Her heart was beating much too fast and when she spoke, her voice was lacking in volume. "I didn't use a Greek sponge that night at Oakham."

"You lied to me?" His cool tone matched his gaze.

"Everything was too heated. I wasn't rational at the time.... I'm sorry."

He inhaled slowly, his eyes drilling into her. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded, unable to respond to the terrible accusation in his eyes. And then she said very, very softly, "I want you to be happy about this."

"No," he growled. Drawing in a steadying breath, he shifted in his chair, restlessly raking his fingers through his glossy black hair. A baby! Dread inundated his senses. Agitated, he abruptly stood, paced two steps, stopped, swung around. "Jesus, Chelsea," he incredulously said, "Jesus!" Gazing down at her, his mind in foment, he could think only of her peril. "I would have found some other way to please you that night. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I won't ride this time," she promised in a rush, "or do any of the training work with the horses. If I hadn't ridden in those races so late, maybe I wouldn't have had problems when Sally was born."

"You don't know that. Maybe the riding had nothing to do with it," he said, frowning. "Do you think I want to lose you?" Shaken, touched to the core, he softly asked, "Are you sure? Could you be mistaken?"

"I'm sure." She spoke in very low, distressed tones. "But Sally's five now, Sinjin. I'd like another child."

He turned and walked away, standing motionless before the window, his tall form tense, unyielding as he looked down on the rain-swept square. The bare branches of the trees were dark and wet outlined against the gray sky, their spring buds still tightly curled against the cold. The melancholy day suited the melancholy news. "It shouldn't have been your decision alone," he said, bracing his hands against the cool glass, wondering how he'd live if he lost her.

"I didn't deliberately plan it. We wouldn't have stayed if the weather had been better. I'm sorry, I was thoughtless.... I'm sorry," she whispered. Why couldn't he be pleased the way she was?

"A September birthing," he murmured to the square outside. He remembered the night at the inn; it had snowed. "Do you want the child?" He spoke too low to be heard, and turning around, he repeated his question, his tone raised just enough to reach her.

"Don't ask me that with such a cold look in your eyes." That he could take all the pleasure from her joy sent her voice and temper flaring. "I don't care what you think," she heatedly said. "I'm happy about the baby."

"I want midwives hired. I want them here tomorrow," he curtly said as if she hadn't spoken. "And you're not allowed to ride."

"Don't you dare give me orders." Rising from her chair, she glared at him, resentment burning in her eyes. "When you're ready to deal with this rationally, come and talk to me." And she turned to walk from the room.

Furious, he plunged after her, caught her by the arm, and spun her around before she'd moved half a dozen feet from the desk, his eyes bright with anger. "How the hell do I deal with this rationally!" he harshly exhorted. "You might be dead in September! Tell me how I set that aside and smile and tell you I'm happy," he said, flint hard, sullen.

"You're hurting me," she bristled, twin spots of color rising to her cheeks.

His hand dropped away, a muscle twitched across his cheekbones. "Don't walk out."

And they stood inches apart, the tension between them vibrating in the hushed room.

"Nothing frightens me but this," he said quietly. He ached with powerlessness-this man of wealth and power. "I want to at least minimize the risks."

"And I want you to be happy for us," Chelsea whispered, the child inside her their child.

He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, at an earlier Duke of Seth allegorically portrayed in his chariot triumphant, riding to heaven. An unhappy vision in his current state of mind. His gaze swiftly jerked away, returning to his wife, whom he loved more than life itself. "I can't be happy right now," he murmured, wishing he could take back that night at Oakham.

"Could you try?" she gently asked, touching his strong hand. Their love was rare in the world of privilege where marriages were arranged for reasons of fortune and political power.

His fingers abruptly closed over hers, his grip so tight, she involuntarily squeaked in dismay but he loosened his hold only marginally. "If I try to deal with this, will you listen to the midwives?"

"How many midwives?" she asked, smiling faintly.

"As many as I can find." His smile was still sad.

"I'll try," she answered as he had.

"If something should happen to you-"

"Hush, you'll frighten the baby."

