Millie and Ted were alone almost never. How else to restore a lost reputation? But how to reclaim a lost friendship? They stole hours at night, long after the others were abed and the servants dismissed, that's how.

Millie marvelled at how Ted was even more handsome than she remembered, now that he'd shaved. She wept over the scars the beard and moustache had hidden. The Viscount admired how Millie's figure had grown more womanly, and her glorious hair had grown longer. He spent hours combing it through his fingers, smoothing out the night plait her maid spent hours braiding. They spoke of books, Bristol and his business, of travels they hoped to take and changes they would make in the townhouse. They discussed the reforms Ted could enact when he took his seat in Parliament and which party best suited their values. Sometimes they disagreed, but they listened to each other with respect and considered the opposing views. They fell back into the old camaraderie as easily as Aunt Mary's dogs found the most comfortable sleeping nooks and the most sympathetic servants in their new residence. It was as if Ted and Millie's closeness was part of their very natures, unaffected by time or distance.

What was new was pa.s.sion. Not that the pair hadn't felt attraction before or had treated each other like siblings, but they'd been young, innocent and honourable. Now they were adults, aroused by each other's scents and shapes and skin. They had grown-up desires, growing by the minute, and so many wasted years to make up for.

The household might know how Ted and Millie spent their late-night/early-morning hours and why Miss Cole's hair looked like one of the dogs had slept in it, but no one interfered. The sooner the wedding, the better for everyone. Driscoll House would have a mistress. Aunt Mary would have a comfortable home if her hopes for Mr Armstead went unfulfilled. Winnie would have a wealthy sponsor for her season, her brother a high-placed brother-in-law, and Noel freedom to pursue his own pleasures.

Then Lord Stourbridge returned to town. Ted knew because he had men on his payroll to keep watch at the Earl's residence and clubs.

"You cannot be thinking of calling on him at his own home, in private," Millie insisted. "Not without taking the Lord High Magistrate, the sheriff and the Horse Guards. Otherwise, he will shoot you as you walk through the door. Or have his hired thugs do it for him."

"No, I will not meet him in private. Your disgrace was made public. My supposed treachery was made public. The man succeeds by whispering. Let him hear the whispers now. Out in public, not hidden away in a fortress."

Millie had to be honest. "I do believe his humiliation was fairly public, as he waited for his bride to appear at the church. I could almost feel sorry for him, on the brink of losing everything he holds dear, except for what he did to you."

"We will never be safe if he is left alive in England."

She knew. "Be careful."

Lord Driscoll waited until the Southead Ball. The Dowager d.u.c.h.ess had been gracious enough to include Winifred in her granddaughter's come-out celebration. They knew Stourbridge was attending because no one declined Her Grace's invitations. Her b.a.l.l.s were always memorable, and her approval necessary for entry to the haut monde. Stourbridge was so arrogant, so confident of his own worth that he'd count on facing down any criticism simply by appearing there. Further, common opinion held Stourbridge considering the granddaughter for his countess. He was considering her dowry and connections, at any rate. Not that either d.u.c.h.ess would permit him within a mile of the young girl, not now.

Silence fell over the a.s.sembled guests as the elegant party from Driscoll House arrived at the ball. The Viscount's tailor, barber and valet had turned the savage colonial out to perfection, the paragon of upper-cla.s.s British manhood, which meant he was dressed like every other male in the room in black and white.

Millie wore green: a green silk gown, green satin slippers, a bandeau of green velvet around her red curls and the Driscoll family emeralds. Women turned green at the sight.

Suddenly everyone wanted to know them. Millie could have danced every set, if she hadn't promised all her dances to Ted, her brother, Ted, Noel, Mr Armstead, Ted and the Duke of Southead. Winnie became equally as popular. She'd be in transports over her success, except for Noel scowling at her dance partners. Even Miss Marisol Cole created a modest stir among the older gentlemen, she looked so handsome in the new gown Millie had shamed Ned into purchasing for her, aside from the wardrobe Millie provided.

They danced, they chatted, they strolled, and they kept looking for Stourbridge. He'd arrived, Ted's informants reported. As soon as he was refused a dance with the d.u.c.h.ess' debutante, he went to the card room, where Southead himself invited the Earl to play a hand in his private library. The Duke also sent word to Ted.

The Viscount left Millie with her aunt and gestured her brother and Noel to come with him. Millie waited three minutes, then followed.

So did several others who had an inkling of the coming confrontation.

