. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you, of course. What else would I be doing in Bermondsey?"

Grace stared at him as the rain poured over them both, as the wind whipped at the edges of his cloak and hers, and she remembered his words that they would meet again. She tightened her grip on the handle of her basket, dismayed by how quickly his prediction had come true. "How did you find me?"

"Your friend Teddy is a member of the Musician's Livery." Moore bent to retrieve her key from where it had landed beside her feet. Key in hand, he straightened again. "The fellow did not wish to tell me anything about you, but he changed his mind when he saw the shine on a sovereign. His heroic attempts to protect you wilted in an instant, and he gave me the direction of your lodgings."

Grace was not surprised. After all, Teddy was as poor as she. "You paid him a quid to find me? Whatever for?"

Instead of answering, he held out the latch key to her and said, "Might we continue this discussion indoors, where it is warm and dry?"

She did not move, and he went on, "I have a business proposal to discuss with you."

A business proposal from a man. She knew what that meant.

He heard her sound of derision. "I only want you to listen to what I have to say,"

he told her.

"Listening?" she countered. "Is that what the fashionable people are calling it these days?"

A smile curved his mouth at that question. "I simply want to talk with you. I will pay you for your time." He took in her worn wool cloak and orange basket and added, "You seem to be in need of the funds."

"You are going to pay me just for listening?" she repeated with skepticism, remembering the night before. Talking with her was not the only thing he wanted to do.

"Just for listening. I give you my word." He shoved a wet strand of hair out of his face and glanced at the shabbiness around him. "A fiver would go a long way in this neighborhood."

That was an unarguable point, and it seemed like an answer to her prayers. Five pounds would pay all that she owed her landlady and give her enough extra for some decent food. Besides, the cold wind was slicing through her wet clothes, and her teeth were beginning to chatter. She capitulated. "Very well," she agreed and pushed the key into the lock.

Moore followed her into the foyer of the lodging house and closed the door behind them as she started toward the stairs. Over her shoulder, she whispered, "I shall give you fifteen minutes."

He laughed out loud, and she turned around, pressing her hand to his mouth in a frantic effort to quiet him. "Hush," she said with an apprehensive glance down the corridor that led to Mrs. Abbott's drawing room.

"I'm not sure fifteen minutes is worth five pounds," he murmured against her palm, his laughter still evident in the black eyes that looked into hers over the hand against his mouth.

His voice made the idea of listening to his offer sound illicit in itself, and his lips were warm against her skin. She jerked her hand back, then turned it palm-up with a pointed look at him.

He pulled a flat money purse of black leather from a pocket inside his cloak, but before he could open it, they were interrupted.

"Evening, missus."

Grace grimaced at the vinegar-voiced greeting and turned around as the short, steel-haired landlady emerged from the corridor.

Mrs. Abbott glanced at Dylan, who returned her scrutiny with careless amus.e.m.e.nt. She took a long, shrewd look at the money purse in his hand, then she ran her gaze up and down his tall form, studying his expensive, well-cut clothes and finely tooled boots, and she did not seem to mind that he was dripping water all over her floor.

After a moment, she returned her attention to Grace, and when she spoke, her voice was still briskly businesslike, but there was a hint of conciliation in it as well. "You know the rules, ma'am. No gentlemen in the rooms. And with the money you still owe me, plus this week's lodgings yet to pay, I can't be making an exception for you, can I, now?"

Even as she asked the question, Mrs. Abbott slid Dylan a sly glance. Grace opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so, Moore was pulling out a five-pound note.

"I fully comprehend your dilemma, my good woman," he said, holding out the money to her. "This will overcome all your objections, I imagine."

Grace watched in dismay as Mrs. Abbott s.n.a.t.c.hed the fiver Moore had promised her from his hand before she could say a word of protest.

"Indeed it does, sir," the landlady a.s.sured him, her manner becoming solicitous.

