"No," he denied sternly. "You bring beauty and grace and the most amazing heart."

Those fingers were so devilishly distracting, she thought inanely. They stirred up a dizzying excitement that clouded her mind and made her knees threaten to buckle. More importantly, they made her forget all the sensible reasons she should not become Lady Chance.

"I do not know . . ."

"Tell me one thing, Sarah," he demanded. "Do you love me?"

"Yes, but . . ."

The fingers pressed her lips to silence. "No. Nothing else is important. Share my life with me. Be my wife."

Sarah wavered, caught between fear and the love burning in his eyes. She had always tried to do what was best for others, to put her own needs and wishes aside. But for once she discovered she could not deny the aching desire to snatch happiness with both hands. For once she would please herself and the devil take the world.

"Oliver," she breathed with a tremulous smile.

He gave a strangled groan before his head swooped downward and he claimed her lips in a heady kiss. Sarah swayed forward, reveling in the unyielding strength of his male frame. Oh, to be held like this for an eternity, she thought dreamily. It was more than any woman could wish for.

Scattering soft kisses over her upturned face, Oliver at last pulled back to gaze down at her shimmering eyes.

"Lucky was correct," he teased softly. "We do need mistletoe."

Her smile could have rivaled the Christmas star burning brightly overhead. "You seem to be doing quite well without it."

"I must have been overcome with the Christmas spirit," he murmured.

Sarah's eyes abruptly widened. "Oh ... I did not get you a Christmas gift."

His dark eyes smoldered with a sudden fire. "You are mistaken, my love. You have given me a gift more precious than any other." His head began to lower once again. "The courage to follow my heart. Happy Christmas, my dearest."

"The happiest ever," she sighed as his lips closed over her own.

Neither noticed the Devilish Dandy as he slipped out the door and headed upstairs to pack his trunk.

One daughter had been suitably settled, he acknowledged with a smile. There were two to go before he could comfortably retire to his villa in Italy.

Dearest Emma was next.

He would need to find a most special gentleman, he decided. A gentleman who could thaw her ice and make her laugh again.

Whistling a Christmas carol, he set about his plans.

The Devilish Dandy never failed.

The Valentine Wish.

Alexandra Ivy.

One.

Had anyone been in the lonely Kent countryside, they could easily have warned the oncoming coach that while its spanking pace might have drawn admiration in London, it was ill suited for the upcoming curve. Indeed, only the veriest fool would attempt such a maneuver.

As it was, the coachman was blithely unaware of his danger as he urged his pair to an even greater pace and sang a merry ditty at the top of his lungs.

It was not until they were actually upon the curve that he did futilely attempt to slow his pace, and by then it was far too late to avert disaster.

A shrill scream pierced the air as the carriage swayed precariously and at last tumbled into the ditch. Inside the ill-fated carriage Miss Emma Cresswell struggled to her knees and rubbed her aching shoulder.

Blast and damnation. Had there ever been a more ghastly journey? she wondered.

She should have known when the coach had arrived in London a full two days early that it was an ill omen. But rather than heeding her unease, she had hastily gathered her belongings and kissed her tearful sisters, Sarah and Rachel, good-bye.

After all, what choice did she have in the matter?

The carriage was to take her to Kent so that she could assume her new duties as companion to Lady Hartshore. And anything had to be better than her previous role as governess to the wretched Falwells.

Besides, a renegade voice had whispered in the back of her mind, she would at last be far from the Devilish Dandy.

Surely it would be better to face a dragon of a dowager than the scandal her father always managed to create?

In Kent she would be free of the ugly whispers that followed in her wake. There would be no finger-pointing and icy glares because her father happened to be the most notorious jewel thief in all of England. There would be no more nightmares such as those she had suffered when her father had been lodged in Newgate, awaiting the hangman's noose. Or the painful combination of guilt and relief when he had escaped mere moments before his execution.

But as she had rattled for hours over the bone-jarring roads and her slender form had chilled to that of an icicle in the frigid January air, she had become increasingly concerned that she had been far too hasty.

What did she know of Lady Hartshore?