Stourbridge looked up from his cards and sneered when he saw the men facing him. "Still a coward, I see, Driscoll. Too afraid to face me by yourself after those lies you've been spewing."

Ted did not rise to the Earl's bait. "No lies, Stourbridge. And these are witnesses, not reinforcements."

Stourbridge took a long, deliberate sip of his wine. Then he tossed the rest of the contents of the gla.s.s in Ted's face. "Very well, consider yourself challenged. Pick one of your lily-livered cohorts to be your second. Swords or pistols, it matters not. You'll be dead by daybreak. Permanently, I trust."

Ted had to restrain Noel from charging at the Earl. "There will be no duel. That's for gentlemen. And these others-" he waved his hand at Ned, Noel, the Duke, three men in the doorway "-will not interfere if you choose to go out to the garden with me now, man to man, no weapons but our fists. I would like nothing better than to water His Grace's roses with your blood. But you have a choice."

Stourbridge looked at Southead and raised one eyebrow. "Is this what pa.s.ses for civilized behaviour in your home? Brawls and name-calling? That might occur in schoolyards and the wilderness. I expected better from your hospitality, Duke."

"He has proof," Southead said. "I am convinced you have done grievous harm to these families, and to our brave soldiers. I'd listen to his offer, were I in your shoes. Your feet are set in quicksand."

Stourbridge tried to look unconcerned, but his fingers drummed on the table. "Speak, then, savage."

Ted nodded. "Very well. You can meet me outdoors, as I said. Right now, before you can hire a gang of ruffians. You will not survive, I promise. Or you can face a trial before your peers in Parliament. The sheriff's men are waiting outside to arrest you."

"What, a peer of the realm, on the word of a deserter?"

"I have sworn and witnessed testimony from one of Frederickson's hirelings that you paid the commanding officer to have me and my troops ambushed. Frederickson confessed also, in front of several other officers. Your cousin, wasn't he? He's dead now, you know. An accident, they said, but his own men shot him."

"And I will testify that you tried to rape my sister," Cole added, which warmed Millie's heart, there in the doorway. "You will find no friends in the Lords."

The Duke concurred. "You'll be convicted and hanged as a traitor."

The drumming got louder. The sneer disappeared into a grimace. "I'll leave the country. Give back the stupid chit's dowry, if that's what you want, Cole. You can have the wh.o.r.e and her money, Driscoll. You've been panting after both of them since you were in leading strings."

Millie gasped, her brother turned red, but Ted forgot his best intentions and knocked Stourbridge out of his chair with a hammer-hard right punch to the mouth. Then he dragged him up by his neckcloth, which was already spattered with the Earl's blood and teeth. "Apologise to the lady."

Stourbridge mumbled something hard to interpret with his jaw broken. Ted tossed him back to the chair. "You have one other option. His Grace has offered you the use of a small room to the rear of his home. One door, no windows, no carpet. One bullet in one pistol. You can die a gentleman, even though you never lived as one."

Before Stourbridge could decide, an older man pushed through the ever-increasing crowd at the door. "No," Lord Walpole shouted. "That's not good enough! My youngest son was one of the soldiers you had murdered in Canada." He pulled a small pistol out of his inside pocket. "I came tonight to kill Driscoll. I see now I would have been a murderer then too."

"I am sorry for your loss, My Lord," Ted said, trying to calm the distraught man. "Your boy was a fine lad."

"He did not deserve to die, not that way." Tears were streaming down Walpole's cheeks. He aimed the gun at Stourbridge. "But you do, you sc.u.m."

He pulled the trigger.

The Dowager's ball was more memorable than ever.

Six.

"Come to bed, my beloved."

The vows were p.r.o.nounced; Millie and the Viscount were wed.

The guests had left, the families including Mr Armstead, who was as close as a bachelor could get to parson's mousetrap without being caught headed back to Kent for a month or so until Ted's t.i.tle was made official. Then they'd all return to London for the grand ball the new couple planned to celebrate.

The servants at Driscoll House in London were dismissed for the rest of the day and night. And maybe tomorrow too, while Lord and Lady Driscoll celebrated in private.

Millie set her hairbrush aside and smiled at Ted's reflection in the mirror. She loved how his bare skin gleamed in the firelight, how he looked so at home in the ma.s.sive master bed.

For his part, Ted could not take his eyes off his beautiful bride. Her red curls crackled from the brushing as they flowed down her back. She had red curls between her legs, too. He couldn't decide which he found more appealing. He smiled again. Thank heaven he did not have to choose.

