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“How do you do that? I mean work your eyebrows independently? It is very effective, I promise you. It makes you look quite—” “Wicked?” “I would say intriguing.” Intriguing. Was she flirting with him? A jolt of desire shot through him. “You had a question?” “It is more in the nature of a favor.” Her eyes were huge in the pale face. Well, damn. A favor. He sighed. “Is this about Bottomsley?” “No.” She bit her soft, full lower lip and his blood surged. “I wonder if you would mind…that is…I have never been properly kissed and, well, I would very much like you to do it.” She wanted him to kiss her? He gazed at the bitten lip, at her small white teeth, and the urge to explore them with his tongue was almost irresistible. Dangerous, he should warn her. But the words remained unspoken. At his silence, her lips closed and a faint blush stained the soft skin under the freckles. She believed he had rejected her. She was hurt. Bloody hell. He slid one hand behind her slender neck and lowered his head. Her scent, lavender, and maybe sage? Jasmine? Whichever, it was unique and intoxicating. Her lips quivered as he brushed them lightly with his own. He drew back a moment later, his chest constricted, his breathing heavy. “Like that?” The clear eyes regarded him steadily. “I thought there would be something more.” Reggie stifled a groan. He was not used to selfdenial. “I must be honest with you, Miss Watson. Honeysuckle. I am afraid of the something more. I am afraid I will not be able to stop with a kiss.”

Praise for… THAT VOODOO THAT YOU DO The Wild Rose Press, 2009 —First place Romantic Suspense, First Coast Published Beacon Contest —Finalist WisRWA Write Touch contest —Long and Short Reviews Book of the Week “A thoroughly enjoyable and engaging story with twists, turns, mystery, suspense, humor and just about everything else you could possibly imagine— including a dash of magic.” ~Long and Short Reviews ~*~ ABOUT A BABY The Wild Rose Press, 2010 —Finalist in contemporary, Southern Magic Romance Writer’s Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Contest. —Finalist 2011 WisRWA Write Touch Reader’s Contest —Winner short contemporary, 2011, Phoenix Desert Rose Golden Quill Contest “I absolutely loved this book. It was well written and fun to get into. Just a good, sweet read, well worth my time.” ~You Gotta Read Reviews “I loved ABOUT A BABY. The characters breathe life right out of the pages! It’s emotional, a page turner and leaves the reader with a smile at the end.” ~Siren Book Reviews

The Earl That I Marry by Ann Yost

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The Earl That I Marry COPYRIGHT  2011 by Ann Yost All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Information: [email protected] Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout The Wild Rose Press PO Box 706 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First English Tea Rose Edition, 2011 Published in the United States of America

Dedication To Pete

Chapter One “Devil take it. Not again.” The large round letters on the letter in Reggie Wanstead’s hand appeared to have been written by a very determined female. But then, Reggie already knew that. This was not the first missive he’d received from the meddlesome woman. The sixth Earl of Marchmont glowered at his bleary-eyed friends. “Apparently there is a highwayman creating mischief in Hertfordshire, and I am being summoned to, and I quote, ‘Stop shirking my duty and promptly take care of the matter.’” “Summoned?” Alleyn Merrifield, Viscount Sherwood, spoke from the depths of the sofa in the library of the earl’s town house. “By whom? Bottomsley?” Reggie’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “It is not my steward who demands my appearance. The note comes from a Miss Honeysuckle Watson from Upper Ickleford.” “By gad, the girl’s brave. Don’t she know you’re called the devil earl?” The Honorable Freddie Farnsworth spoke from the sideboard where he was helping himself to a glass of brandy. “Even the officers in the regiment did not dare address you in such a bold fashion.” Dawn had finally put paid to a night of revelry for the threesome whose bond had been created in the recent war with the French. Both Lord Sherwood and Mr. Farnsworth had served with distinction under Major Reginald Wanstead, lately Lord 1

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Marchmont. “The hell of it is,” Reggie said, more to himself than the others, “her criticism strikes at the bone. I need to cast an eye on the properties and to make a more permanent arrangement for my aunt. Damn the timing though. I shall have to abandon the bridal hunt.” Despite his dislike of the country and the horror he felt at becoming even nominally a family man, Reggie believed in duty. He had not asked for the inheritance, nor did he desire it, but the whole kit belonged to him now. Confound it, he would not be responsible for the loss of an estate that had survived six generations of Wansteads. He must produce an heir, and to do that he had to marry. All that was left was to find the perfect countess, one who would not force him to give up his freedom. “You cannot delay,” Sherwood said. “You have already held the title for two years and twice narrowly escaped death.” “And ’twould be a shame to surrender the field at present,” Freddie said. “The Diamond is an eager, ripe plum ready to fall into your hand.” “I should think it is rather the reverse,” Sherwood said. “The Dragon Mama has her heart set on Reg’s title.” Reggie acknowledged the truth of the latter statement. Miss Gertrude Swope-Hanley’s formidable mama had promoted a match between her daughter and himself with all the brilliance of a military tactician. “Miss Swope-Hanley herself,” Sherwood continued, “appears to have little on her mind other than fashion.” Reggie shrugged. He knew Miss Swope-Hanley was not a genius, nor was she in love with him. He approved of both attributes. He did not want an interfering wife, nor did he anticipate visiting his 2

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wife above once a year. Gertrude, bless her fashionable little heart, would not concern herself with his whereabouts. She was just the wife for him and, devil take it, he did not wish to begin the business all over again with someone else. “On second thoughts,” Sherwood said, “perhaps you should delay. If you were to marry a country wench, she would adapt more easily to her solitary life at Marchmont Manor.” Reggie palmed the back of his neck. God, he was tired. “Rest assured, my friend, that my future countess will not object to my absence. In any event, I am convinced Miss Hanley-Swope is the right choice.” “Swope-Hanley,” Sherwood said. “Bloody hell.” “P’rhaps you could marry the letter writer.” Freddie handed Reggie a glass of brandy. “She appears to be a regular out-and-outer.” The earl shuddered. He liked his women biddable, beddable, and, most especially, paid for. Miss Honeysuckle Watson bore too close a resemblance to the overbearing stepmother who had driven Reggie into the army at the age of fifteen. “Impossible. The woman would hound me all the days of my life.” He handed the letter to Sherwood. “Read the postscript.” “‘I am pained to have to inform you, Lord Marchmont, that the rents on your estate are excessive and the cottages in ruinous condition. The roads hereabouts are full of ruts and potholes. There is much to be done and no time to lose.’” Freddie choked back a laugh. “She sounds a handful.” “She sounds an antidote,” Reggie said. “In an earlier missive she informed me that her family wished to purchase Hilldale House, the parsonage that is in my gift. It seems that Honeysuckle—and 3

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by the by, who names their daughter after the limb of a tree?—her mother and sister have lived in the home, rent-free, since the death of her father, the late vicar. The current parish priest is, I understand, a local man, unmarried, and determined to continue in his family home with an aged mother. I had thought to offer the residence to my widowed aunt, Lady Patricia. Luckily Miss Watson’s officiousness has eliminated any sympathy I might otherwise have felt about turning the Watsons into the hedgerows.” “Seems a bit harsh,” Sherwood murmured. Reggie did not comment. Years of experience on the battlefield had taught him to make quick decisions, and he trusted his instincts. The Watsons had no real claim on Hilldale House, which must, eventually, be returned to its Christian duty. The late vicar’s family must find another situation, preferably in another county. Or, better yet, on another continent. In any case, Reggie was unwilling to waste more thought on the subject. “I say, Reg. You could invite the Diamond into the country with you,” Freddie said. “Two birds with one stone, eh, what?” The earl briefly weighed the aggravation of spending another sennight in the company of the Dragon, against the convenience of resolving the marriage problem in an efficient manner. It was no contest. “An excellent thought.” He looked at his friends. “Will you come?” “A house party!” Freddie lifted his glass. Sherwood bowed. “At your service. Whether this turns into a celebration of your engagement to Miss Swope-Hanley or a duel with the sharp-tongued Miss Watson, you undoubtedly will need seconds.” Two days later the trio rode the fifteen miles north to Hertfordshire alongside the Swope-Hanley’s 4

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light, well-sprung carriage. The vehicle, like the two ladies who occupied it, was in the first stare of fashion. Reggie had wondered how Lucius SwopeHanley, a squire from Sussex, could support such luxuries, but then setting his daughter and wife up in style was an investment in the future. The beautiful Gertrude, with her coal-dark hair, large blue eyes, and milk-pale skin was expected to make an advantageous marriage that would benefit the entire family. Reggie supposed, without really caring, that their offspring would be quite handsome. As the buildings of London gave way to open country, he felt a familiar sense of trepidation, as if a trap were closing in around him. The feeling had lived within him since the death of his uncle, close on the heels of his cousin’s demise. His own father’s estrangement from the late earl was responsible for both Reggie’s unfamiliarity with Marchmont and his reluctance to take it on. Fate, however, had tied him to this property and all of the responsibility attached to it. The unfettered life of adventure he’d sought would have to wait. “You have on your battle face, Reg,” Sherwood said. “I fear Miss Watson will regret summoning you.” Reggie frowned at the mention of the annoying letter-writer. At least there he would get some satisfaction. “I am counting on it.” **** “Violet will simply have to marry the earl,” Mrs. Primrose Watson said, reclining on a blush-velvet chaise longue, smelling salts at the ready. “Else we will lose our hearth and home.” Her voice trembled and tears pooled in her lovely violet eyes, the same stunning eyes for which her eldest child was named. Mrs. Watson gazed at her daughter and clasped soft, white hands against her bosom. “My heart breaks.” 5

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Honeysuckle Watson discounted her mother’s histrionics, but eyed her sister with compassion. Violet was blessed with their mother’s beauty, including the melting eyes, but with none of their parent’s self-centered sense of drama. A long-ago promise to a feckless suitor had planted Vi firmly on the shelf, and though Honey thought her situation a pity, she would not allow Violet to be sacrificed to the devil earl. Her sister would make an excellent wife and mother, but only to someone worthy. “I will do what you wish, of course, Mama,” Violet said. “But perhaps Lord Marchmont may not want me.” “Oh, tosh.” Mrs. Watson dismissed her daughter’s objection with the wave of one soft, white hand. “The earl must marry, and there is no rival to your beauty in all of England.” “But consider my age.” “You do not look a day above eighteen, dearest. He will fall in love before he learns the grim truth.” Honey studied her sister’s lovely face. Violet made an excellent point. The earl needed an heir, and thus, age would be a prime consideration in his choice of a bride. Nevertheless, Honeysuckle was unwilling to risk Vi’s happiness on the slim hope that her sister might be considered too long in the tooth. Violet crossed the room to gaze out the window. “Could we not simply ask the earl to let us keep Hilldale House?” “My child!” Mrs. Watson rejected the idea with a firm shake of her head. “Such a direct petition is certain to fail with someone like Marchmont. He has neglected his inheritance quite shamefully. It is clear he does not concern himself with the misfortunes of others.” For once Mama was right. The straightforward approach had already failed, although Honey had 6

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not shared that circumstance with her family. Nor would she raise their hopes by revealing her plan to try again to reason with Marchmont, this time in the flesh. Surely he could be made to see the value of the Watson’s fledgling business, the sale of medicinals she and Violet concocted from their herb garden. If her second petition failed, well, she had another, more radical plan. Honeysuckle always had another plan. She moved next to her sister in silent support. “My only fear is that Marchmont will stay in London until he finds a bride.” Mrs. Watson was obviously still focused on the idea of throwing Violet at his head. At least Honey could reassure her mama on that point. “I have it on good authority that he is expected here within the week,” she said. The authority, of course, was her own but she felt certain the reasoning was sound. The earl was known to be a genuine war hero and, of course, he was an earl. He would be a man of honor and duty, and would doubtless respond to the threat of Honeysuckle’s entirely fictional highwayman. Mrs. Watson’s eyes brightened. “Excellent! You know, girls, this might actually work out rather well,” she said. “Violet will make a lovely countess and no one expects the earl to languish in the country. It will be essentially a marriage on paper.” Violet paled and Honey squeezed her hand. They both knew that a husband in search of an heir could not conduct a marriage in name only. Lord Marchmont was a known rake. It was said he had bedded as many fashionable impures as there were cobblestones in Mayfair. Such a man would, no doubt, expect much from the conjugal bed. Mrs. Watson’s gaze turned to her younger 7

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daughter, and a soft frown appeared on her unlined face. “It is a shame his lordship cannot marry you, Honeysuckle. You have no delicate sensibilities to offend, and, I daresay, you would welcome the opportunity to install yourself as steward at Marchmont.” Violet’s eyes narrowed on Mrs. Watson. “Any man would be lucky to secure Honey’s affections, Mama.” Honey patted Violet’s arm, even as she contemplated the truth of her Mama’s words. Honey should like to take over the running of the Marchmont estate, but unlike Vi she was neither beautiful nor biddable. She was too tall and too apt to take charge of a situation. Her hair resembled a burning bush, her eyes were the color of pond water, her chin was unfashionably square, and a small army of freckles marched across her straight, little nose. At the age of twenty-four, Honeysuckle had long accepted the fact that she was not wife material. Her main regret was the children she would not have. She did not allow herself to dwell on the loss, but in the privacy of her own thoughts she admitted to a deep curiosity about the differences between man and woman, and had promised herself she would discover them someday. Marriage or no marriage, Honeysuckle did not intend to be a virgin when it came time to stick her spoon in the wall. At the moment, though, her focus must be on how to protect both Hilldale House and her sister. If the earl failed to fall in with her plans, Honeysuckle would see to it that Reginald Wanstead, Earl of Marchmont, was forced to make an offer. Not for the delectable Violet, but for Honeysuckle herself!