"No, wait!" Grace cried, her heart sinking. "It is not at all what you think. This man is not-"

"Good," Dylan cut her off as he spoke to the landlady and tucked his money purse back inside his cloak. "This lady's debt to you is now discharged, and her rent paid through the week. You may keep the rest for yourself, provided I am allowed to come and go from here as I please."

Grace made a sound of outrage. She was ignored as Dylan and Mrs. Abbott exchanged glances. "We understand each other, do we not?" he asked the landlady.

"Yes, indeed. Would you be needing anything in the morning, sir? Hot water, of course, and tea. Would you care for breakfast? I can bring up hot, b.u.t.tered toast. Bacon and kidneys, too, if you like."

Dylan glanced at Grace, casting a look over her form. He clearly found her in need of feeding, for he turned back to Mrs. Abbott. "Nothing for me, but you may bring a full breakfast for her tomorrow, if you would. Whatever she wants." He smiled at the woman. "I like to make her happy."

Mrs. Abbott smiled back. "I understand, sir."

"Excellent," Dylan said. "Now leave us."

The smirk on the landlady's face remained as she curtsied, and Grace burned with humiliation. "Now look what you have done!" she cried the moment the landlady was out of sight, wanting to smash an orange over his head.

"I paid her because it was expedient. Nothing more. Why do you care what she thinks?"

"Because now she'll be thinking I'm available for any man she wants to send to my room," Grace shot back, nauseated by the thought. "As long as she gets a share of it."

"No, she won't. Not now."

"Why? Because you paid her three pounds more than I owed her so that you may come and go as you please? You had no right to do that, and I still expect to be paid that other three pounds."

He made a sound of impatience. "Which room is yours? I will not stay down here and have your salacious landlady listening to our conversation."

"If she is salacious, that is your fault. Thanks to you, she thinks I am a prost.i.tute!"

"No, she thinks you are a kept woman."

Grace gave a humorless laugh. "And there is a difference?"

"Most certainly. Kept women are more expensive. They are also exclusive. Since you are being kept by me, you are safe from any other gentlemen callers your landlady might send your way, for the time being at least. Give me your key."

He was right, of course. Grace handed over her key. "Top floor. And I am not being kept by you. Nor shall I be."

Moore did not reply. He ascended the stairs with her in tow until they reached her tiny room at the top. He unlocked the door, and both of them stepped inside her room. He closed the door behind them and turned the bolt, then handed the key back to her. "There, now we may have some privacy."

Since that was just what made her wary, she did not take her gaze from him as she set her basket on the wooden seat of the room's only chair, a ladder-back, ramshackle piece with peeling paint beside the door. She hung her cloak from a hook on the wall and put her key in the pocket of her skirt.

He removed his own wet cloak and tossed it over her orange basket. He removed his gloves as he took a look at his surroundings, at the beamed attic ceiling above his head and the spare, dilapidated furnishings, including the narrow bed under the window, with its rusting iron frame and thin straw mattress.

He dropped the gloves on top of his cloak, then removed his coat. He tugged at his cravat, untying it, and reached for the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt.

"You presume I have accepted your illicit proposal, even before you make it!" Grace cried. "I never had any intention of accepting it. Get out."

"I presume nothing," he answered, ignoring her order to leave. "Grace, you have no idea how irritating a high collar and cravat can be when they are soaking wet. Since I paid for this time, I intend to be comfortable during it. That is all." He unfastened the other two b.u.t.tons of his shirt, smoothed his waistcoat, and straightened his cuffs. "Perhaps we should sit down?"

"When my bed is the only seat in the room? I think not."

He shrugged and stepped around her. "Stand if you like, but I have had no sleep for two days, and I intend to sit down."

Tense and wary, she watched as he suited the action to the word, and her growing apprehension must have shown in her face, for something almost gentle came into his handsome, ravaged countenance. "Grace, I gave you my word."

She flattened back against the door. "Get to the point."

He settled back on the bed, resting his weight on his arms, and he said the last thing in the world she would have expected. "What do you know about being a governess?"

Chapter Four.

Grace stared at the disreputable man sprawled back on her bed. "A governess?"