It was her Man of Business who had conducted the interview and ultimately chosen her from among the candidates. For all she knew, Lady Hartshore might be a ghastly tartar who would treat her with the same callous cruelty as the Falwells. Or she might even be so feeble that she would demand constant nursing. Hardly an enviable future for the next several years.

And she would not even have the comfort of her sisters' visits to ease her loneliness.

Her tumbled thoughts were eventually halted as she realized the jolts and sways had begun to increase at an alarming rate. Even worse, the coachman had begun to belt out bawdy lyrics that brought a blush to her cheeks.

Clinging to her seat, she had just been on the verge of demanding the coach be brought to a halt, when she had been so unceremoniously tipped into the ditch.

With a shiver Emma realized she could not simply remain in the carriage to freeze to death.

Blast it all, she should have remained in London, she thought as she awkwardly crawled out of the coach. At least no one there was attempting to break her neck.

A sharp breeze greeted her as she leaped onto the muddy lane. It whipped her hood from her head and tumbled her honey-gold curls around her pale countenance. With an impatient hand she brushed the strands from her emerald eyes and moved to where the coachman was propped against the wheel, seemingly indifferent to the fact he had nearly killed them both.

She glanced down, easily smelling the cloud of alcohol that hung around his reclined form.

Drunk.

She might have suspected, she seethed with a building fury. No coachman could be so gloriously inept without being thoroughly bosky. And now she was stuck in the midst of the muddy, damp, godforsaken countryside with a sodden servant.

"Wake up," she commanded in surprisingly shaky tones.

"Tomorrow," he slurred as his eyes slid shut. "Be right as a fiddle on the morrow."

"Oh, do wake up, you fool." Emma shivered as another gust tugged on her cape. "We shall freeze to death if we remain here."

The only response was a soft snore as the coachman sank into a drunken stupor.

Emma stomped her foot in frustration.

Now what?

The narrow lane was hardly a bustle of passing coaches. It might be hours before someone came along. And while the horses remained unharmed and patiently standing before the overturned carriage, Emma swiftly dismissed the notion of using one to ride to safety. At best she was a wretched rider, and with no saddle or habit she was more likely to end up back in the ditch than at Mayford.

Clearly her only option was to walk in search of help.

Emma heaved a sigh as she returned to the carriage to remove the blanket and retrieve her muff. The last thing she desired was to trudge through the mud for goodness knew how long, but there seemed few options. At least if she were moving around, she would be warmer than waiting beside the road.

Pausing long enough to drape the blanket over the slumbering servant, Emma determinedly scanned the sky for signs of smoke. There had to be a cottage nearby, she silently reasoned, and a cottage would surely have a fire burning on such a chill day.

At last determining that there was a large plume of darkened gray against the brooding clouds, Emma squared her shoulders and headed for the nearby woods.

With brisk steps she plunged through the muddy ditch and up the small hill that was covered with brush. The going was not terribly difficult, although she knew that her gown and half-boots would be ruined beyond repair.

But as she reached the thick trees, her pace became less brisk and she began glancing over her shoulder with increasing regularity.

It was not that she was a coward, she assured herself, clutching the cape close to her shivering form. But having spent her entire life in cities such as Brussels, Paris, and London, it was decidedly unnerving to be surrounded by such profound silence. She would have far preferred to have been dropped into the meanest neighborhood of London than this isolated middle of nowhere.

There might be anything hiding among the thickening trees, she thought as she peered into the shadows. Smugglers, highwaymen . . . cows.

Holding her muff as if it might offer protection from an evil scoundrel or raging cow, she kept her gaze firmly trained on the encroaching shadows. It was only reasonable to be prepared for disaster, she thought, attempting to excuse her unusual bout of nerves. If her father had taught her nothing else, it was that a young maiden should always be on her guard. And that nothing was ever as it seemed to be.

Intent on scrutinizing every tree and shadow, Emma hurried forward. She was so intent that she failed to note the growing soggy ground. Perhaps not so surprising for a maiden more accustomed to cobbled roads than the treacherous bogs that could dot the countryside. It was not until she had stepped forward and plunged her leg knee-deep into the gummy mud that she realized the extent of her foolishness.

"Oh ... bloody hell," she cried, exasperated beyond measure.