He found himself visualizing the child for the first time when she spoke of it with such certainty, but then she'd had weeks already to get used to the idea. "Sally will be jealous."

"She likes you best. You'll have to spend more time with her."

"Nell will be appalled, of course. How can you do this to me? she'll say." His mouth quirked faintly at the thought. "And Jack-"

"Will ignore it all." Each time he spoke of the baby she felt an overwhelming love for him. "Jack's indifference is at least preferable to resentment," she said, "and we could hire a new Italian dance master for Nell. Every young girl forgets all else with a pretty young man about."

"Just so long as you don't look at him."

"I'm sure a matron with four children would be outside his notice."

"You're still not allowed to look," he brusquely said. At thirty-one his wife was one of the most beautiful woman in London. And he'd bedded enough married ladies in the past to know that the designation matron didn't restrict amorous adventures.

"Yes, dear," she sweetly murmured. "Do you think then this fifth child might put to rest some of those pursuing females constantly trying to gain your attention?"

"What females?" His gaze was studiously blank.

"The ones who still send you billets-doux."

"Pims has standing orders to toss them."

He knew. How could he not? At forty-one, he still drew every eye with his grace and beauty. "I'm reassured."

"As well you should be with a faithful husband."

"A rarity, I know. Thank you."

"You must be careful now and take no chances." His fingers tightened against the fear flooding his mind. "Promise me."

"I promise."

"No riding."

"No riding."

"And carriage rides only on well-maintained roads."

"Yes, dear."

"I'll have the stud moved down to Enfield."

"Really, that's not necessary."

"Humor me," he firmly said. "And you shouldn't be walking. I'll carry you."

She laughed at his worried expression. "Please, darling, I'm feeling quite well, but after the baby's born, you may carry her or him all you wish."

"I'd rather carry you."

"I know," she whispered, stroking his hand, which held her close. "Would you like to carry me to our bedroom now? I have this craving for kisses."

"Just kisses," he warned, her new fragility unnerving.

"Of course, just kisses," she lied. "I feel so tired suddenly ... and you're so strong," she purred, "and we haven't made love since last night."

"I shouldn't have."

"But you did and see-I'm fine."

She kissed him as he carried her down the corridor and the maids giggled and blushed when they passed but the Duke of Seth didn't hear them, immune to the sight of servants in a house staffed by eighty. And Chelsea didn't care, her warming senses already heated with desire.

Lord Dufferin's irate letter lay unopened on the desk.

But then the Duke and Duchess of Seth already knew their eldest son was reckless and hot-tempered.

15.

As the Siren leisurely sailed to Naples that month, Bonaparte was at Malmaison and the Tuileries, with Duroc, Lauriston, and Bourrienne, preparing for his march on Italy. The Reserve Army was being built up at Dijon with units drawn from all over France. Chambarlhac de Laubespin, forty-six years old and a former officer of the king, set out from Paris at the head of the First Division. Watrin's troops came from Nantes, joined by Loison's men from Rennes and the Chabran division. From the West Indies came Boudet, a native of Bordeaux, to take over the command of battalions formed from both experienced troops and raw recruits at the depot. Artillery and stores were being assembled at Lyons.

General Dupont was made chief of staff to Berthier, and Macdonald, senior lieutenant-general. Generals Victor, Duhesme, and Lannes were appointed lieutenant-generals. The First Consul's aide-de-camp, Marmont, was in charge of the artillery and Marescot, the inspector-general of Napoleon's army, commanded the engineers.

Murat's arrival at the Dijon headquarters was an occasion for universal rejoicing. He was a courageous and brilliant young man, happily married to Caroline, the First Consul's sister. To assist him, he had General d'Harville and 2,300 horsemen commanded by Champeaux and Kellermann, the son of the victor of Valmy.

To Dijon came a crowd of actors and musicians, the circus rider Franconi and his troupe, and Garnerin the aeronaut with his balloon. The troops quartered in the region had a very good time and there were dances in the chateaus, all the young officers full of gaiety and high spirits. Within a few short weeks Napoleon's high-stakes gamble would be in place and 60,000 troops would be poised to invade Italy.