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Chapter Two The manor house, built in the style of the last century, boasted three stories and dozens of windows set in symmetrical precision. Grecian columns bracketed the portico and wide emerald lawns flanked the elegant structure. As the horizontal rays of the sun struck mellow fieldstone, the house glowed with a gentle welcome. A single word came into Reggie’s head as he trotted toward his inheritance. Xanadu. A grim smile curved his lips as he rejected his first response. Marchmont Manor was not paradise. Not to him. It was more like a foreign country. His father, Rupert Wanstead, had served his late brother as steward on a small property far to the north. The families never met and it was not until recent years that Reggie had learned the cause of the rupture was that old chestnut, two dogs after one bone. The bone had been his mother. After her early death, Reggie had been raised by a stillgrieving father and the harridan he married. Reggie refused to refer to the woman with the term “mother” even if there was a “step” in front of it. In his mind, the late Mrs. Hermione Wanstead was merely his father’s second wife. Females, excepting those paid for their services, were nothing but trouble. Reggie felt a sudden fierce urge to bolt out of the paddock and race Lucifer across the open fields. But freedom, at the moment, was out of the question. Duty called. He bit back a curse and dismounted to 9

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hand the ladies out of the carriage. Mrs. Henrietta Swope-Hanley was a handsome, well-upholstered woman whose abundant bosom inevitably preceded the rest of her when entering a room or exiting a carriage. She accepted Reggie’s arm and stepped heavily onto the baked earth of the circular drive in front of the manor house. With a rapturous sigh she pressed a plump hand against her heaving bosom. “My lord, your home is quite lovely.” Her eyes, small currants in the pudding of her face, glittered. “Is this not lovely, Gertrude?” Miss Swope-Hanley rested her small hand lightly on Reggie’s arm and stepped daintily onto the drive. Reggie experienced a sudden, unexpected thrill of ownership when her pale-blue eyes swept his home’s façade. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Quite lovely.” She paused. “Mama, do you recall the cunning pink parasol I remarked upon as we came through the village? It was in the window of the milliner’s shop. I believe it is a perfect match for the trim on my new walking dress.” “Yes, yes,” her mother said. “We shall investigate tomorrow. Perhaps”—the older lady turned to Reggie—“his lordship would be good enough to accompany us to town.” Her smile caused her eyes to nearly disappear and her chins to jiggle. Reggie suppressed a flash of irritation. He had intended to grant himself the pleasure of evicting the Watsons in the morning, but his guests must come first. It seemed Miss Honeysuckle Watson had won a short reprieve. He lifted Gertrude’s slim, white fingers to his lips, but instead of looking at the small hand, he kept his gaze on her wide, blue eyes. “Your wish is my command,” he murmured. Gertrude dimpled at him but he saw no blush, observed no palpitations, detected no evidence that 10

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her pulse rate had increased from his touch. He was satisfied. They would do well together and, more particularly, apart. “I shall wear my new walking dress for the occasion and my kid half-boots.” She frowned. “Unless the weather fails. I dislike mud excessively.” She disliked mud? Perhaps it would not do to leave her in the country. He supposed he could buy her a townhouse in Bath. It did not matter to him where she lived, as long as it was not London. He assisted her up the shallow steps to the portico where his great aunt Patricia awaited them with a welcoming smile. Lady Patricia Wanstead, Reggie’s aunt by marriage and a widow, had found herself in need of a home just about the time the estate passed into his hands. He had few memories of Lady Patricia, but those few he had were fond ones, and he invited her to Marchmont. His careless generosity was now amply repaid as Lady Patricia provided him with a suitable hostess for his guests. Once his marriage was arranged he intended to offer Lady Patricia a life-time lease on Hilldale House. The interior of Marchmont Manor proved to be very grand, but its furnishings were outdated and shabby. The late earl appeared to have done very little in the way of improvements or modernization. Reggie was conscious of a slight embarrassment at the faded draperies and threadbare upholstery in the parlor. Fortunately Lady Patricia had seen to it that the wood floors sparkled with polish and there was not a speck of dust to be found. After an excellent supper of beef, roast chicken, loin of veal in béchamel sauce, truffles with wine, celery root, and glazed carrots, followed by lemon ices, the ladies retired and the three friends relaxed with port and cigars. “Reg, there is nothing I like less than interfering 11

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in another man’s business but I must speak up,” Sherwood said. “I believe you must re-think this courtship before it is too late. The child is beautiful, but she is interested in nothing but satin, lace and such fripperies.” “Miss Hanley-Swope will mature.” “Swope-Hanley.” Sherwood’s tone was sardonic. “Your optimism derives from observing the mother?” Reggie’s eyes narrowed on his friend. “Devil take it, Sherwood! The girl is perfect for me. She is beautiful and complying.” “Unless she is thwarted as to new bonnets and parasols.” “I shall take care never to thwart her on those subjects. In any case, fashion is a respectable female pastime. The girl is undemanding except for money, of which I have plenty, and she is young enough to fill a nursery.” The viscount frowned. “Reg, you cannot just turn the chit into a broodmare.” “I do not intend to do so. I shall require an heir and perhaps a spare. It seems little enough to ask of a wife in exchange for both a title and a fortune.” “Come, come, fellows,” Freddie said. “Sherwood, you sound affronted, but you know perfectly well that marriage is, in the main, a business transaction. Miss Swope-Hanley knows it too, or at least, her mama does. The girl is beautiful, a diamond of the first water, and most assuredly the best on offer at the moment. In any case, Reg cannot back out now. Expectations have been raised.” “Quite right,” Reggie said. He released a slow, deliberate breath. “Quite right. I will not hurt the girl, Sherwood.” “No, no, certainly not,” Freddie muttered. “By the way, Reg, I quite like Lady Patricia.” “I like her myself. It is good to have a relative whom one can tolerate.” 12

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“I say, Reg, what are Sherwood and I to do while you court the Diamond? Are there any pretty girls in the village?” “As this is my first visit to the region, I have no idea. Tomorrow you may sniff around as much as you like.” The earl frowned. “As long as you do not meddle with innocents. I cannot have my parish littered with ruined reputations and a parcel of byblows.” “Your parish?” Sherwood lifted a dark brow. “That sounds remarkably possessive.” Reggie glared at the viscount. As earl, he was responsible for the people of Marchmont and the nearby village. The least he could do was protect the young women from light-hearted seduction. The fact that it was the very least bothered him more than it ought. Midnight found the earl alone in the wellstocked library. Restless, he removed his neckcloth, a simple matter as he did not affect the starched, dandyish styles favored by Brummell. The cool air on his skin felt good but did little to soothe him. The manor house and its lawns called to him in a disconcerting way, as if this was his home. But he did not really belong here. Reggie poured himself a brandy and admired the way the amber-colored liquid glowed in the light from the cheerful fire. He took a healthy swallow and then, glass in hand, studied the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Mixed in with the standard classics were volumes on agriculture and farming. Idly, he chose one of the latter and was well into a surprisingly absorbing chapter on the proper irrigation of wheat grass, when he heard the clock in the hall chime the one o’clock hour. An instant later there was a knock at the glass doors that opened onto the east side of the lawn. What on earth? 13

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As he stared at the door, the knock sounded again. Reggie strode across the room and pulled back the curtain to see a cloaked and hooded figure. He opened the latch but scowled at the intruder. “It is too late for an interview, sir. Tomorrow, you may make an appointment with my steward.” “I have come to make an offer.” The voice was low and husky, but unmistakably feminine. Upon second looks, it was apparent the apparition wore a gown beneath her cloak. Reggie was oddly shocked. What sort of woman would visit a man at this advanced hour? Was she bent on seduction? He frowned at her. “This is highly irregular,” he said, uncomfortably aware that he sounded a prig. Well, confound it. He was master here and bound to set an example. Besides, his soon-to-be-fiancée slept beneath this roof. “I will not take much of your time,” the visitor said, “but this is dreadfully important. Please, may I step inside?” “What of your reputation, or is that irrelevant?” He was aware of the insult in his question and so, apparently was the visitor. She stilled for a moment then tilted her head just enough to allow him to catch a glimpse of a brilliant smile that lit a flame in his gut. “No one else need know about our meeting. I assure you, my lord, I have not come to compromise you. We can conclude our business very quickly if you will simply pay attention.” Reggie’s spine stiffened at the lecturing tone. He stood aside and she slipped through the door, filling the room with the scent of fresh earth and lavender and what he believed was soap. She moved toward the fireplace with a long-legged, confident stride that captured his attention, and rubbed her gloved hands together in front of the flames. 14

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“Well? What do you want?” he asked. She settled her hood back on her shoulders. The gesture revealed a devil’s aura of red curls bound loosely on top of her head. A sudden urge to grasp a handful of the stuff shocked him. “Good lord,” he muttered. She grimaced. “I know, it resembles a burning bush. Believe me, my lord, you are not the first to notice.” The resignation mixed with humor in her voice touched him, but he did not correct her impression. The fire that lit up her hair also illuminated her angular features. High cheekbones with a long, straight nose, a determined chin, and a pair of full, soft-looking lips. Long lashes and the shadowed room prevented him seeing the color of her eyes. Not that it mattered what color her eyes were. He wanted her to state her business and go. And then she lifted her chin, bringing her face more fully into the light. He gasped. “Good God. Are those freckles?” “Sadly, yes,” she said, “but, in truth, I did not come here to discuss my physical defects.” He would not have used that word to characterize her looks, but he did not tell her that. Neither did he mention the sudden sharp urge he felt to count those freckles with his tongue. He frowned at her. “Get on with it then,” he said. “Why this late night visit?” Honey had expected hostility and resistance. She had expected to find him irritable and uncooperative. She had not expected to find a pair of heavy-lidded gray eyes that looked both intelligent and exhausted, or a set of wide shoulders that tapered to a flat waist and slim hips. Nor did she expect to see a pair of breeches that clung to long, muscular legs like the morning dew on the grass. 15

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Honey was aware of an unfamiliar tension in her lower body and a certain breathlessness. Good gracious. Lord Marchmont, she reminded herself, was a confirmed rake. Naturally he would exude a certain amount of, well, animal magnetism. But Honey had never before been swayed by a male figure and her own response shocked her. Everything about this man suggested danger. She needed to complete her business and escape. Honey frowned, unhappy with these reflections. She had never run from anything. He strode to a table and poured a drink. He moved like a big cat, all grace and muscle. Her knees buckled. “You had better take a chair.” She dropped into a chintz-covered chair by the fire and accepted the glass from him. “What is this?” “Hemlock.” She smiled and lifted her glass in silent salute before she sipped. “All right,” he said, taking a chair opposite her, his knee almost touching hers. “Let me begin again. Who are you and why are you here?” “I am here to apply to your sense of responsibility,” she said, pulling her thoughts together with an effort. “My sister and I have started a business growing herbs and mixing medicinals, and it is crucial to us, and to the community we serve, that we be allowed to continue at Hilldale House.” His dark eyebrows met above eyes that had suddenly turned to ice. “Of course. I should have recognized you immediately from your impertinence. I can only blame the late hour. You are my infamous correspondent. Are you here only to plead for a lease, or do you have news of the highwayman?” 16

