"Jesus." He surged forwards.

Neither of them said anything more. Philippa made a tiny sound in the back of her throat as he gave in to all the physical sensations coming at him. He gave in to the emotions, too. He knew, dimly, that he was unlikely to get a child on her this time, but he still thought of how he would feel when he held his first child in his arms, by the woman he loved beyond all others.

Her sweat-slick body moved with his, her arms tightened around him and she kissed his cheek, his mouth. She let her head fall back while he drank in her face, her parted lips, until he had no choice but to give in to a climax that shook him hard and rolled him through a wave he wasn't sure he was going to survive.

He did, of course. As did Philippa.

They were married by special licence a week later by the vicar in a small ceremony in the rose garden of Frieth House. If anyone in attendance wondered why the bride and groom vanished through a blue door at the rear of the house at the end of the ceremony, no one said a word.

An Invitation To Scandal.

Lorraine Heath.

London 1820.

Your presence is requested for a private dinner at midnight at the home of Miss Arianna Vernon. A carriage will be sent at half past ten.

Sitting in his library, which had once housed hundreds of books and now sported only empty shelves, Nicholas Wynter, the Earl of Harteley, squinted at the words inscribed on the invitation that had been delivered by a dark-haired lad barely out of short pants. He had hammered at the door until Harteley had been given no choice except to answer in order to stop the sound from echoing through the hollow hallways. He had few possessions left to absorb the impact of noise. Even his own footsteps had begun to grate on his nerves and slice into the dull ache in his head that constantly accompanied him as he sought to finish off what remained of his father's fine spirits.

The cheeky little b.u.g.g.e.r, dressed in purple livery that looked as though it had been newly st.i.tched, had curled up his lip in disgust, obviously mistaking Harteley for a maggot rather than a recently anointed lord. Harteley's black hair had grown unfashionably long and he'd not shaved in three days. With no servants to tend to his needs, he saw little point in maintaining appearances while in residence. He'd discarded his jacket and unb.u.t.toned his waistcoat.

"Give this to yer master immediately," the lad had ordered, extending the invitation.

Harteley had merely laughed and begun closing the door. The boy had blocked his actions by placing his foot, protected by a well-made boot, in the doorway. It irked that this urchin appeared more aristocratic than Harteley, that he possessed confidence and didn't cower from his task.

"It's me mistress' business. It's important." He'd shoved the invitation and a crown into Harteley's hand. "Fer yer trouble."

That had stopped Harteley's laughter with such force that he'd nearly choked, stopped it because his fingers had closed around the coin as a drowning man might latch on to a rope tossed his way. He'd watched the lad scamper to a waiting coach and leap up to take his position at its rear, thought he'd seen a curtain at the window billow slightly before the driver had urged on the matching greys.

Now Harteley slowly savoured his whisky and wondered who the deuce was Miss Arianna Vernon. Such an unusual name. Not one he'd easily forget. But forget it he had if he'd ever known it. He tapped the gilded invitation against his tan-clad thigh. It wasn't uncommon for women to seek his company, but never was it handled so formally.

A woman who began a dalliance with an invitation would no doubt be cold in bed. Probably the reason she sought him out. He had a reputation for melting the most solid of ice. He actually enjoyed it, took pride in his prowess. He had little enough to offer the world.

But of late, he'd grown bored. Women were too easy. Everything had become too easy except survival and maintaining the last shreds of his dignity. It had been almost a year since he'd inherited the t.i.tle and the crumbling estate that came with it. He wasn't certain how much longer he could retain the London residence. The debt collectors were knocking on his door with as much determination as had the lad with the invitation.

Through the blur of too much liquor, he again read the words. When the true state of his affairs became known and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them hidden women would no doubt scorn and avoid him. He might as well take advantage while he still had the opportunity.

The coach arrived promptly at half past ten. Harteley had bathed, shaved and donned his most flattering clothes: blue tailcoat, white shirt, white cravat, white silk waistcoat, black trousers. Oddly he felt more himself than he had in days.