And when all was in readiness, Napoleon would leave Paris to command the Reserve Army in person.

16.

Palermo was cool and overcast when the Siren arrived the first week in March. Accommodations were difficult to find with the royal court displaced from Naples by the French.

"There's no need to stay long," Beau had promised Serena when she'd expressed discomfort with any proximity to court life. "I'll give Damien's dispatches to the British envoy, Sir Hamilton, and even if he insists on offering his hospitality, I'll politely refuse. We should be able to sail again within a day."

"Good," she'd replied, although her feelings were torn between wanting to leave and sadness at the diminishing time left them. Once they sailed from Palermo, Florence's port at Leghorn was only two days away.

And then the man she loved would leave her.

But Beau hadn't reckoned with Lady Hamilton's interest in beautiful young men and before he'd been able to extricate himself from the British minister's home, he'd promised to bring his sailing companion and their luggage to the Hamiltons' palazzo.

"You simply can't miss our celebration dinner for Admiral Nelson, Lord Rochefort," Lady Hamilton had cried, her propensity for drama marked in her words. "He's the savior of England!"

He was, too, as anyone with the slightest interest in the war could attest. Had Nelson not defeated the French at Aboukir in the summer of '98, Napoleon would have continued unchecked on his march of conquest.

England had appeared almost on the verge of revolution that summer, so widespread had been discontent, and Boney's sound defeat and humiliation at Aboukir had been a glorious achievement. At Weymouth, where the king first received the news, he'd read Admiral Nelson's letter aloud four times to different noblemen, his excitement and relief plain. After five unsuccessful years of war with France, Britain had desperately needed that victory.

"I can't stay with the Hamiltons," Serena protested when Beau returned with their invitation.

"There's no protocol to speak of here, darling. Consider, Emma Hamilton, a blacksmith's daughter, is confidante to the queen. Quarterings on your family crest aren't a requirement at the court of the Sicilies. And if you happen to hunt, you're guaranteed the king's favor-that's almost all he does."

"However lax convention is, my position as your lover will hardly make me presentable."

He hadn't thought her that naive. "Believe me, no one will comment," he simply said. Society in Sicily was more licentious than most, although there wasn't a court in England or on the continent that didn't have mistresses prominent in society.

"Nevertheless, I'll be uncomfortable."

"You weren't at the embassy in Lisbon. A 'cousin' is no different here."

"I don't have anything to wear," she said with that female finality meant to cut short further argument.

"You have your ballgown from Lisbon, or if that doesn't suit, we'll find you something," he blandly declared, knowing her entire wardrobe from Mrs. Moore was still secreted on board the Siren. There had been little need for fashionable clothes or clothes at all on their voyage from Lisbon.

She shook her head. "You go to the Hamiltons'. I'll stay here."

"You can't. The men have shore leave and Remy's gone off to Naples already. It's not safe for you to be left alone on the waterfront."

"Have you thought of everything?"

His smile was beautiful. "I've a carriage waiting outside."

Emma Hamilton had been one of the great beauties of her time, painted by the celebrated artists Romney and Lawrence on numerous occasions, her portraits displayed to admiring crowds at the Royal Society exhibits. And while she'd lost that first bloom of youth for which she'd been rightly esteemed and at thirty-eight was passing into matronly plumpness, she still had the most beautiful eyes and expressive face on seven continents.

Her manners and birth were too rustic for those in English society who viewed blue blood as the only essential to a person's worth, while her marriage to the elderly Sir Hamilton after years as his mistress was treated by many with scorn. But Serena found herself liking their effusive hostess from the first.

"Come in, come in, you darling young people," Emma exclaimed on their arrival, running out to meet their carriage in the courtyard. And on being introduced to Serena, she turned to Beau and said with a sweet smile, "She's quite as lovely as your mother, Lord Rochefort. And I remember when all of London was abuzz with talk of the Scottish lass who'd captured your father's heart."