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Chapter Three Good heavens. The highwayman! The earl lifted a brow. “Miss Watson?” “Yes, um, my lord, as to that, I am afraid there is no highwayman.” “Indeed.” His face remained impassive. “I invented the villain because I suspected that the problem of Hilldale House might not be enough to induce you to leave London.” “Your suspicions were correct. I must tell you now that I do not appreciate lies.” She lifted her chin but there was nothing she could say. She had gone too far with the highwayman and she knew it. “I apologize, my lord. But as long as you are here, perhaps you could reconsider the lease.” “I have reconsidered it. The answer is still no.” His tone was pleasant. “Does that conclude our business?” She scowled, more at herself than at him. She knew she had failed to make her case, but really, the man was so distracting. One could scarcely think. Still, she could not leave without making a push for reforms on the estate. “I am afraid not. There is also the matter of your tenants.” “My tenants,” he said, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. She lifted her chin. “Someone must bring it to your attention, my lord. And, I did mention the problems in my most recent letter. They are suffering from high rents and tumbledown cottages. 17

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In short, Mr. Bottomsley has driven several families away from their homes and others fear eviction. He must be stopped, my lord. He must be relieved of his position.” The earl settled back in his chair, his muscular legs slightly separated. Honeysuckle heroically resisted the impulse to study his figure. He might be stubborn and unhelpful, but he was also a stunning figure of a man. One who might be called a Corinthian as well as a rake. “You want me to sack my steward.” She shrugged. “It is the only solution.” “You take an eager interest in my estate, Miss Watson. May I ask why?” She frowned. “I am interested in your tenants because they are my neighbors. The real question is why are you not interested in them?” There was an odd bleakness in the cloud-colored eyes. “I did not want the title or the estate. I planned to live out my days as an officer in Wellington’s army.” Something in his words spoke of pain beneath his indifferent manner. Honey felt a surge of sympathy. “In spite of that you have taken on the duty. I am certain you will find some satisfaction in that.” He stood, abruptly, as if he could bear no more of the conversation. Honey could not help noticing the way his muscles rippled under the cloth of his breeches. Her gaze lingered on the interesting bulge between his legs and she got to her feet also. It was time to go. “I appreciate your seeing me tonight,” she said, moving toward the door. “I hope you will take my requests under advisement.” “Hold a moment.” He set down his glass and strode toward her. “I shall walk you home.” Her heart skipped a beat. Just speaking with 18

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him alone in his library had made her lightheaded. What would it do to her senses to walk with him through the intoxicating spring night? She held up a hand. “That is not necessary. There is a full moon and I have lived here all my life.” “Nonsense. It is late. There could be someone about. A real highwayman, for instance.” Was he laughing at her? She scowled at him. “The tenants here are poor, my lord. A real highwayman would starve!” “Nevertheless, I shall escort you. It is part of my duty.” She barely heard the words. He had moved close to her—too close. He smelled of horse, spice, and man. She closed her eyes as an odd, yearning sensation rippled up and down her spine. “Good night, my lord,” she said. She wrenched open the door and headed out into the night, closing the door behind her. An instant later she heard the door open and grimaced, but he did not catch her up. She was spared the discomfort of taking his arm, but she was aware of his presence all the way to Upper Ickleford and her mother’s front door. **** Reggie stared at the faded tester far above his head. He had already opened the heavy curtains that surrounded the bed and thrown off his covers. He’d even discarded his nightshirt. Nothing helped. He couldn’t cool off. He couldn’t stop thinking about Miss Honeysuckle Watson’s firm little chin or her clear, direct eyes. He still was unsure of the color. Brown? Green? Some combination of the two? He could not stop wondering how it would feel to have those long legs wrapped around his hips. Would her fierce passion for her family and his tenants translate into enthusiastic lovemaking? Would she be noisy? He flipped onto his stomach then groaned 19

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when his hard spear of flesh flexed against the mattress. Bloody hell. What was happening to him? He was not accustomed to this irritating wakefulness. On the other hand, he’d seldom reached this kind of arousal without the means of assuaging it. There was no woman easily to hand here in the country. Not that a ladybird would have sufficed. His desire was focused, unfortunately, on a particular individual. An individual who was particularly inappropriate. Dammit all. Reggie flung a forearm over his eyes. He had officially become pathetic. He tried to focus on her accusations. Was it possible Bottomsley was cheating the tenants? He could hardly believe it. The steward had run the estate for a year before the old earl’s demise. On the other hand there had been almost no oversight. If Bottomsley was misusing his power, no one would have checked it. Reggie shifted his hips and grimaced. He would have to look into the affairs of the estate. He could start in the morning since it would be unnecessary to visit Hilldale House. Then he remembered the proposed parasol outing and grimaced again. Women, he thought. They were the very devil. He flopped over on his stomach and punched a fist into his pillow hard enough to make goose feathers fly. He refused to stick around Upper Ickleford to be tormented by Miss Honeysuckle Watson. Tomorrow he would ask his aunt to schedule a ball for Saturday, ten days hence. Everyone would understand that he would use the occasion to announce his engagement. Between now and then he would handle the Bottomsley situation. He would be back in London in less than a fortnight. It was a soothing thought but not soothing enough to erase the sensuous impact of his midnight 20

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visitor. The Earl of Marchmont began to count sheep. **** The talk, over a breakfast of tea, scones, baked eggs, and slices of roasted beef, centered on preparations for the ball. Mrs. Swope-Hanley, recognizing the implicit honor to her daughter, offered to help in every possible way. Gertrude, no less enraptured, focused her attention on sartorial matters and enlisted the earl as a sounding board for her choices. The decision boiled down to a crèpe lisse in bird-ofparadise yellow or a pale blue, striped gossamer embellished with “perfectly adorable” rose medallions. Reggie gave the issue his undivided attention throughout the interminable meal, but his murmurs of support and approval did not seem to sway his beloved. When the company rose from the table, Miss Swope-Hanley was still of two minds, and the discussion continued as the party set off for Upper Ickleford. It was a perfect morning for an outing. The sun gilded the windows of Marchmont Manor and hid the unkempt condition of the lawns under a rich emerald color. Luckily, the paths to the village were dry and Gertrude wrapped her small hand around his arm, apparently secure in the knowledge that she appeared fetching in what she informed him was a “simply delicious pale pink walking dress.” Reggie patted her hand. He reminded himself that all he wanted was a wife who was beautiful, biddable, and periodically beddable. He winced at a frisson of doubt. Could he really bring himself to bed such a child? He set his jaw. He would, of course, have no choice. As they reached the milliner’s in High Street, Miss Swope-Hanley’s conjectures about the parasol 21

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turned to gasps of delight as she gazed upon it through the window. The object appeared to fulfill all her hopes and dreams. Reggie allowed her words of rapture to trickle over him like the gentle spray of a summer shower, while the rest of their party stopped in the street to speak with a pair of ladies unknown to him. Reggie studied them absently. The two ladies could be twins but for twenty years between them. Both females had thick, golden hair, curvaceous figures, and eyes the color of wet violets. Reggie heard Freddie’s friendly tones but Lord Sherwood, normally the soul of good manners, was silent. Reggie glanced at his friend who appeared to have suffered some kind of a shock. Sherwood could not take his eyes off the younger lady. Well, she was a damnably pretty chit. “And this is my nephew, Lord Marchmont.” Reggie bowed, aware that his inattention had kept him from hearing the introductions. Freddie, for once more alert than Sherwood, jumped to his rescue. “The church here,” he said, “it is sixteenth century, is it not, Miss Watson?” Watson? Reggie stared at the younger woman. Could this vision with the incomparable eyes be the elder sister of his midnight visitor? There was no springy red hair, no stubborn chin, no brigade of freckles, just a classic English beauty. “Yes, indeed,” said the elder lady. “My husband was prodigiously proud of the church and he took great care of it and, of course, his congregation.” She smiled at Reggie, displaying an impressive assortment of gleaming white teeth. He gritted his own. Was he supposed to thank her for the efforts of the now-dead reverend? “With your permission, Reginald,” Lady Patricia 22

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said, taking command of the conversation. “I will invite the Watsons to Marchmont Manor for dinner.” She smiled at Mrs. Swope-Hanley. “The ladies will, no doubt, appreciate the addition to our party.” Sherwood’s eyes flared and Freddie made a bow that managed to look both delighted and enthusiastic. At least two of the guests would appreciate the addition. Gertrude’s mother was pursing her lips as if she’d just eaten a whole lemon. Gertrude herself continued to eye the parasol in the window. “Of course we include your dear sister in the invitation, Miss Watson,” Lady Patricia said, in a kindly voice. Hell. Reggie wasted a moment trying to determine whether he could have forestalled the invitation. No. The Watsons were the first family of Upper Ickleford. His aunt had been right to issue the invitation. More’s the pity. After saying their goodbyes and stopping into the milliner’s shop to examine all the merchandise and to ultimately purchase the parasol along with a matching bonnet, the earl’s party started back up the path to Marchmont. Gertrude, displaying a sure instinct for her most attentive audience, chose to walk between her mama and Lady Patricia, which left Reggie alone with his friends. “Uncommonly pretty girl,” Freddie said, clearly referring to the lately met Miss Watson. Lord Sherwood remained silent. He stared straight ahead at the path. He appeared all bellows to mend. Bewitched, almost. Reggie exchanged a narrowed glance with Freddie. It would not do for Sherwood to fall for a country chit. He was in line for an earldom but the uncle who held the title had driven his estate into the ground. Sherwood, like Reggie, needed an heir but his wife must be an heiress. A vicar’s daughter would not do. 23

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“Is it possible, Reg,” Freddie said, as if suddenly remembering, “that the lovely amethyst-eyed girl is your Miss Watson?” Reggie scowled. “Kindly do not refer to the scourge of Upper Ickleford as my anything. I believe that, astonishing as it might be, Miss Watson is the elder sister of my poisonous pen pal.” “Why astonishing?” Sherwood bestirred himself to ask the question. “No freckles.” “Freckles?” Freddie’s eyes widened. “By Jove, your Miss Watson has freckles?” Sherwood peered into Reggie’s face. “I do not recall that information from the letter.” Reggie wished his friend had remained in a daze. Or that he, himself, had kept quiet. He had intended to keep last evening’s clandestine meeting a secret. He did not believe Miss Honeysuckle Watson deserved his protection, but he would protect her anyway. “The lady in question paid a visit this morning before breakfast. She rang a fine peal over Bottomsley—accused him of all manner of haveycavey business. And she repeated her request for a long-term lease for Hilldale House. It seems she and her sister have an herb garden there from which they make up medicinals to sell.” “Does she resemble her sister?” Sherwood asked. “Good Lord, Sherwood,” Freddie said. “Did you not hear Marchmont? Freckles! Is the poor lamb very plain?” Plain? Yes, certainly. Very plain. For some reason Reggie was unable to express the impression aloud. He shrugged. “You shall judge for yourself. Apparently she is to eat at my table tonight.” As they turned from the village path onto the driveway sweep before the manor house, Reggie vowed to speak to his aunt. He would ensure himself 24

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a place next to the Diamond. Miss Hanley-Swope— Gertrude, that was—would sparkle so brightly he would be blind to Miss Honeysuckle Watson’s freckles, her clear brown eyes…or were they green? And he would ignore her long, slim legs.