"Yes, to my daughter." He gave her a wry look. "You seem surprised. Expecting an offer of a different sort, were you?"

"If I did, you could hardly blame me for it. Do you really have a daughter?"

"Yes. Isabel is eight years old."

"But-" She broke off and gave a half-laugh. It was so ludicrous, especially given what offer she had been expecting. "You know nothing about me, yet you would entrust me with your child?"

"You saved my life, so the least I can do is rescue you from dest.i.tution. The musicians I interviewed who knew you all gave the highest opinion of your character."

"But how do you know I am qualified to be a governess?"

"I know you play the violin, so you probably had music tutors. You read sheet music. You told me that you saw me conduct at a concert in Salzburg. Though you have worked as a charwoman and now sell oranges on the street, I doubt your circ.u.mstances have always been as dire as they are now. I can discern from the way you move, the way you walk, and the way you talk that you are a woman of the gentry. From Cornwall. I can hear it in your accent. You had a governess yourself as a girl, I should think."

Grace listened to these conclusions about herself, all of which were true. It was a bit disconcerting to know that a man, especially this man, should be able to draw such an accurate a.s.sessment of her. "I did not know I was so easy to read."

"Not that easy. I am a man who pays attention."

"To women. Yes, I am aware of that." She could not help being curious about his situation with his daughter, and she asked, "Does it not usually fall to a child's mother to hire a governess?"

His expression did not change. "Isabel's mother is dead."

"Surely you could find a qualified governess amongst your acquaintance, or hire one from an agency. Why offer the post to me?"

"Because I want to."

"I daresay that is always a good enough reason for you."

That made him smile. It was a smile of wicked humor and thoroughly dishonorable intentions.

Grace had seen the world; she'd been married to a pa.s.sionate, worldly man. She knew everything there was to know about physical love between a man and a woman, but for some inexplicable reason, Dylan Moore's smile made her blush. Heavens, she thought with dismay, I haven't blushed since I was a green girl."Governess, my eye," she muttered.

He moved, stretching out along the length of her bed, resting his weight on his elbow and his cheek in his hand. With that disheveled hair all around his shoulders and the evening shadow of a beard on his face, with those enigmatic dark eyes and their opulent black lashes, with that smile, he looked every bit the hedonistic devil described in the scandal sheets. And he knew it. The man had no shame.

"Grace." He said her name soft and low, as if testing the sound of it on his tongue. It was as lush as a caress. She felt her blush deepening, her tenseness easing into something else. As unexpectedly as last night, heat stirred inside her.

"I am a virtuous woman," she blurted out without thinking.

He didn't blink and eye. "I never said you weren't."

Grace folded her arms and took a deep, steadying breath, wanting to bite her tongue off for saying what should never have to be said. "If I agree to be your daughter's governess, what wages are you offering?"

That smile vanished, much to her relief. He sat straight on the bed. "Before we discuss it, I must tell you there is a catch. In addition to your duties with Isabel, there is something else I demand in return for what I will pay you."

Her reply was a cynical twist of her lips.

"Mm--hmmm"

"This is only employment at will from my point of view. Meaning I can sack you if I wish, but you will not be free to resign."

Her eyes narrowed. "That is not employment. It is slavery."

She watched as he glanced around her little attic room. Observant devil that he was, Grace knew that nothing about its shabbiness would escape his notice. He was seeing the two worn dresses hanging from hooks on the wall-the only two dresses she owned other than the ugly green plaid on her back. He was noticing the small amount of coal left in the bin beside the fireplace. He was feeling the cheapness of the mattress and threadbare blanket beneath his body, remembering her inability to pay her rent.

He was pointing out the obvious without saying a word, but no matter what he was offering, she would not agree to be dependent upon his whim for her survival. "I will not consent to anything of the sort without a time limitation."

"Very well." He looked at her for a moment, then he said, "One year. At that time, I shall pay you the full wages I owe you, whatever we agree them to be. You get nothing until then, for I will not have you get a month or two of sterling in your pocket and leave me."