Had the other part of her feared what she might see in him now?

Frances, as Sunny privately addressed Freddy's mother, had oft raised the question: What could one expect in a man like James?

After all, hadn't James been a proper little savage in his early boyhood days, a sore trial to Frances and Grandmother Blayne? Indeed he had! Especially with his father having died in service in the Navy and his mother lost to scandal and shame.

True, as an adolescent and young man, he had worked diligently, tirelessly to build his own reputation and career. But now as a retired naval officer, and one who had recently inherited a fortune and baronetcy, all the days of high adventure and glory would be behind him. Gone also would be the need to push for excellence. In his abject self-pity, he would naturally feel entitled to comfort himself with pleasure.

What else could such a man have to occupy himself except late-night card games, drinking and eating to excess, and endless wenching? One could only expect the signs of dissipation, followed by the acquisition of some dread disease.

So passionately and colorfully expressed had Frances' predictions been, Sunny had half expected James' blue eyes to blaze less intensely. For his hair to be greatly thinned and the remaining strands to be threaded with silver. For his face to have started to become jowly and his mid-section to have gone paunchy.

Perhaps all those changes would have made him easier to face.

But his features looked just as bold and gorgeously male in the present moment as in the memories of him that had been emblazoned on her mind.

Maybe even more so.

His hair was still as black as ebony, his face so deeply tanned that it seemed the years of seafaring would never fade from the flesh. His nose so straight and fine, his cheekbones so prominent and fierce. And that sensual yet firm-looking mouth...Didn't it appear a shade or two harsher, though? More stern, with new, faint lines cut around it? It was as though self-discipline were etched into every line of his face.

And the way he carried himself! His back so straight, each step so purposeful, his jaw held so firmly that he seemed ready to stride over to her and issue some curt order. His clothing had been all darkest blue, pale gray silk and snow-white linen, frighteningly well-pressed, his cravat expertly tied, stiff with starch so that it appeared carved from marble.

Not a speck of lint.

People who could keep themselves so perfectly put together intimidated Sunny. She was not perfect. Not even adequate. Mama and Aunt Frances and even Freddy had despaired of her inability to be neat, collected and stately at some of the most important times. But there was more to their despair than that, wasn't there? Failings more serious than wrinkled frocks, wine stains, missing gloves and reticules or falling coiffures.

It wasn't so much that she was intentionally careless, but rather that she was highly distracted. Forgetful. Too often consumed by needling thoughts.

Was that really a valid excuse? No, it wasn't.

Goodness, what would a man like James had matured into, make of a woman like herself?

She closed her eyes, seeing him again as a young man in the Landbrae garden. So tall, so muscular and fit. He radiated strength and determination. Just as he always had.

Yet today, it had been his sky-blue gaze, so intense and cutting, that had struck her.

Eyes framed by brows so inky black that their light color appeared opalescent, silvery, like they had been frosted by moonlight.

Eyes that had never changed. A stern stare that told of a man who had never known a moment's indecision, self-doubt or fear.

He had frightened her, when she had been a girl.

No, that was dishonest.

If you cannot be good, you can at least be honest!

She put her hand over her chest, feeling her quickening heart's beat. Honestly, it had been the way he had made her feel that had frightened her most of all. Before she'd met James, she'd always feared that, secretly, she was a wanton at heart. Yes, beneath all the careful training she'd received as a clergyman's daughter, she had burnt with desire.

Back then, she had thought she could overcome her weaknesses.

Now she knew better.

She took an uneven breath, aware of the edginess that crackled along her nerves. Aware of the quickening in her breathing. Aware of the growing sensitivity in her breasts. The slight ache in her belly. She should not nurture such thoughts. She opened her eyes and was greeted by her reflection in the mirror.

Her eyes darkened with desire, and her cheeks flushed. Her lips appeared a deeper red, as though she'd been feasting on cherries.

She touched her mouth, lightly feathering her fingertips there, remembering the feel of James' firm yet utterly sensual lips upon hers, all those years ago. Yes, she had never forgotten that one time.

That first infidelity.

Her throat tightened painfully.

Oh, Freddy...

She jerked the knob to the dressing table drawer and with a slight screech, the drawer bolted open, the contents jolting and rattling with the motion. Heady scents of rose and lavender and lemon wafted from several empty, delicately crafted crystal perfume bottles stashed amid a profusion of colorful hair ribbons, countless jewel- and pearl-encrusted hair pins and a slew of folded letters, richly dyed feathers, sparkling gems-long ago separated from their original position on hats or evening gowns-hopelessly tangled strips of lace meshed with the silver chain of a locket, a V-shaped velvet bodice insert studded with black glittering jets, and countless other, less identifiable bits of feminine nonsense.

All the pieces of her past.

Some merely pretty, some deeply sentimental.

Things she couldn't quite bring herself to let go.

Frantically, she raked her fingers through the fragrant, rainbow-hued rabble, until she hit something more solid.

A miniature.

She lifted it out and traced the intricate carving on the gold frame.

Freddy's large, soft gray eyes stared up at her. A handsome young man with blond locks kissed with a faint hue of red, and fine, almost angelic features. She had loved Freddy first.