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Chapter Four Honeysuckle had spent the night with her head buried under her coverlet. She had always known there was a sensual awareness buried deep within her, but she had imagined it would rise to the surface only after she had developed a true affection for a man. Her response to Lord Marchmont was most perplexing. He was, after all, arrogant, cold and unsympathetic—not only to her but to his tenants. In addition, he was the last person on earth with whom she could contemplate any sort of liaison. He was too public, too powerful, too highborn. It was all very disappointing. It was all very frustrating. He was the wrong man in every possible way. And yet he was the man she wanted. And, disturbingly, she had the impression that he wanted her too. There was that business with their knees almost touching, and there had been a spark in those gray eyes when he looked at her. At her! Honeysuckle Watson, with the flame-red hair and the freckles. She skipped breakfast and dropped to her knees in the garden. She lectured herself and battled stubborn weeds until her shoulders and neck ached, and her face was pink from the morning sun. She could not let her unexpected response to Lord Marchmont affect her plans. He had now turned her down twice. It occurred to her, belatedly, that she had been alone with him in his home at a late hour. She could have roused the household and compromised herself last night. A missed 26

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opportunity. He would no doubt avoid her from this point on. It would be much harder to get him alone now. What a gudgeon she was! Just before noon she retreated to the house, her blue cotton soaked through with sweat, her curls corkscrewing in every direction. “Gracious,” exclaimed her mama, upon seeing her in the corridor. “You look a perfect fright, Honeysuckle. Thank Providence you did not accompany us to town. We crossed paths with a party from the manor house, and Lady Patricia was good enough to invite us for dinner.” Honeysuckle sighed at the complacency in her mother’s voice. “Mama,” Violet said, as she removed her bonnet and donned an apron, “do not get your hopes up about my prospects with his lordship. It seems quite clear that he intends to offer for Miss SwopeHanley.” Honeysuckle’s gaze darted to her sister. “Who is Miss Swope-Hanley?” “She and her mama are guests of the earl,” Violet said. “She is quite young and he appears to be smitten.” “Smitten? How do you know?” Honey clamped her jaw shut the moment the question was out. What did it matter if the earl was smitten with his soon-to-be betrothed? Why should she care? “He was very inattentive during our introduction,” Violet said, with a smile. “Is not that a sign of infatuation?” Honey forced an answering smile as she tried to ignore the stab of jealousy that sliced through her. Good heavens! In any case, if Lord Marchmont were truly in love, did that not mean Violet was safe? “There is no official engagement,” Mrs. Watson said. “And, while I grant the girl is quite pretty, she is nothing to you, dearest.” 27

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Honeysuckle exchanged a look with her sister. They both knew better than to expect an offer from the earl and, of course, so did Mama. By inviting Miss Swope-Hanley to Marchmont his lordship had all but announced his intentions. The trouble was that if Honeysuckle intended to manipulate him through a threat to his reputation, she must act quickly. Once engaged, a man became all but immune to such maneuvering. “You must make the most of the opportunity tonight.” Mrs. Watson’s words were meant for Violet, but they applied equally to her younger daughter. Honey knew she would have her work cut out for her. The earl would already have his hands full with Violet and the delectable Miss Swope-Hanley. He would not be anxious to go off with Honeysuckle. She began to devise a plan. Several hours later the morning sun had disappeared behind fast-moving dark clouds. As the ladies gathered in the parlor to wait for the earl’s carriage to collect them, a clap of thunder rattled the window panes. A springtime storm appeared imminent. The thunder repeated itself with so much volume that Honey did not hear hoofbeats approaching and was surprised when there was a loud pounding on the front door. His lordship’s carriage? Her breath quickened as she opened the door but, instead of a coachman from the manor house, it was a local tradesman with a message from one of the earl’s tenant farmers. Honey scanned the note quickly. “Ned Carrington asks me to send a bottle of our tonic out to the farm,” she told her mother and sister. “He believes Daisy’s pains have begun. I shall take the tonic there myself.” “Certainly not,” her mother said. “What will Lord Marchmont think if you fail to appear?” 28

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Honeysuckle had an idea his lordship would be neither shocked nor disappointed by her absence, but she could not explain her conviction to her mother. “It will not signify, Mama,” she said, seeking to distract her. “Recall that Violet is our real objective here.” “Very true,” her mother said. She flashed a fond smile at her favorite daughter. “I shall make your excuses to his lordship and Lady Patricia.” Violet twisted her hands together. “Honey, please delay until the storm passes.” “I promise to take care,” Honey replied as she headed toward the staircase. She would change into her old forest-green riding habit and ride Nellie the two-and-a-half miles to the Carringtons’ farm. “But the tonic will do Daisy no good if I do not arrive before the child is born.” The wind swirled and howled, but the thunder halted and the rain held off as Honey plodded toward the farm on the far side of the Marchmont estate. When she arrived, Granny Plackett was bending over the fireplace in the main room but there was no sign of boiling water, and the mama-tobe, swathed in blankets, was rocking in her chair. Birth was clearly not imminent. Honeysuckle handed the phial of medicine to Granny who administered it to Daisy. For the next hour and a half the three women kept company. Most of the time Granny talked about births she had attended, but only the ones with pleasing outcomes. Despite the wind outside, the cabin felt safe and warm, and by the time Granny and Honeysuckle left, Daisy Carrington seemed more relaxed. “Not for a few days yet,” Granny said as they stepped out into the weather. “Mebbe a week. Trick is to keep her calm.” The rain had eased up as Honeysuckle set off on 29

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Nellie, but when they reached the small woods that separated the farms from the lawns of the estate, thunder exploded overhead and slashes of jagged light seared the charcoal sky. Honey kept a firm hand on Nellie’s reins, but the mare twitched and whinnied. A sudden crash of thunder sent the animal rearing on her hind legs. Honey’s heart jumped against her ribs but she shortened her reins, leaned against the mare’s quivering neck, and whispered soothing words. Nellie soon quieted and regained all fours but after only a few steps it became clear she was limping. Honey’s heart sank. She slipped to the ground and examined the hoofs. It was as she had feared. Nellie had thrown a shoe. “A fine time for this,” she muttered as thunder crashed again, this time accompanied by gusts of rain. She gazed up at the darkened sky. This wasn’t a passing shower. She needed to find shelter for both of them, and she needed to find it fast. “It has to be the old gamekeeper’s hut,” she told Nellie, keeping her voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “We shall be safe and sound in no time at all. Just leave it to me.” Minutes later the confident words seemed to mock her, as the rain drove into her face and reduced visibility to a few arm’s lengths in front of her. She plowed ahead, but couldn’t see the gamekeeper’s hut. Worse, with the rain slapping at her as if thrown from a washtub, she feared she would lead the horse right into a tree. Honey groaned in frustration. She almost wished she had not ridden to the Carringtons. She would gladly exchange these anxious moments for a seat at his lordship’s table, even if it meant watching him court his young guest. Honey pictured his dark head bending over a young beauty and, for a moment, her heart twisted and she forgot her soaked clothing and the 30

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dangerous circumstances. A sharp whinny jerked her out of her reverie and she looked up as the rain parted like a curtain to reveal a huge, dark shape outlined against the angry sky. Her heart lurched. “Honeysuckle!” Her stomach clenched at the sound of the earl’s voice. He had come to rescue her! “What in blazes are you doing out in this weather?” She lifted her chin and squinted, trying to level him with a glare despite the punishing rain. “My whereabouts are none of your business.” Unfortunately, her protest came out in a croak. “That’s where you are quite wrong, my girl. You have frightened Lucifer half to death.” Honeysuckle eyed the huge, black beast. The stallion did not look frightened. “In addition to that, you have upset your sister.” Of course. Honeysuckle bit back a sharp retort. He had come because Violet had sent him. He stretched an enormous gloved hand down to her. “Take it,” he yelled. She wanted to ignore him but she wasn’t a complete fool. She was soaking wet, exhausted, and lost, and so was Nellie. She took the hand, expecting to be hauled up on the horse behind him. She did not expect the fireworks that exploded in her chest and belly when he did so. “Good heavens!” “What is the matter?” Honey’s face burned. She could hardly explain the mysterious alchemy that affected her when he was near. “Nothing,” she shouted. He grunted. “Put your arms around my middle.” Was he joking? Her hip had slammed up against his back. That was bad enough. “No, thank you.” His big shoulders lifted and fell in a careless shrug. “Suit yourself.” 31

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An instant later he had spurred Lucifer into a trot, a movement that flung Honeysuckle upward. She came down hard on the saddle. She bit back a cry of anguish and flung her arms around him to steady herself. He turned his head to the side, presenting his fierce profile. “Sometimes it pays to follow orders.” She imagined the large, black bruises she would have in a tender area on the morrow. Perhaps he had a point. Her breath shortened as strong arms came around her and she was pulled against a wall of muscle. Good heavens! Despite the cold rain and their sodden clothing, he was warm and hard and alive against her shoulder. Honey’s heart thrummed like a hummingbird’s wings. Her blood rushed through her body, and she no longer felt the rain or the cold, only an immense heat and a building need. What was happening to her? “Do not distress yourself,” he shouted, as if he had read her mind. “We will find shelter quickly. There is nothing amiss.” Except there was. Under her skirt, between her thighs, there was a strange, new moisture. Honey shivered with the shock of the sensation, and at the sudden knowledge that this was it. This was the experience she had been waiting for. Good gracious! She lifted her hands to press against the frantic beat of her heart and drew in deep breaths of air. She rested her cheek against his back and rode the swell as he breathed in and out. She vowed not to forget a single moment of this mysterious, magical afternoon. Just for today she was a princess in distress and he was her knight in shining armor. Just for today. Moments later they reached the gamekeeper’s hut. He dismounted and then helped her off. His 32

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hands created more fireworks when they touched her sides but he let go as quickly as possible. She shivered again, this time with cold. “Go inside,” he said. “Start a fire if there is dry wood. I will shelter the horses.” Within a few minutes she had lit a blaze and located two old, dusty blankets. The door opened and he entered—large and dripping, with a scowl on his harsh features. His masculine presence seemed to fill the room, to fill her. The devil earl. Honey’s throat went dry. Why had she never before recognized male beauty? For some reason the dark half-moons beneath the piercing gray eyes twisted her heart. Lord Marchmont might look like a Greek statue but he fatigued, just like any mortal. Honey handed him one of the blankets. “Thanks.” He unfolded and shook it out. “You indicated this was your first trip to Hertfordshire,” Honey said. “That is correct.” “Then how did you know about this cottage?” His smile was neither sardonic nor arrogant. It was a true smile and it made Honey’s breath catch in her throat. “Logic. Gamekeeper’s cottages are standard, I believe, on country estates. Besides”—his grin widened, revealing strong, white teeth—“a soldier develops a nose for shelter.” She had forgotten his military service. No wonder he was so comfortable issuing commands. And then he was moving toward her and, once again, she found herself short of breath. Was he going to ravish her here and now? Would he sweep her up in his arms? Regrettably, it seemed not. He used the blanket to dry her face and rub some of the moisture out of her hair as if she were a child and he a nursemaid. 33

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And yet she did not feel like a child. Her skin tingled where he had touched it, and in other, more hidden places. His touch on her long, damp hair was strong, secure. “You are very good at this, my lord. Have you done it before?” His hands stilled and she wished she’d left her thoughts unspoken. “Have I dried a woman’s hair before? Not precisely in this way.” He sounded amused. “Even wet, your hair seems to have a life of its own.” Instinctively Honeysuckle brought her hands up to cover the wretched stuff, but he covered them with his own. “I meant it as a compliment. It is really quite wonderful hair.” Was he mocking her? She turned to glare at him, and his hands dropped away. She shivered again. A moment later he began to unwind his neckcloth. “I wonder,” he said, in a matter-of-fact voice, “could you help me get my jacket off?” The dark blue jacket, made of superfine, fit closely during the best of times. Now it was plastered to his muscular torso as if it had been painted on him. Honeysuckle tugged and pulled until he was free. And then he stood before her in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. “You look as if you have glimpsed a ghost,” he said. “Do I?” Her hands flew up to her burning hot cheeks. Wonderful. Blushing, she had learned long ago, did not improve the appearance of her freckles. “Honeysuckle?” She could not seem to look away from him. “Hmm?” “It is your turn,” he said. “My turn?” 34

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“We must get you out of those wet clothes.” The slight huskiness in his voice emboldened her. Perhaps he was as affected by this strange situation as she. She fingered the top button of her green jacket but she could not seem to make herself push it through the buttonhole. What was she doing? “Come,” he said, removing her fingers. He undid her jacket, slid it off her shoulders and removed her skirt. “We cannot allow you to get a chill.” He draped the blanket around her shoulders and pulled it together so she was entirely covered. “Let us sit on the bed.” She gulped. “The bed?” “It is the only piece of furniture in the room. We can share a certain amount of body heat if we sit side by side.” A smile transformed his harsh features and Honey’s heart seemed to turn over. “You are in no danger with me, Honeysuckle. You are as safe as you want to be.” His words should have relieved her. But did they? She had been safe all her life. This man made her want to leave that safety behind. She settled on the bed next to him, the blanket snug around her. She wanted his hands on her again. She wanted his skin under her fingertips. She wanted to know more about the heat between his thighs and her own. Her cheeks burned and that odd sensation surged through her veins. Desire? Did he feel the same? “What took you out to the farms this afternoon?” he asked, his voice matter-of-fact. Disappointment sliced through her, sharp as a hunting knife, followed by humiliation. He was making polite talk. He did not want to ravish her, after all. She swallowed hard. “I took a potion out to one of the farms,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “It is used to relax women during their confinement. But it was a false alarm. A first 35