"Come, Millie mine. You've been gone far too long."

"Ten minutes?"

"A lifetime, it seems."

She smiled back and returned to the bed, to his arms. They lay together, comfortable and content for the moment. Then Millie sighed. "I cannot help worrying about poor Lord Walpole. Do you think there will be an inquest and charges brought against him?"

"I do not see why there should be. At least six men saw the pistol fire by mistake while Stourbridge was examining its design."

She sighed again. "I'm glad."

"Glad the muckworm is dead? So am I. I cannot help the twinge of sympathy I have for the poor devil though. I don't know what I would have done if you kept saying no to a hurried wedding."

"I shouldn't have, not so soon . . ."

He wrapped a long curl around his fingers, and the fingers of his other hand found the short curls. "Six months? I'd have been tempted to carry you off to my lair and ravish you."

She kissed him on the lips, the chin, then breathed into his ear. "I thought that's what you just did."

"What, are you complaining about my lovemaking, wench?"

"Not if you promise to do it again soon."

He pretended to groan. "Now who is trying to kill me?"

"With love. Only with love."

With a bit of encouragement he rose to the occasion and proved his own love with tender words and pa.s.sionate kisses that led to more celebrating.

"I did not know marriage could be so . . . stirring. Will it be like this for ever, do you think, Ted?"

"Now and for ever, Red, now and for ever."

Lucky Millie. Blessed Ted.

Remember.

Michele Ann Young.

London 1820.

"She is the widow, Madame Beauchere?" Hatred pounding in his veins, Gerard Arnfield, His Grace the Duke of Hawkworth, observed the lush woman in peac.o.c.k blue on the dance floor.

Charlotte. After all this time.

But not the Charlotte he remembered.

The curvaceous form looked the same. The violet eyes and glossy chestnut tresses struck achingly familiar chords. But for the rest? Pure artifice. A neckline designed to draw the male eye to the swell of creamy b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The full lips promised of heaven to any man who won them, but instead led to h.e.l.l.

Nothing about her rang true.

Beneath the chandeliers, her skin glowed with the translucence of a pearl. A pearl he'd once claimed, only to discover he held nothing but smoke.

Something as sharp as a knife twisted in his gut. d.a.m.n her for coming back.

"You know her?" His old friend Brian Devlin stepped back, his pale, thin face rife with curiosity.

"I know her," he said without emotion.

"Biblically speaking?" Dev looked hopeful.

Gerard allowed himself a grim smile. "For a man requesting a favour, you ask too many questions, Dev."

A brief nod acknowledged the set down. "Will you do it, though? I can't think of anyone else who could draw her off. My aunt is frantic."

"Why not?" Why not pay her back in kind for her cruelty? Although, on the one hand, he should thank her for teaching a naive youth about the ways of women, except it would be like thanking his father for beating sense into his head.

Madame Beauchere laughed up at her partner, Dev's cousin and heir to the Graves fortune. His fair, open expression beneath its thatch of carefully coiffed sandy curls reminded Gerard of a besotted calf.

Much like the expression Gerard once had plastered on his face.

Devlin sighed. His brow furrowed. "It won't be easy. She's got her claws firmly hooked."

Seeing her so beautiful, so womanly, Gerard's anger flared anew, a blazing inferno of rage along with l.u.s.t for her delectable body. Something he hadn't expected. Something he quickly controlled, but didn't fight. Yes, he still wanted her. Only this time it would be different. This time he'd make it impossible for her to leave until he decided she would go. This time he would get her out of his mind and his blood entirely.

He gave his friend a cool glance. "You may bank on my success."

Dev must have heard something in his voice, because his frown deepened. "Don't tell me you have fallen for the wench."

"I don't fall, Dev," he said gently. "I fell them."

The benighted ladies of the ton had called him Axe Arnfield for years, because they fell at his feet at the snap of his fingers.

And bored him nigh unto death. At least Charlotte represented a challenge.

"Well, I hope you haven't met your match," Dev grumbled under his breath.

Once she had been his match. Now, she was simply another female to conquer and leave behind.

Gerard observed her glide sensually down the set. Graceful, alluring and utterly feminine. He could see how an impressionable youth like Graves would end up bewitched.

"I'll introduce you when the set is over," Dev said.

"No need. She'll remember."

Devlin gave him a morose glance. "My aunt will pray weekly for your soul in grat.i.tude."

He laughed softly. "Tell her not to bother. I don't have a soul." Not where Charlotte was concerned.