The lad had once again accompanied the coach. He didn't seem surprised to discover that Harteley was the master of the house, although he did smirk.

"Have you a name?" Harteley asked, as he followed the boy to the coach where a taller and older footman opened the door.

"Jimmy," the lad responded, just before his dark eyes widened as Harteley flipped him the crown.

"For your trouble."

The lad tipped his hat. "Thanks, milord." And he scrambled on to the back of the coach.

Harteley settled on the plush bench. He recognized good craftsmanship when he saw it. Miss Vernon was exceedingly well off. The horses lurched forwards, and he had to admit it was perhaps the smoothest riding coach in which he'd ever had the pleasure to travel. He was becoming more intrigued with the mysterious Arianna Vernon. Tonight promised to be anything but dull.

He was surprised to discover that her residence was located beyond London, hidden away behind wrought iron and towering elms. The driver and horses must have known the path well, for they barely slowed as they turned off the main road. Yet no torches lit the narrow dirt trail they travelled. Even with a full moon, little was visible before the mansion came into view.

It was as grand, if not grander, than the one Harteley had inherited. Even from a distance, it was evident that it required no repairs. Here, torches flickered to reveal the magnificent estate. In the moonlight, the lawn appeared immaculately groomed.

As soon as the coach rolled to a stop, a footman was opening the door. Harteley disembarked, his curiosity piqued. This could not be the residence of an unmarried lady, even if she did refer to herself as "Miss". She was either married and in want of an affair, or her father was off tending to business and she was taking advantage. Then another thought occurred to him: perhaps she was an aging spinster, in want of a bit of fun while she was still able to enjoy it. He wasn't bothered by the possibility. In the dark, the particulars of a woman were left to a man's imagination. And he'd always possessed a grand imagination.

"If you'll come along with me, milord," the footman said.

He followed the footman up the steps and into the impressive manor. He had an eye for the finer things, and this home was filled with them: marble floors, candles flickering in crystal chandeliers, well-made furniture, statues, flower-filled vases, paintings created by the masters.

A butler stepped forwards and bowed slightly. "Milord, the mistress awaits you in the morning room."

The morning room. Not the bedchamber. Was it possible that she truly was interested in only sharing dinner? He suspected not. She no doubt wanted to be charmed out of her clothing. While he'd begun the adventure with a bit of scepticism, he found he was suddenly very interested in this woman of mystery.

As the butler led the way down the wide hallways, Harteley took in his surroundings. Everything was perfection, nothing was overlooked. Yet he couldn't help but feel that the elaborate surroundings were all for show, as though someone were striving to be impressive, to deflect interest away from something else. Considering what he'd inherited, he could certainly understand that desire. He'd held on to artwork as long as possible simply because it allowed him to feel civilized. As he'd been forced to sell each piece, so he'd felt as though he were whittling away at the core of who he was. He'd always known his place resided in the upper echelons. Falling from it was a painful and belittling process.

He had moments where he despised his father for his gambling habits, for his preference for selfish pleasures. But then Harteley was not so very different. It was the very reason he'd accepted the invitation. For a night of expected pleasure.

Another footman good Lord, how many servants did she possess? opened a door and the butler ushered Harteley inside. One wall and a portion of the ceiling were all gla.s.s. Moonlight whispered inside to shimmer along the figure standing near the far windowed corner. Her back was to him, but he was struck by the paleness of her hair, which rivalled the moon. It was caught up in a simple style that revealed the long, slender slope of her neck. He decided he would kiss her nape first and then trail his mouth along her delicate shoulders.

"Miss Vernon," the butler said, reminding Harteley he was not yet alone with her, "Lord Harteley has arrived."

She turned from her observation of the gardens, and he nearly stepped back from the unexpected beauty of her. And her youth. She was far too young for a man as jaded as he. Yet he could not deny the appeal of her innocence or the desire to regain his youth that swept through him. She reminded him of an earlier time when his life was filled with choices and he'd chosen poorly. Why of a sudden these bothersome reminiscences when he'd astutely avoided them for years? Something about her was familiar. The high cheekbones, the delicate chin. He knew her, but from where?