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baby and an overanxious papa.” She thought he would change the subject but he did not. Instead he asked many questions about Ned and Daisy Carrington. He asked, too, about the herb garden and the medicinals, and her embarrassment faded. “My own mother died in childbirth,” he said after a few moments of silence, and then stiffened as if surprised at his own words. “Was that when you were born?” Honey asked, touched that he had confided something so private. “No. My brother. He died at the same time. I was six.” “You missed your mama.” “As did my father. His remarriage proved to be a disaster for both of us.” Sympathy for the little boy swept through her and she placed a hand on his forearm. The muscles beneath her fingers flexed and strained and she jerked her hand away. Dear God. He did not want her touch. “I did not expect to inherit the title,” he said, seeming not to notice her embarrassment. “My late uncle had a succession of wives, but none produced an heir. None of them”—he paused—“even survived childbirth. In my family, you see, the production of a child often results in the death of the mother.” “Poor Miss Hanley-Swope,” she murmured. “Swope-Hanley.” He frowned, as if she had reminded him of something unpleasant. And then he slid his arm around her shoulders. “I do not suppose you have a magic tonic for that?” She was having trouble getting a breath. He was so close, so warm, so male. “Sadly, no.” She scarcely knew what she was saying. His gray eyes focused on the fire and her awareness of him turned to pity. 36

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“I believe I understand your reluctance to come to Hertfordshire, my lord,” she said. “Your family memories are painful ones. What ultimately changed your mind?” His gaze shifted to her. She could not recall ever seeing such long lashes on a man. Long and dark. Sinful. “There were reports of a highwayman.” Honey grimaced. “I am sorry.” “There is no need.” He sighed. “I wanted to check on my aunt and it was time to accept responsibility for this place.” She was so close to him she could see glints of gold in his gray eyes. The heat of his big body and the rumble of his deep voice radiated inside her. A wave of longing swept through her. She felt limp and warm and wanton. She closed her eyes. “You may be interested in knowing that I examined the estate books earlier today,” he said. “I have come to the conclusion that the rents are too high. Tomorrow I shall meet with my steward.” Honeysuckle blinked. He wanted to talk business? Not only that, he was willing to grant at least one of her requests? She smiled. “And you will fire Mr. Bottomsley?” He laughed, and the unaccustomed sound made her want to throw her arms around his neck. “One step at a time, Miss Watson.” It was a start. “Thank you, my lord.”

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Chapter Five Her smile had a powerful effect on his lungs. And on another troublesome part of his anatomy. He could not take his gaze away from the warmth in her clear, brown-green eyes, and he could not stop wondering whether the enticing freckles on her face were repeated in other locations. She was not beautiful, not in the strictest sense, but there was a vitality about her, an animation, that melted the ice around his heart. Without caring for the consequences, he reached out and touched her cheek. The contact triggered a blast of heat that fired his entire body and left him rock hard. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. If this had been one of his usual companions, a mistress or camp follower, he would already be between her legs. But this was Miss Honeysuckle Watson, respectable spinster daughter of the late vicar of his parish, and he was all but engaged to someone else. He must not touch her. “My lord?” she said, her brow wrinkled. “I have a question.” He lifted a brow. “How do you do that? I mean work your eyebrows independently? It is very effective, I promise you. It makes you look quite—” “Wicked?” “I would say intriguing.” Intriguing. Was she flirting with him? A jolt of desire shot through him. “You had a question?” 38

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“It is more in the nature of a favor.” Her eyes were huge in the pale face. Well, damn. A favor. He sighed. “Is this about Bottomsley?” “No.” She bit her soft, full lower lip and his blood surged. “I wonder if you would mind…that is…I have never been properly kissed and, well, I would very much like you to do it.” She wanted him to kiss her? He gazed at the bitten lip, at her small white teeth, and the urge to explore them with his tongue was almost irresistible. Dangerous, he should warn her. But the words remained unspoken. At his silence, her lips closed and a faint blush stained the soft skin under the freckles. She believed he had rejected her. She was hurt. Bloody hell. He slid one hand behind her slender neck and lowered his head. Her scent, lavender, and maybe sage? Jasmine? Whichever, it was unique and intoxicating. Her lips quivered as he brushed them lightly with his own. He drew back a moment later, his chest constricted, his breathing heavy. “Like that?” The clear eyes regarded him steadily. “I thought there would be something more.” Reggie stifled a groan. He was not used to selfdenial. “I must be honest with you, Miss Watson. Honeysuckle. I am afraid of the something more. I am afraid I will not be able to stop with a kiss.” Her beautiful lips spread into a warm and welcoming smile. Dear God. He wanted to get inside her, inside her mouth, inside her soul, and more than anything, inside her body. With an effort, he controlled himself. And then she slid her arms around his neck. She brought her mouth to his and an instant later, her tongue, untutored but enthusiastic, explored the inside of his mouth. Reggie’s groan reverberated in his chest. 39

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She drew back. “Is that wrong?” “Wrong?” His voice was a mere croak. “Yes. Completely wrong. And completely perfect.” He took her mouth again. A wave of possessiveness swept through him and he flattened one palm against the hollow in her throat. She shivered at the touch and he allowed himself to cup one firm, supple breast. Through the thin material of the chemise, her flesh quivered, and when he rubbed his thumb against her erect nipple, she moaned. Galvanized, Reggie bent his head and suckled her. She let out a little yelp of surprise at the same time that she arched up for more. “My God, you are responsive,” he gasped. His blood pooled in his groin and desire raced through his body. He was desperate to have her, desperate to mate. And why not? She obviously wanted this. He slid his hands under her chemise to the soft, smooth skin of her thighs. He stroked her carefully, holding back his own needs, making certain she was ready. She moaned as he slid a finger between her plump folds and felt the warm, hot honey. He nearly went mad. God, he wanted her. “You are ready for me.” His lips were against her throat and she swallowed hard. He took her mouth with his and, at the same time, used his thumb and forefinger to rub the sensitive folds of skin and was rewarded with a series of faint gasps. He sifted through the soft curls. He would wager his estate that they, too, were the color of fire. Someday, he promised himself, he would find out. Not today. Her internal muscles clenched around his probing finger, her breathing harsh and uneven. “Please, do not stop,” she whispered against his lips. He grinned. “I would not dream of stopping,” he said, just before he thrust his tongue back into her mouth and increased the pressure and speed of his 40

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fingers. She writhed against his hand and erupted. He held her against him as she cried out and struggled to catch her breath. He had bedded more than his share of females in his time, but he could not remember one this responsive. She lay against him, her face buried in his neck, her body limp. He stroked her back and murmured nonsense into the springy curls. He was still hard, throbbing with need, and yet, unutterably content. It was a unique sensation for the Earl of Marchmont. When she finally regained her breath she squirmed against him. Her soft belly pressed against his aching flesh, and he groaned. She lifted her head. “My lord?” “I think it is time for first names.” It took all the control he could summon to keep his tone light. “Reggie, then. Am I hurting you?” She really was an innocent. No doubt he should be horsewhipped. “Not precisely. I am in a somewhat delicate condition, and need relief.” “Relief?” She pressed one hand against his chest to lift herself up and the movement lodged his erection between her thighs. He surged against her and bit back another groan. “Oh, gracious heavens,” she said, her eyes wide. “Tell me what to do.” Desire rode him hard but he had regained a modicum of control. This afternoon he had ruined her and sealed their fate, but for what it was worth—and he knew it was not much—he’d preserve her virginity. He released his hard length from his breeches and wrapped her hand around it. Her eyes were dark brown now, and as big as saucers. “It is warm, and so hard underneath,” she whispered, obviously fascinated with her introduction to the male anatomy. “Should I move 41

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my hand?” Her touch brought him almost to the edge. “Yes,” he bit out. She stroked him lightly. “Like this?” “Harder.” She tightened her grip and he gasped. “Like this,” he instructed, loosening her hold, curling her fingers around him, moving her hand in the rocking motion he liked best. He threw back his head and closed his eyes. “Does that feel good?” He lurched up into her hand and twisted his hips, helplessly. “You have no idea.” At his words, she increased the speed and pressure, murmuring wordlessly as she threw one leg over his to anchor his body. Need gathered in his thighs and belly. And then it was too late to cushion the blow. He erupted into her hand. “Oh! Oh, gracious!” “I am sorry.” Her hand still clutched him. He lifted it and wiped it dry with his shirttail. “I know it is shocking.” “Not shocking. Just a surprise.” Her eyes twinkled. “It made me feel powerful. I should like to do it again.” He smiled. “I only wish I could oblige. A man, you see, needs time to recover from this type of activity.” “Ah,” she said. “Perhaps later then.” Later. Good God what had he been about? There could be no later. She sounded remarkably calm for a woman whose entire future had changed. And what of himself? His plans must alter too. And those of Miss Swope-Hanley. He could not seem to summon the requisite sense of doom. Perhaps he was numb. “I believe the rain has eased,” he said, sitting up. “It is time to dress.” 42

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Honeysuckle untangled herself from the earl’s muscular body. She could scarcely believe that she, Honeysuckle Watson, had spent the afternoon making love in the gamekeeper’s hut. It had probably been a huge mistake but she was not sorry. From the moment she had met him, the arrogant, uncooperative Lord Marchmont had called up strong feelings in her. The anger and frustration she had felt from her unanswered letters had quickly changed to something else. A kind of awareness. She knew now that awareness was attraction of the deep and sexual kind. This afternoon’s passionate encounter with the Earl of Marchmont had been the most important experience of her life. She refused to regret it. He clearly felt differently. Reggie tucked in his shirt and re-tied his neckcloth with quick efficient fingers. He put out the fire and refolded blankets, with wordless efficiency. Moments ago, they had both been soft and damp and relaxed from lovemaking, but now he seemed as remote as the winter moors. “You appear to be angry,” she said. “You are very perceptive.” His tone was dry. “You are sorry about what happened between us?” “It was a miscalculation.” A miscalculation. She ignored the lump in her throat. “I collect you are worried about how this will affect your future,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “There is no need. I am a fully grown woman and this was something I wanted to do. You did not coerce me.” He glanced at her and she thought she saw a flicker of surprise in the hard gray eyes. “I wanted it too, but I was in the wrong. I am all but promised to another woman.” She knew that. What she did not know was why 43

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her heart seemed to be curling into a small, hard ball in her chest. Surely she had not believed that an afternoon tryst with the devil earl could be more than a dalliance. “I am equally to blame,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am aware of your houseguest and your situation.” “My situation, as you call it, has changed. My houseguest must be disappointed.” His tone was abrupt, final. “I will speak with your mother as soon as we return to the manor house.” She frowned. “Speak to her about what, my lord?” His eyes narrowed to slits of ice. “Do not pretend ignorance, Miss Watson,” he said. “I shall offer for your hand.” Honey’s stomach dropped. What had she done? She had executed her plan to retain Hilldale House without even realizing it. It was ironic, really, but she could see no humor in the situation. None at all. She knew, suddenly, she could not bear to become betrothed to the Earl of Marchmont, and she knew why. She loved him. She loved him. It had happened very fast but Honey had no doubt it was true. She forced the unpleasant realization out of her mind, strode across the room and poked a finger at his chest. “You will not offer for me, my lord. If you will put aside your foolish sense of honor and use your head, you will realize that no one will know what happened this afternoon. No one will even suspect it, if you just keep quiet, and there will be no harm done. We can each go back to our lives. I do not believe your houseguest will find you to be damaged goods.” A flush ridged his high cheekbones and his eyes shot sparks of fury. “I cannot say the same for you, 44