Hiking up her skirts, she glared down at her missing leg, damning drunken coachmen, lurking cows, and muddy quagmires to the devil.

How was she to get out of this mess? Not only was her leg firmly stuck, but the slightest attempt to free herself sent a sharp pain through her trapped ankle.

Gads, but she wanted nothing more than to sit down and have a good cry.

Chewing her bottom lip and blinking back her threatening tears, Emma attempted to thrust aside her self-pity. She could cry later. For now she had to keep a clear head. She could not remain stuck in the mud for the entire night.

"My, my. What have we here?" A dark, distinctly male voice abruptly shattered the silence. "Surely it is too late for you to be a Christmas present? And those legs could never belong to a poacher. Perhaps a wood nymph, if a rather muddy one?"

The sardonic musings had Emma's head spinning around to discover a dark-haired gentleman attired in a many-caped greatcoat and tall beaver hat standing atop a small knoll above her. With his legs spread to a wide stance and his arms folded across his chest, he appeared inordinately large to the trapped young maiden.

Hurriedly lowering her skirts, Emma pressed a hand to her heart.

"You startled me," she breathed.

"I can readily return the accusation," he drawled, moving forward to stand at the edge of the bog. "It is not often that I stumble across a maiden stuck in the mud."

As he approached, Emma could begin to make out his features in the encroaching dusk. A strong countenance, she decided, with the firmly hewn features that revealed an iron will. His brows were straight and as richly dark as the satin hair. The nose was perhaps too long and his mouth a trifle too wide, but that did not detract from the fact that he was astonishingly handsome.

Still, it was the eyes that captured her attention. Thickly lashed, they were a peculiar golden color with a rim of dark brown around them. They seemed to glow in the half-light with a peculiar intensity.

It was only when she realized that she was staring at the stranger like the veriest half-wit that she noted the unmistakable twitch of his lips.

"It was an accident," she informed him, stiffening in outrage as his laughter rang clearly through the woods.

"Well, I did not presume that you had deliberately lodged yourself in that quagmire."

Cold, tired, and wishing she were anywhere but in Kent, Emma felt a flare of exasperation.

Gads, had she not endured enough? The last thing she needed was this gentleman openly laughing at her predicament.

"I am delighted you find this so vastly amusing."

"Vastly?" He pretended to consider the word. "Perhaps not vastly. But certainly moderately. Yes, yes. I find it moderately amusing."

Her lips tightened in an ominous manner. "Are you going to help me, or just stand there, grinning?"

Supremely unaffected by her sharp tone, he slowly crossed his arms over his chest.

"I have yet to decide."

"What?"

He peered ruefully down at his gleaming Hessians. "I did travel all the way to London to be fitted for these boots. It would be a remarkable pity to have them ruined."

Why, the puffed-up coxcomb, she fumed. To actually put the gloss of his boots over the safety of a young lady . . . well, she would be better off without him.

"Very well. I shall do it myself," she gritted out.

"Hold a moment," he said with a chuckle. "I was merely jesting. Are you always so grim?"

Emma glared at the strong countenance. Although he had been handsome upon first glance, his devilish smile seemed to illuminate the male features. It was a smile that enticed one to allow inhibitions to be tossed aside and join him in laughing at the world. She felt the most peculiar heat singe through her blood before she was silently chastising her foolishness.

"I will have you know that in the past two days I have been rushed from my home, battered for hours over what could only laughingly be claimed as roads, nearly killed by a drunken coachman, and now stuck in the blasted mud," she informed him stiffly. "You would be a bit grim yourself."

"Perhaps I would at that," he conceded as his smile widened. "Now, let us see about rescuing you, my muddy damsel in distress." Courageously tossing aside concern for his boots, he stepped into the mud. "Hold on to my shoulders."

Emma did as he commanded, although not without some trepidation. She was not in the habit of standing so close to strange gentlemen, and it was decidedly unnerving to feel the ripple of hardened muscles beneath her hands. This was no effeminate dandy, she realized, but a man accustomed to physical activity It did not help that he had removed his hat, and his silken hair tickled her cheek as he bent down to grasp her leg just below the knee.