"My Lord." Her voice was that of a nightingale and so enthralled him that he almost didn't notice her curtsey.

He couldn't recall ever being so mesmerized. He bowed. "Miss Vernon. Tell me, have our paths crossed before?"

"We 've not been introduced."

Which was not exactly a proper answer to his question. "You remind me of someone."

"Do I? Who?"

He shook his head. "I'm not quite sure."

She released a slight laugh. "Well, when you remember, I do hope you will share." She indicated a round lace-covered table at the other end of the windows. "Please, let us not delay. Dinner awaits."

"You're very young, Miss Vernon."

She was only momentarily flummoxed by his seemingly random statement. "Two and twenty," she responded with her chin angled high. She possessed a great deal of pride. Perhaps as much as he once had.

"And I am not so young," he pointed out, rather unnecessarily.

"Two and thirty."

He fought not to reveal how it bothered him that she would know his age. It was a small thing, no secret, but he sensed she knew quite a bit more than that. Her next words confirmed it.

"Don't look so surprised, My Lord. I know a great deal about you."

"Then you must also know that I prefer women of experience."

He recognized disappointment in her expression, and it made him feel like a cad. It had been a good long while since he'd given any care to another's sentiments. Why did he care about hers?

"You are quite presumptuous, My Lord, to think my invitation included anything more than dinner."

"The hour is late, Miss Vernon. A certain amount of secrecy accompanied my arrival here. It has all the makings of a clandestine meeting."

She acquiesced with a slight nod. "I'd not expected you to object."

"Then I have correctly discerned your purpose in sending for me."

"Hardly. You see, My Lord, I am in need of a champion."

Arianna could barely suppress her disappointment. He didn't remember her. Not that she'd truly expected him to. It had been ten years. And she'd been a child. All of twelve. While he'd been a young man searching for an evening's delight. He'd spoken to her only in pa.s.sing, but it was enough to win her heart.

He'd been so dashing, so joyful, so handsome. Tonight he was less so on two counts. Still handsome, he now possessed a weariness. While they sat at the table as her butler, Jones, directed the servants who were arranging their dinner, she had an uncanny urge to reach across and ma.s.sage the furrows from Harteley's brow. His hair was the black of a moonless night, his eyes the blue of sapphires, rich and deep. Through the years, it had become her favourite gem because it reminded her of him.

If she lived to be a hundred, she'd never forget sitting on the stairs, waiting for her mother to finish with business so they could go to the theatre. He'd been on his way up, following a tart named Satin when he'd spotted Arianna and smiled. The wide grin, so white in the dark face that spoke of a man who possessed a preference for the outdoors, had caused her childish heart to gallop wildly in her chest.

"You're a bit young for this establishment, aren't you, poppet?" he'd asked.

She'd been so taken with him that her voice had refused to work. He'd laughed. A soft laugh, a comforting sound, as though he understood why she was so flummoxed. She amused him. Even then, she'd had little doubt that he was accustomed to attracting the attentions of the ladies, that he knew he was too handsome for his own good. He'd cast his spell over her.

"Come along, milord," Satin had urged, rubbing her silk-clad body against his.

That was all it had taken for Arianna to lose his attention. She was determined not to lose it now.

"I'm hardly the champion sort," he finally grumbled, after the servants left and Jones took his place across the room, in front of the door. She knew her butler didn't favour her plan, and that he wouldn't leave her alone with a man "the likes of Lord Harteley".

"I believe you underestimate yourself."

"I know myself very well, Miss Vernon."

She watched as he wrapped long, tapered fingers around the bowl of his wine gla.s.s. That hand possessed strength, and she knew with little enough effort, he could crush the crystal. But instead he held it with a feigned gentleness. She could see in his eyes that he was not happy with this turn of events. He'd expected something quite different from her invitation. But then she'd known he would. It was the reason she'd sent it. The reason she'd not doubted that he'd come here tonight.