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Honeysuckle.” He pointed behind her. “You allowed me a husband’s privileges on that bed.” She flinched. “Not entirely. My virtue is technically intact. There will be no consequences. And, as I said, I wanted this.” “And what you call ‘foolish honor’ is the quality that has protected women for centuries. If you do not choose to avail yourself of what I believe is your right, there is nothing I can do. However, my foolish honor”—his voice was thick with disdain—“forbids me to make an offer to Miss Hanley-Swope.” “I believe it is Swope-Hanley, my lord.” “Dammit to hell, Honeysuckle!” His voice thundered over her head and reverberated through her rib cage. He loomed over her, his eyes flashing and his face dark with fury. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. Instead she lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at him. “If you ask for my hand I will say no,” she said. “Even though it ruins my reputation.” “Stubborn chit!” She smiled. “I daresay I am.” She held out her hand. “Truce, my lord?” His lips twisted, but he shook his head. “This is not right.” Once again, Honeysuckle ignored the heaviness of her heart. This was not a fairy tale. He was not her knight in shining armor. He was a peer of the realm who’d been caught in a cottage with a young woman, and had succumbed to lust. An old, worn-out story. She could not let him believe he had bruised her heart. “I would like to ask you again, my lord, to allow my family to remain at Hilldale House.” His eyes flared and she knew she’d shocked him. The harsh lips twisted into a sneer. “That sounds dangerously like an exchange of goods for services, madam.” 45

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She refused to look away from his accusing eyes. “Does it? Well, I am a practical person. A country woman.” He was still holding the poker he had used to put out the fire. Suddenly he flung it across the room with so much violence that it smashed the lone window. Honeysuckle shivered and drew her arms around her waist, but she did not move back. “Of course,” he said. His tone was tight, but even. He had already brought himself under control. “Certainly you may have the lease to Hilldale House. Please accept it with my compliments along with my apologies for this afternoon’s folly.” Honey nodded. She could not immediately trust herself to speak. It had not been folly. It had been wonderful. But it ought not to have been. She knew that he could have insisted upon a marriage between them. She knew she must be grateful that he had not. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. He bowed. She thought his face a little pale but perhaps that was natural. He had almost found himself leg-shackled to a woman he did not even like. They did not exchange another syllable all the way home. **** The woman was a candidate for bedlam. Reggie left both horses in his stable and accompanied Honeysuckle back to Upper Ickleford on foot. The thunder and lightning had moved off leaving a persistent drizzle, but the disagreeable weather meant there was no one about to see him. He returned to the manor house and entered through the backdoor, calling for bath water as he bounded up the back stairs. Moments later he slid into the warm depths of the copper tub. She did not wish to marry him? He barked a 46

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laugh. Their fate had been sealed from the moment they had crossed the threshold of the gamekeeper’s cottage. Perhaps earlier. He had been drawn to her since she had shown up at his door at midnight. Perhaps even earlier than that. If he were honest, he would admit he had been intrigued by her letters. Few people dared lecture Reggie Wanstead, army captain. Fewer still spoke in such a way to a lord of the realm. She had not feared him. Had, in fact, wanted him. The memory of her glowing eyes and eager hands made him instantly hard. Damnation! They must marry. She would become a countess and he would have a reckless, stubborn wife. Their offspring might not be beautiful but they would not want for courage. He could not imagine leaving Honeysuckle at Marchmont while he went up to town to his mistress. He shook his head. From now on there would be only one woman in his bed. His blood surged. But first he had to change her mind. Reggie smacked his fist along the side of the copper tub. Forty minutes later, armed with a glib story, he presented himself to the company in the dining hall. “Please forgive my tardiness,” he said to Lady Patricia. “I finally discovered Miss Honeysuckle Watson. She had taken shelter at one of the tenant farms, but I am afraid she was wet through and her horse lost a shoe.” Violet gasped. “Oh heavens. Is she all right?” Reggie smiled at her. Odd how he felt warmth for Miss Violet Watson but no heat. Doubtless it was her want of freckles. “Miss Honeysuckle decided to go back to Hilldale House to dry off and warm up. She will join the house party tomorrow, as, I hope, will you, Miss Watson. I am certain Miss SwopeHanley, her mother, and my aunt would welcome 47

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your company until the ball.” “There now,” Mrs. Watson broke in, apparently unable to contain her excitement at the invitation. “That is a very handsome offer, my lord, and I will accept on behalf of both my girls.” Reggie smiled. Did the widow intend for him to marry Violet Watson? Or had she given up the field to Gertrude and her mama, and was now angling for Sherwood? It scarcely mattered. Reggie’s fate was sealed. There was, he supposed, a silver lining. At least Honeysuckle was passionately interested in the estate. She would help him get it in line. “It is so good to have you back, my lord,” said Mrs. Swope-Hanley, as Reggie took his place at the head of the table between mother and daughter. “Gertrude has been beside herself with worry for your safety. Have you not, my love?” Miss Swope-Hanley fixed large blue eyes on Reggie. “Yes, of course. I hope the rain did not ruin Miss Watson’s costume.” Reggie winced at the irony of the word. “I believe her costume will survive.” “Good.” The blue eyes were entirely serious. “It is a great tragedy to lose a favorite gown.” “A great tragedy, indeed.” He patted her lovely, white hand reassuringly. She was a nice child. He regretted the need to keep her at Marchmont under false pretenses. She did not deserve such a trick. But if the Swope-Hanleys left, there would be no house party for the Watsons to join. “What has occupied you this afternoon, my dear?” Gertrude did not smile. “I am still trying to decide whether to wear my white peau de soie to the ball.” “Ah. Another contender has entered the ring?” He listened to her description of the gowns. It was rather a relief after the tumultuous afternoon. 48

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She required no response, and he was able to turn his thoughts to the most pressing problem at hand. He had to convince Honeysuckle Watson to marry him, even if it killed them both.

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Chapter Six A long sleepless night did not soothe Honey’s agitated spirits. Neither did the breakfast table news that she and Violet were pledged to stay at the manor house for the next eight days. She recognized Reggie’s hand in this. Despite his obvious lack of affection for her, and his patent regret for the circumstances that demanded an offer, he had not abandoned the notion of arranging a marriage between them. Drat the man! Lust tinged with despair surged through her. She did not want to want him. And she did not want to stay under the same roof as the devil earl. But it would be dangerous to beg off. She must behave as if nothing had happened. Once he affianced himself to Gertrude Swope-Hanley she, Honeysuckle, would be safe. The prospect failed to cheer her. “Are you all right?” Violet asked, laying a hand over Honey’s. Honey forced a smile to her lips. “Oh yes. In fact, there is good news. The earl has agreed to let us continue at Hilldale House. He told me yesterday, when we took shelter from the storm.” “Was that while you were at the Carringtons’ cottage?” Violet asked. Honeysuckle did not wish to lie to her sister. She took refuge in vagueness. “I believe we discussed the matter during the walk back to the village. I could not ride Nellie, you know.” “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Watson said, with a touch of impatience. “His lordship was good enough to say he 50

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would have her re-shod. Now I want both of you girls to pack carefully. Violet must look her best throughout the visit and, Honeysuckle, you must do what you can to make a good appearance.” Honeysuckle gaped at her mother. “But, Mama, we will be allowed to stay at Hilldale House. There is no longer any need to throw Violet at the earl.” “As to that, I have decided it would be a very good match. The earl is personable and wealthy. Why should not Violet become a countess?” “What of his sobriquet?” Honey asked. “The devil earl?” Mama spread her hands. “What young man of face and fortune does not sow his wild oats? He will settle down readily enough with marriage.” “But his lordship is all but promised to Miss Swope-Hanley,” Violet said, her cheeks flushed. “He does not want to marry that milk-and-water miss,” Mrs. Watson said. “At least he won’t after he has spent some time in your company, my dear.” Violet shivered, and Honeysuckle wished she could comfort her sister. She felt fairly confident that Violet, her uncommon beauty notwithstanding, would not suffer the offer of the earl’s hand. In fact, if Honey had not forbidden it, the man would be here now asking for Mrs. Watson’s less attractive daughter. She smothered a sigh. It would not do. “I suppose Miss Swope-Hanley is very beautiful,” Honeysuckle heard herself say. “Very beautiful, indeed,” Violet agreed. “Also very young.” A strange pain stabbed under her heart. Did Reggie love the girl? She closed her eyes and reminded herself it did not matter. Violet was safe, Hilldale House belonged to them, and Mr. Bottomsley would be called to a reckoning. That would have to be enough. **** 51

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The sisters were greeted with varying degrees of warmth upon their arrival at Marchmont Manor later that afternoon. Lady Patricia was all that was kind and welcoming. Mr. Farnsworth was jolly. And despite her discomfort, Honeysuckle could not help but see the way Lord Sherwood’s blue eyes seemed to glitter when he looked at her sister. Violet was not unaffected. To a casual observer she appeared as composed as ever but Honeysuckle noticed her heightened complexion, and the hand that clenched by her side whenever his lordship looked her way. Honey prayed Violet had not been spared the interest of one nobleman just to succumb to that of another. Mrs. Swope-Hanley was polite but distant, and Gertrude seemed preoccupied. At first Honeysuckle worried the younger woman had found out about yesterday’s rendezvous, but it soon became obvious that Gertrude’s concerns centered on whether there was time before the ball to send to London for a new gown to be made up by her mantua maker. The entire party was still in the foyer when Lord Marchmont appeared somewhat belatedly. He welcomed Violet with a warm smile and a kiss on the hand. He nodded to Honey. “You seem to have recovered from your unfortunate experience,” he said, his voice stiff and formal. She stretched her lips into a rigid smile. “I have.” She nodded. “I thank you again for rescuing me.” The earl offered Violet his arm, and the rest of the party followed them into the salon. “A rescue!” Miss Swope-Hanley whispered to Honey. “It sounds so romantic. Did his lordship seem just like a knight in shining armor, Miss Honeysuckle?” 52

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Honey almost choked, remembering her first view of the earl astride the big, black stallion, and the pleasure she had enjoyed with him later on the bed. “The experience was quite like a fairy tale,” she replied. After tea, the young people set out for a stroll in the gardens. Lord Sherwood quickly appropriated Violet, and Gertrude took Lord Marchmont’s arm. To her relief, Honeysuckle found herself with the Honorable Freddie Farnsworth who had a ready store of conversation. They had just reached the outer edge of the paddock when a red-faced young man arrived on horseback. “Jacob.” Honey hurried over to him, feeling the earl’s eyes on her. “Whatever is the matter?” “Miss Watson.” The young man dismounted and removed his cap. “My lord.” He bowed to Reggie but addressed his remarks to her. “Steward have thrown out Ned ’cause of him being in arrears two months. They must leave tomorrow.” Honey turned to the earl and found his gray, impersonal gaze on her. He had not, after all, done anything for his tenants. Fury lodged in her throat as she strode over to him. “The Carringtons are your tenants and they have nowhere to go!” “I am aware of whom you speak,” he said. “Well? You said you would do something about this disgraceful situation!” Lightning flashed in his storm-colored eyes. “I will remind you, Miss Honeysuckle Watson, that I have been in Hertfordshire less than forty-eight hours, and all of yesterday afternoon was taken up with rescuing you from the storm.” A fine excuse! She wagged an accusing finger at him. “This family’s problems are real and pressing, and they cannot wait until you can fit them into your 53

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schedule.” She turned to Jacob. “Please tell Ned I am on my way.” He nodded and turned his horse. It was only when the hoofbeats began to fade that she realized she had no horse. She was a guest at Marchmont. “I will get you a mount,” Reggie said, immediately identifying her problem. Honey was unwilling to let go of her fine temper. “No, I thank you. I prefer to walk.” She ignored the protests of her sister as she strode off after Jacob. She was overheated and damp with perspiration when she reached the cottage, but she had devised a plan. She would bring Ned and Daisy to Hilldale House. After all, the place was hers now, for all intents and purposes. At least yesterday’s “miscalculation” had resulted in something useful. But before she could communicate her plan to Ned, he met her at the cottage door with the news that his wife’s labor was well underway. Honeysuckle had never attended a birth before, and by the time the child emerged, squalling and healthy, into the world, she was emotional and exhausted. No wonder they called it labor. She helped Granny clean up and then stepped out into the warmth of the early evening, almost too fatigued to walk home. She needed to speak with Ned but when she finally located him in the yard behind the cottage he was smoking a cigar. And he was not alone. Honey glared at the earl. “What are you doing here?” One quizzical eyebrow lifted. “I have come to walk you home,” he said, ignoring her rudeness. Honeysuckle groaned inwardly. Her gown was stained, her face flushed, and her hair corkscrewed in every direction. Lord Marchmont, in contrast, was attired in a spotless outfit consisting of biscuit54