She had loved Freddy best. With all her heart.

James had been nothing more than a temptation. A test.

A test that she had almost failed.

Freddy had done her much honor to court her. To ask for her hand in marriage years before Papa would allow it. But Freddy had wanted only her. He had waited for her, treating her during that whole time as a true gentleman treated an innocent fiancee. Only hand holding and the chastest of kisses had passed between them. And during that time of waiting, he had been overcome with a summer flux.

The fever had caused his heart to weaken.

It had not lessened her love for him. Not even after her mother had sat her down and spoken to her sternly, telling her that there could be no children for them if they wed.

But Freddy had needed her.

Needed her.

How could she ever have turned away from him? Even if it meant denying herself everything a woman craved? Even children.

Well, it would have been the most unchristian, uncharitable thing she could have ever done to leave him.

"And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three..." Sunny mouthed the words soundlessly. "But the greatest of these is charity."

As a girl, she had written those lines, with flawless calligraphy, on countless handbills that Mama had handed out to strangers on her weekly pilgrimages into the city to save the souls of so many.

Think of all the good Papa and Mama had done in India all these years since her marriage. They were saving the souls of the heathens. Relieving the suffering of the poor. Freddy had financed their missionary work.

Mama was so good.

Papa was so good.

Her sisters were so good.

But Sunny was bad. So bad.

She had become discontented in her marriage.

It had been springtime and she had felt so young, so alive. So full of the joy of simply being.

No, be honest!

It had been the joy of being a woman. The joy of merely gazing upon a man's handsomeness and being pleased by it. And knowing that he had gazed upon her and found her just as pleasing.

She had allowed herself to be excited into unseemly high spirits. She had acted indiscreetly. She had smiled too brightly. Laughed a little too loudly.

And she had been the baroness. Her behavior should have been beyond reproach, at all times.

Even in the spring.

Oh, Freddy, my love, my love, I never meant to hurt you. I am so sorry, so very sorry...

She intoned the words in her mind, then swallowed against the constriction in her throat and pressed the miniature to her breasts. Freddy, whom she had loved but been forbidden to love as his lover.

I am sorry, love, so sorry for it all.

Freddy's voice echoed back to her, a haunting refrain from her memory, a fragment of a late-night conversation early in their marriage.

Freddy, whom she had disrespected.

Freddy had needed her so.

She thrust the miniature back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

The artist's rendering was so lifelike, she could never bear to look at it for long.

If the past was too painful, the present was too unsettling.

James.

Handsome and virile.

Carnal temptation personified.

He drew her just as potently as ever.

Dear God, help her.

She hugged her shoulders, staring at the door and feeling her heart pound against her rib cage.

She must calm herself.

They would be coming with the bath water soon. Very soon. Her moments alone were limited. If they saw how agitated she was-if they guessed the reason, they would send for Dr. Meeker.

James drummed his fingers upon his wool-covered thigh.

The tea had taken forever to arrive. Now Aunt Frances lingered over the pouring of it fussily. The jewel clasps that fastened the feathers in her silk turban caught the firelight of the spacious withdrawing chamber. In the soft glow, her skin still looked quite fine. One might easily think she was no more than forty-five. It was a wonder that she had never remarried. But then, she wouldn't have wanted to let go of her position of power, would she? She'd been placed in the most perfect position for a woman of her temperament. Dowager to a wealthy estate, with a son who looked to her unquestioningly for guidance.

Now that son was dead and James was the new baron.

With an inner sigh, he pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. He had a supper commitment and the time was drawing short. "Where is this Dr. Metcalf?"

Aunt Frances' head jerked up, and her gray eyes, so like Freddy's, met his. "Dr. Meeker," she said pointedly.

"Meeker. Right." He stashed his watch again. "So where is he?"

"He has just been delayed a bit."

James gaped at her. "We had an appointment, did we not?"

"Well, he is a very important man. He is much in demand."

"I canceled all my own appointments and business dealings in London, without proper notice, so that I could come here immediately upon reading that last letter you sent."

"I am sorry to have disrupted your pleasures, my lord." Aunt Frances' voice was crisp, her English accent more clipped than usual.

Her tone and general demeanor only added to his sense of growing ire. He wasn't used to waiting on others. No inferior, be it in rank or social class, had dared to keep Rear-Admiral Sir James Blayne waiting. Now, as Baron Blayne, it was unthinkable that he should be inconvenienced like this by a physician.

It didn't bode well for his opinion of the man's character. It spoke of a general lack of respect for authority and decorum. A distinct laxness of discipline.

What kind of doctor lacked the basics of self-discipline?

What manner of commoner displayed such arrogance to the nobleman who employed him?

He scowled. "I have traveled miles to see him and he cannot be bothered to meet with me at the appointed time?"

Aunt Frances' eyes widened.

He supposed he must have spoken too sharply. He was so unused to dealing with feminine sensibilities. He took a deep breath and tried to suppress the growing agitation that beat like a tattoo in his blood. He had hoped to have some real answers about Sunny's situation by now. "Surely, he could have had some respect for my time."