She knew a great deal about Nicholas Wynter, Lord Harteley. Her mother had kept accounts on every man who had frequented her establishment. Arianna had scoured them searching for any clues regarding her father. While her endeavours had proved fruitless in that regard, she had been rewarded with bits and pieces about Lord Harteley. An overwhelming relief had taken hold when she realized that he'd never once bedded the infamous Jewel.

She watched now as Harteley savoured his wine while glancing around.

"You are obviously a lady of means," he said quietly. He pinned her with his blue gaze. "How did you acquire your wealth?"

"My mother. She is responsible for all of this. I grew up here with nannies, and governesses, and tutors."

"And what of your father?" he asked, but she detected no curiosity in his tone.

A portion of the truth would have to be revealed now, and he would come to understand the formidable task she placed before him. "I have only the foggiest notion as to who he might be."

And then only if he'd been one of her mother's numerous paramours or gentleman callers. It was quite possible he'd held a special place in her heart and she'd never noted his name in her records. It was also possible that he was someone of whom she'd been incredibly ashamed and so she'd never written out his name.

A true gentleman, Harteley didn't bring the question to his lips, but his unwavering gaze asked it just as loudly.

"They were never married," she admitted.

She saw understanding enter the depths of his blue eyes. "So by champion . . . you seek a protector. I fear you have misjudged me. I have not the means to take or provide for a mistress not that I don't find you beautiful and utterly charming-"

"I care little how you find me, My Lord." Lie. She cared deeply. She wanted him to be infatuated, to want her as she wanted him. "It is not a protector I seek, but a husband."

"With your questionable background, you expect to entice a suitable gentleman into asking for your hand?"

She easily caught the rough edge of disbelief in his voice. She was illegitimate, born in shame, although her mother had never allowed her to feel that way. It was only as she'd grown into womanhood that she'd begun to understand her life would include the freedom to do as she wanted but never the respectability that her mother had tossed aside in order to survive. It was the very reason that she'd not asked Harteley outright to wed her. She'd fancied him since she was a child, caught glimpses of him over the years. He deserved a respectable lady. But if while in her company, he were to decide that he wanted more from her . . .

She would very likely cast aside respectability as her mother had. The heart, after all, could be far more convincing than society, and because she'd lived on the edge of society, she was more accustomed to listening to her heart. Even now it was urging her to cast aside her original plans, to take him as a lover.

The flames from the candles on the table cast a dancing mosaic of shadow and light over the rugged features of his face. He had grown into a handsomeness that was breathtaking, and yet there was a harshness to it, tempered by disappointment. She wondered if he'd known the extent of what he would inherit. So little. Mounting debt and no means to earn the coins needed to alleviate his burden.

"I intend more than that, My Lord. I intend to marry a t.i.tled gentleman."

"You reach beyond your station, Miss Vernon."

"I have coins aplenty," she stated. "I know most marriages are based on what is held in the family coffers."

"I should think you deserve better than that."

It was the first comment he'd made that gave her hope that her true reason for inviting him here might not be in vain. "And you deserve better than what your father left you."

His eyes narrowing, he leaned forwards. "How do you know of that?"

"He came to trouble by visiting the unsavoury parts of London, and I . . . well, I have some knowledge regarding those portions of town."

"A true lady would not know of such things."

"I never claimed to be a true lady. However, I wish to be, and I'm willing to do whatever is required. What of you, My Lord? What will you do to be free of debt?"

For the first time since they sat down to dinner, she could see a spark of interest in his expression. "Did you have something in mind, Miss Vernon?"

"Indeed, My Lord. I wish you to marry me."

G.o.d help him, but he wanted to laugh. Instead he excused himself from the table and wandered to the corner where she'd been gazing when he'd first entered the room. He could see a fountain and a white gazebo. He had no reason not to accept her offer. She'd spoken true. A full coffer often married an empty one.

He could restore his estate to its splendour. He could maintain his London residence. His pride would take a bit of a bludgeoning as he'd not be marrying the daughter of a peer. He'd be marrying a woman who'd arrived in the world with a shady past.