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colored breeches, a dark blue jacket of superfine that molded to his strong shoulders and trim waist, and linen of the snowiest white. He looked so splendid he quite took her breath away. “His lordship says as we can stay in the cottage,” Ned said. “And he has lowered the rents!” Honey’s heart melted a little at the earl’s unexpected kindness. She smiled at him, and then produced another smile for Ned. “I am happy for you and Daisy, Ned,” she said as the earl moved toward her and took her arm. “Please let me know if you need anything at all.” Ned nodded and waved after them. “God bless you, Miss Honeysuckle. And you, my lord.” They walked in silence until they were clear of the yard. “You were right, you know,” he said, finally. “All the tenants have paid too much rent. They will receive credit for that. And you will be pleased to know that Bottomsley is gone.” She glanced at his hard features. He had fired his nip-farthing steward? “I see.” “I did not do it because of you,” he said. “Bottomsley is a scoundrel and a thief. I would have discovered as much eventually.” She laughed up at him. “But it was because of me that you discovered it now.” He smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through the clouds on a gloomy day. Honey’s knees felt like jelly. “Are you all right, Miss Watson? You seem a bit fagged.” The emotion and the effort of the day were catching up with her. Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids and she realized how much she needed his strong arm, just as it tightened to steady her. “Ned told me you assisted with the birth? It is unusual for an unmarried young woman.” 55

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“Not in the country,” she said. “But I will admit it was my first such experience.” “This has been a week of first experiences for you, has it not, Miss Watson?” Her cheeks warmed at the memory of what they had done together in the gamekeeper’s hut. Was that only yesterday? Fortunately, the earl did not seem to require a response. “Ned seemed remarkably happy with the babe.” “Yes. Very happy. But I believe men are always delighted when they produce a male.” Honeysuckle was surprised at the bitterness in her own voice. “I always wonder at the logic. If every man had nothing but sons, how would any of them reproduce?” “I imagine that what you see as a bias is merely the relief of getting a healthy child who will perpetuate the family’s name.” “Huh.” “And, then, some men are taught that it is their responsibility to produce an heir in order to maintain a family’s estate.” “Men like you.” “Yes.” “I believe you and Miss Swope-Hanley will produce remarkably attractive children,” Honey said, and was then aghast at the inappropriate words. “The same thought had occurred to me.” She grimaced and he tightened his hold on her arm again. “You seem out of sorts,” he said, amusement in his calm tone. “As you point out it has been a busy week. A hard one.” “A hard one,” he repeated. This time the amusement danced in his eyes. “An excellent choice 56

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of words.” Honey did not have either the experience or the energy to reply to that. They paced across the field in silence until Reggie began a conversation on the topics of wheat grass, irrigation, and crop rotation, telling her he intended to repair all the tenants’ cottages over the course of the next year. Honey listened, surprised and pleased at his plans for the future. “I gather you have decided it will not be so bad to be the Earl of Marchmont.” “That is so.” “I am glad. Will Miss Swope-Hanley take to living in the country, do you think?” His arm tensed under her hand. “My wife will have to adapt to country life. I intend to spend most of my time here, in future.” Honeysuckle ground her teeth and wished she had minded her tongue. His plans meant she would see him frequently, along with his wife and growing family. It was a grim thought. When they reached the manor house Honeysuckle excused herself from dinner. The earl had a tray sent to her room, an act that brought tears to her eyes. The last thing she wanted from Reggie Wanstead was kindness.

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Chapter Seven During the next few days the manor house resembled controlled chaos as everyone helped with preparations for the ball. Because the event had been scheduled with such short notice Lady Patricia asked her nephew to extend personal invitations to the residents of Upper Ickleford. Naturally, Mrs. Swope-Hanley wanted her daughter to accompany the earl on these visits. Perhaps unnaturally, his lordship insisted upon Miss Honeysuckle Watson’s company as well. After all, he reasoned aloud, Miss Watson already knew everyone in the village. Honey gritted her teeth and performed the introductions. Occasionally someone, the vicar’s mother, for example, or Mrs. Crosswitch from the milliner’s shop, would engage Gertrude in a discussion of fashion. During those moments Honey attempted to determine whether the earl cared for Miss Swope-Hanley, but her observations netted very little information. He was always polite and courteous to Gertrude—and everyone else—but she detected no particular partiality. Neither was there anything in the manners of Miss Swope-Hanley that indicated affection for the earl. Gertrude seemed content to talk with Lady Patricia, her mama, Violet, or even Mr. Farnsworth, about the importance of lace cuffs and netting, while Reggie spoke mostly to Honeysuckle about the prospects for a good harvest, whether a doctor could be lured to Upper Ickleford, and how quickly the estates roads could be repaired so that the post could 58

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be reinstated at the outlying farms. Honey was both pleased and flattered that he solicited her knowledge and opinions. Lord Marchmont might just become an excellent landlord, after all. It was merely an unfortunate side effect that his solicitousness for his tenants made him even more attractive in her eyes. It would be very hard to hear the announcement of his betrothal on the night of the ball. All too often, Honeysuckle found herself wishing that she might retroactively accept his offer of marriage, but she knew she could not. She had planned to compromise herself, and while she had more or less stumbled into the actual ruinous incident, she had sought what happened between them in the gamekeeper’s hut. In any case, he did not deserve a forced marriage with a wife he did not love. She hoped he would come to love Miss SwopeHanley, but she prayed she would not have to witness it. The time she spent with the earl was bittersweet, but very precious, and it seemed to fly past. Two days before the ball at which the engagement would be announced, Honeysuckle needed fresh air and a change of scenery. She visited the earl’s kitchen, packed a basket of food, and set out to visit the Carringtons’ small family. The atmosphere in the cottage was cheerful. Ned was in the midst of planting wheat grass, following a suggestion of Reggie’s, and for the first time in many months, he owed no money. While they welcomed her offering, other neighbors had sent plenty of food, and the infant, Ned Junior, was enjoying excellent health. The visit improved Honeysuckle’s spirits and she said farewell with a smile on her face. Just before she stepped out into the yard she permitted herself to fantasize that, once 59

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again, Reggie would be waiting for her but, of course, there was no broad-shouldered earl leaning against the fence with a cigar in his hand. Her throat ached with unshed tears, but seconds later, a shooting star of happiness pierced her when Reggie appeared beside the gate. Honeysuckle met his direct gray gaze, but she bit her lip. She had known these past few days that she loved the earl, but she hadn’t realized until this moment how deeply she had fallen in love with him. A gust of wind blew strands of his thick, dark hair over his forehead. The impulse to brush it away from his face was so strong she fisted both hands. Honey could hardly breathe. He did not seem to notice as he fell into step beside her, his own hands clasped behind his back. He stared straight ahead, a preoccupied frown creasing his brow. “You really would make an excellent countess,” he said, finally. “Your curiosity extends to everyone on the estate, and they like and respect you.” His words were like a knife wound. The Countess of Marchmont would need more than the respect of the people. She would need the earl’s love. “You have gained their respect this past week,” Honey said, turning the conversation away from herself. She did not want to cry in front of the man. “There is hope now. You cannot know what a change it makes. The people are convinced you will take care of them.” He did not answer, but continued to walk with his eyes straight ahead. After a few moments, he paused. “My lord?” she said, stopping also. “I have to know,” he said, his gray eyes intense. “Have I succeeded with you, Honeysuckle? Do you finally believe I will take care of you?” Honey’s heart hitched and tears stung her eyes. “It was never a question of that, my lord.” 60

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“I wish you to call me Reggie.” It was not a good idea but Honey did not want to argue. She nodded. “What,” he asked, his hands still clasped behind his back, “if I told you I wish to be responsible for you? And that I would like you to be responsible for me? I think we can rub along together tolerably well. I believe we could be good partners. We both care for the tenants and the estate. I believe that together, we can deal with whatever problems life offers up.” His words inspired such a mixture of pain and pleasure that, for a moment, Honey could not breathe. It was almost a declaration of love. Almost. But Honey refused to fool herself. Since the afternoon in the gamekeeper’s cottage, Reggie had been courteous and kind and solicitous, but he had not even tried to hold her hand or steal a kiss. She had observed the strong sense of honor that was as much a part of him as his wide shoulders and his gray eyes. She was under no illusions. This proposal today, the one that was almost a declaration, was prompted by that sense of duty. He was offering marriage to salve his conscience and he was willing to make the best of it. She loved him for it, but she forced herself to give him the answer he was looking for. “I assure you, my lord—Reggie,” she said, her gaze on the ground, “what happened between us is in the past. Forgotten.” “Not by me.” She glanced up at him. The gray eyes glittered, and there were hollows in his lean cheeks, as if he were holding his breath. Why? Surely he did not want her to say yes. “And what of your understanding with Miss Swope-Hanley?” “It is not, thank God, an engagement. There will be no dishonor to her reputation, and I really am too 61

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old for her. She would be quite unhappy with me in the long run. I intend to speak with her mother and make whatever reparations she deems appropriate.” “Then you do not love Miss Swope-Hanley?” He shook his head. “I wish to marry you.” Honeysuckle’s heart thudded. There was something in those slate-colored eyes. Was it possible he cared for her just a little? Her breath caught in her throat and nearly strangled her, but she knew there was a question she must ask, a question whose answer would determine her entire future. “Do you love me?” A shadow crossed his face, and then her heart. He had not expected the question and he did not have a ready reply. But she had her answer, anyway. “I appreciate the honor,” she said, keeping the crushing disappointment out of her voice and her face. “But as I have mentioned before, I do not wish to marry.” She turned away, this time without his arm. “Honey.” She blinked away tears before she turned back to him with what she hoped was a warm smile. “Yes?” “I have a question too. Is it possible that you are in love with me?” Honeysuckle ground her teeth. It was times like this she wished she had learned the art of the flirtatious lie, but that kind of dissembling had always been foreign to her. She was accustomed to confronting things head on. “I am sorry to say I am, my lord,” she said. “But do not let it discompose you. I am certain it will pass.”

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Chapter Eight Saturday was bright and clear. Outside Violet’s bedchamber at the manor house, birds chattered and sang in celebration of the summer morning. Honey, already dressed for the day in a daffodil-colored walking dress, and come to fetch her sister, flashed her sleepy-eyed sibling a determined smile. Today was their last day here. Tomorrow they would be back at Hilldale House and life would return to normal. The knowledge lay heavy on her heart. “Lady Patricia has offered us her maid for tonight,” Violet said. “I think we should accept. We do not want to embarrass the earl or his guests with our country hairstyles.” “Whatever you wish.” “Honey?” Violet’s voice was tentative. “I do not wish to make you unhappy, dear, but I am uneasy. I am afraid you have come to care for the earl and that the announcement tonight will be very painful for you.” Tears trembled in her violet-colored eyes. Honeysuckle sat down on the bed. “Do not distress yourself, dearest. Lord Marchmont will not become engaged to Gertrude,” she said. “He believes there to be too many years between them.” Violet paled. “But if that is the case why has he not informed Gertrude’s mama?” “I am afraid that is my fault.” In explanation, Honeysuckle recounted the episode in the gamekeeper’s hut, omitting the more salacious details. Violet’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Honey. You took such a chance!” 63

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“It was a lovely experience, Vi, and I convinced myself it was worth the risk at the time.” “And now?” The sensation in Honey’s chest was almost a pain. “Now I fear I am paying for my sins.” Violet gasped in horror. “You have fallen in love with him?” Honey nodded and Violet put her arms around her. “Oh, Honey.” Honey blinked back tears. “Indeed.” After a long moment, Violet spoke again. “I perceive you have his lordship’s interests very much at heart.” She hesitated. “I would not wish to falsely accuse anyone but it seems to me that Mrs. SwopeHanley is very determined to have Lord Marchmont as a son-in-law.” “I would have to agree with that assessment. But really, I believe he is just as determined not to have her as a mama-in-law.” “But his lordship is a man of honor and I do not imagine that Mrs. Swope-Hanley will confine herself to the same rules.” Honey pulled away from her sister and stared. “What are you saying, Violet?” “Only that I would not be at all surprised if the lady has devised a stratagem for ensuring her goal. You know how remarkably easy it is to manipulate a compromising situation.” Honeysuckle nodded. She did, indeed. In fact, it was a testament to her own emotional turmoil that she had not considered such an eventuality before. It was so very like her original plan. Honeysuckle frowned. “I did not allow him to be pressed into an unwanted marriage with me and I will not allow it to happen with Gertrude, either. Such an arrangement would be misery for all but Gertrude’s mama.” “But how will you prevent her?” 64

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“I do not yet know but you may take my word on it. His lordship was my rescuer on that day in the woods. Now I will return the favor.” Violet smiled. “You will be his knight in shining armor?” “Precisely.” It would be the last, best thing she could do for the man she loved. An hour later the entire household gathered at the breakfast table. Honey was determined to shadow her prey throughout the morning, but when the last sausage had been eaten and the last cup of tea drunk, the earl asked Mrs. Swope-Hanley to join him in the library. Honey waited in the small parlor nearby. It was a shame she could not listen to the conversation but there was really no need to hear the exact words. She felt certain that Reggie was explaining that he would not be marrying the Diamond after all. When the door swung open some minutes later, Mrs. Swope-Hanley swept out of the room, her magnificent shelf of a bosom leading like the prow of a ship, her face flushed, and her small eyes squinting. She headed up the main staircase in full sail, and Honeysuckle fell into her wake. It was not easy to be unobtrusive in a house that bustled with preparations for the ball. Honey kept losing sight of her as the matron was waylaid with questions or comments. Finally, Honey realized she would do better to keep an eye on Gertrude, who tended naturally to be in her mother’s vicinity. Even so, it was not until after luncheon that the skulking paid off. “Gertrude, my dearest,” her mama said, “I would like to take a turn around the garden. Would you be kind enough to accompany me?” Honey’s heart leapt. She lingered in the dining room until mother and daughter had left the house, 65

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and then she grabbed a basket and a pair of shears and fell in behind them. If questioned, she would claim to be cutting flowers to decorate the house. Honeysuckle hurried through the shrubbery and had just noticed the hedge was much in need of pruning when she heard a low voice. “Tonight is your betrothal ball, my love.” Honey leaned into the greenery to listen. “I know,” Gertrude said. “I have an idea to wear hundreds of pearls in my hair. Or do you think Lord Marchmont would prefer diamonds?” Honey, hidden behind a scraggly hedge, winced. She hoped Gertrude would rebound quickly from her disappointment when Lord Marchmont did not propose. “Pearls are always best for someone your age, dear,” Mrs. Swope-Hanley said. Honeysuckle thought she detected some exasperation in the maternal tone. “Gertrude, I have an idea and I would have you listen carefully.” “Is it about the blue sash? I only chose it because it matches my eyes but if you do not agree, well—” “Gertrude!” Honey jumped as the name crackled in the air like a bolt of lightning. “Yes, Mama? Is there something wrong?” “Not wrong, no.” The mother’s voice was quieter, so that Honeysuckle had to strain to hear it. “I wish you to pay strict attention to me, though. I am a tiny bit concerned that Lord Marchmont, Reggie, has not spoken to you as yet.” “He has been much occupied with the estate,” Gertrude said. “Honeysuckle and I have been helping him. Why, yesterday, we made an inventory of the furniture in the salon. Some of it must be shipped to London for repair.” “I commend your interest in such household 66

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chores, dear. You will make an excellent countess.” “I suspect his lordship would prefer someone like Honeysuckle,” Gertrude said. “She knows about so many things, and she makes him laugh.” “Of course she makes him laugh,” Mrs. SwopeHanley said tartly. “All he must do is look at those freckles.” “Mama, I do not think the freckles are so bad.” “Gertrude!” “Yes, Mama?” “I want you to remember that a countess has so many gowns she need never wear one a second time.” “Yes, Mama.” “And there is something else. I want you to go to his lordship’s bedchamber tonight, at precisely six o’clock.” “Whatever for? He will be dressing for the ball, and Fanny will need hours to twine the pearls in my hair.” Honeysuckle thought she heard a sigh. “I cannot explain all the particulars right now,” Mrs. Swope-Hanley said, “but you must do as I say. Remember, dearest, six o’clock.” “Do you wish me to wear my ball gown?” “No, indeed. It is too early to put on your dress. Just wear a wrapper over your chemise.” “That does not sound proper,” Gertrude said. “Dearest.” The word came through clenched teeth. “You are to marry his lordship. Now, do you understand what I have said?” “Go to his apartments at six o’clock tonight. Shall I wear the wrapper with the tiny dragons on it?” “Yes, dear. That will be perfect.” **** The earl leaned back in the copper tub. He lifted a soaking cloth and allowed water to drip on his 67

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naked chest and belly. He had made the mistake of recalling what Honeysuckle called “the incident” and he was thoroughly aroused. He forced himself to consider his morning’s interview. The Dragon had taken his defection well. He had expected to have to defend himself for raising false expectations but no condemnatory word passed those pursed lips. He wondered why. Was it possible she had decided her daughter could do better? Unlikely. His personal charms aside, eligible earls were not thick on the ground. So, perhaps he had misjudged Gertrude’s mama. He dismissed the Swope-Hanleys from his mind and pictured flame-colored corkscrew curls, soft, resilient flesh, and large eyes filled with animation and love. He tested the word on his tongue. Love. “Are you in love with me?” “I am sorry to say I am.” He had thought of very little else in the past two days. If she loved him, why had she rejected his suit? Again? It was a question he intended to ask, and not merely with words, as soon as the ball was over. Reggie curled his fingers around himself and closed his eyes. He remembered her eager hand, heard her quick pants of excitement. Desire streaked through his body. Jesus. He did not have time for this now. He had a ball to get through and a stubborn redhead to convince. He put his hands on the sides of the tub, pushed himself to his feet and grabbed a length of toweling. The soft fabric brushed against his turgid member and he winced. A moment later he shouldered into his dressing gown taking care not to close the front. He would think dampening thoughts until he regained his control. A sharp knock on the door made him jump. “Come in,” he said, expecting his valet. “Reginald?” His aunt stood stock still, her wrapper tightly 68

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belted around her waist, rags in her gray hair, and her eyes focused on his swollen flesh. Mother of God. Reggie grabbed the edges of his garment and closed it. It was too late, of course. Much too late. When she lifted her gaze, she appeared to be focused on the window curtains behind him. “Gracious heavens!” Mrs. Swope-Hanley pushed her way into his chamber. “I do not know what to say. I am shocked and saddened, my lord. Shocked and saddened.” She did not look shocked and saddened. She looked triumphant. Much too slowly he realized he had been set up. Gertrude must be secreted somewhere in his room. In the wardrobe, perhaps. “Lady Patricia,” Mrs. Swope-Hanley said, a quiver in her voice that matched the jiggle in her bosom. “We cannot wait for the banns. Surely, you can see that.” The look on Lady Patricia’s face bore no sign of mercy. “I can see that,” she said grimly. Reggie closed his eyes. The Dragon had outflanked him. Mrs. Swope-Hanley had won. He would have to marry Gertrude, not Honeysuckle. Despair fisted in his chest. “Fortunately,” Mrs. Swope-Hanley said, “I have secured a special license. The earl and my daughter can be married forthwith.” “Mama? Am I too late?” asked a voice from the corridor. An instant later Gertrude Swope-Hanley stepped past her mother and Lady Patricia. Her hair had been built into an elaborate coiffure and she wore a very chaste-looking wrapper embellished with tiny creatures. Dragons? “The pearls would not stay in my hair and Fanny had to take them out and begin again.” Mrs. Swope-Hanley’s face resembled a pudding that had melted into a puddle. Her mouth opened 69

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and closed, trout-like, without emitting a sound. “It appears,” Reggie drawled, “there will be no need for a hasty wedding.” “You are quite mistaken.” Lady Patricia’s normally pleasant voice contained a hard edge. “I believe that a special license will be needed after all.” Reggie followed her gaze to the figure seated in the center of his bed. Static from the sheets had made the red hair fly in all directions, and the pondwater eyes were the size of Wedgwood saucers. His jaw dropped even as heat flared in his stomach. Honeysuckle here? How could he not have seen her before? How could he have failed to see that blazing red hair? He supposed he had been rather busy since removing himself from the tub, but still. He stared at her. He wanted nothing more than to enclose her in his arms, to thrust his tongue into her mouth, to claim her body, to make her his in every way there was. She had done this on purpose. Like the Dragon, Honeysuckle had set up a compromising scene, only she had done it to protect him. “Lady Patricia,” Honeysuckle said, “I beg you would not blame your nephew. It was my fault that Lord Marchmont could not speak with Gertrude and her mother until today. I am responsible for creating the circumstances for this situation. Please believe that his lordship meant no disrespect for either Gertrude or me. Neither of us has been compromised.” The older lady’s expression was not unkind. “I appreciate what you are saying, Honeysuckle, but there are too many witnesses here. People will find out you were in Reginald’s bedchamber, and you will be ruined. You must marry.” Tears pooled in Honeysuckle’s brown-green eyes as she shook her head. 70

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“That is enough,” Reggie said, using his field commander’s voice. “This farce is over.” He ushered the others, including his behind-hand valet and Freddie, who stood in the doorway staring goggleeyed at Gertrude in her wrapper. “There will be no stigma attaching itself to Miss Honeysuckle Watson’s name. I hope I make myself clear.” “But, Reginald,” Lady Patricia began. “Do not fret,” he said, in a gentler voice, “all will be well.” He closed the door and turned back into the room. He half expected to see Honey back on her feet heading for freedom, but she was still there sitting in the middle of his four-poster bed like a forlorn queen on her throne. Just where she belonged. He sat next to her. “This feels right,” he said, sliding his fingers into her hair. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I wanted to help.” “You succeeded. There can be no ambiguity about my future with Gertrude, and I have you to thank for that. It seems I underestimated the Dragon, and that she underestimated you.” Honeysuckle grimaced. A tear splashed down her cheek followed by another. “I knew that you were a master with a plan,” he continued, “but I had no notion you were capable of such a devious turn of mind.” His fingers moved to the soft skin of her neck and massaged gently. “I imagine the future will be filled with revelations, new aspects of you to love.” Honeysuckle went very still. “Love?” “Can this be a surprise to you, dearest? Surely you must have recognized the connection between us.” “I thought it was merely alchemy.” He chuckled and pulled her onto his lap. “There is that, of course, but there is so much 71

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more. I have lived a rough life by choice. I did not expect to find a woman who is so passionate in her defense and protection of others, so generous in the gift of herself.” He studied her beautiful eyes and smiled. “It is a gift I mean to take for myself if you will have me.” He paused, surprised by the unexpected emotion that rose in his throat. “I will not make a biddable wife.” “It is an over-rated quality.” “I am too impulsive.” “You are passionate.” “I am not, well, not to put too fine a point on it, I am not beautiful.” “Beauty is a matter of taste. I believe once the ton sees you, freckles will be all the rage. In any event, I think you beautiful. Inside and out.” Her lovely eyes were grave as she bit her full bottom lip. She was unconvinced. He had to give her the words she longed to hear. He took her hand, holding her gaze. “I love you, Honeysuckle. I do not know quite how it happened,” he said, “but you are in my heart.” She put out a hand to touch that organ and it thumped hard in his chest. He covered her hand with his own. “You see?” She nodded and gave him a misty smile. “I feel the same you know,” she said. She took his hand and pressed it against her breast. His lower body leapt back to life. “Damn,” he breathed. “We must get a special license of our own. I cannot wait to post the banns. Three days, Honeysuckle, and then you will sleep with me every night for the rest of your life.” She slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. “I will make an exception, my lord. Just this once I will be very biddable indeed.” 72

A word about the author... Ann Yost is a former newspaper reporter and freelance humorist. The mother of three grown children, a daughter-in-law, and a brand new son-inlaw, she lives in Northern Virginia with her reporter husband, Pete, and Lucy, their golden retriever.

Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication. For other wonderful stories of romance, please visit our on-line bookstore at www.thewildrosepress.com. For questions or more information contact us at [email protected]. The Wild Rose Press www.TheWildRosePress.com To visit with authors of The Wild Rose Press join our yahoo loop at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/thewildrosepress/