Meet the Earl at Midnight E-Book

Gina Conkle

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 511

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Beast captures a Beauty The reclusive Lord Edward, Earl of Greenwich, never shows his face in London Society. Gossip pages claim he's mad, so it's no wonder Lydia Montgomery is horrified when she's packed off to his estate for a marriage of convenience, but she'll do anything to save her mother. Can they set each other free? Lydia would rather devote all her time to her art, but a deal's been struck with the phantom lord—the first man who understands her need to paint. With the passage of time, an undeniable passion grows. And if love is what she wants, Lydia must unmask the man everyone believes is a beast…or lose him forever.

Leseprobe

MEET THE EARL AT MIDNIGHT

GINA CONKLE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Letter from the Author

Keep reading for an excerpt from Gina Conkle’s next Midnight Meetings series novel, The Lady Meets Her Match

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Gina Conkle

Copyright © 2014 by Gina Conkle

Cover art and design by Barbara/Forever After Romance Designs

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972628

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, NYLA.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

This one’s for you, Dad. You encouraged a quiet teenager to take risks and try new things.

Guess what? She did!

CHAPTER1

Don’t bargain for fish still in the water.

—Indian Proverb

Edge of London

March 27, 1768

If a woman’s old enough to wear a corset, she’s old enough to know midnight meetings spell trouble. Lydia’s sleep-fogged brain weighed this undeniable fact against family duty. Of course, duty won. Why else would she be cocooned inside a shabby hack on a dark and blustery night? The quicker she extracted her stepbrother from his latest mess, the quicker she’d be cozy again in her warm bed. Bleary-eyed, Lydia peered at the Blue Cockerel. The inn’s shingle, a blue rooster cracked up the middle, squeaked a lively rhythm. The establishment was hardly worth a map’s mention. Worse yet, the driver stopped a long, puddle-filled distance from the entrance. Lydia glanced down at her best and only pair of buckle shoes; tonight, the limits of family loyalty would be tested.

Outside the hack, her stepfather, George Montgomery, protested the driver’s fare. His pockets always held dust better than coin. He groused and huffed but eventually dug deep for the requisite payment. That’s when he caught her eye.

“Look lively, gel. Storm’s kicking up…don’t have all night,” he snapped, wrestling down his hat against blasting winds.

“You asked for my help,” she muttered and exited the hack.

Icy gusts nipped her ankles. Shivering, Lydia pulled her short red cloak tightly about. This time the blighter went beyond the pale. After all, wasn’t he the one who pounded on her door, yelling she must come at once? Her trips to London were so rare, and she barely arrived two days ago. Why was her presence at this run-down spot so important? She hop-stepped from one cobblestone to another, piecing together fragments of what George had said on the ride over.

“Tristan’s in a mess…really done it this time…need your help…keep quiet and cooperate…be a good gel…best for the family and all that.”

“Good girl, indeed,” she scoffed, absorbing the information.

As a woman of four-and-twenty, she had shed that biddable nature long ago. Not that he would know. Sparse communication weakened already thin family ties. A heady dose of drowsiness kept her quiet; all the better to be done with this business. Her stepbrother stirred up trouble one way or another.

Then her shoe squished in some questionable muck.

“Lud, even the road isn’t decently cobbled.” She inspected the damage and foisted her skirts higher. “No need to ruin a hem on this fool’s errand.”

Right then, the heavens conspired against her. A shock of rain poured down on her head, thunder boomed, and Lydia rushed after George. He pressed a shoulder to the inn’s ramshackle door, and they burst into the common room.

Empty, it was.

Oh, a dying fire and a whiff of an unnamed, unpleasant aroma welcomed them. Lydia shook damp skirts and spied a boot wipe. The Blue Cockerel raised a notch in her estimation for offering the amenity. In the act of scraping one shod foot, she paused, her foot hovering over the bristled wipe. Old George’s eyes nearly bulged from his head. She followed his stare to shafts of light spilling from a poorly hung door abovestairs. Signs of life. Lydia righted herself and noticed his Adam’s apple bobbling up and down in the way of a nervous lad.

“George?” She touched his sleeve. “Are you well?”

“Well? ’Course…feel fine, fine.” He slid a finger inside his collar and craned his neck like some strange bird. “Let me do the talking, eh? All else fails, think of your mother.”

“Mother?” Suspicion edged her voice. “What’s she got to do with this? Aren’t we here to get Tristan?”

“We are. We are.” George doffed his hat to finger comb stray graying hairs, avoiding eye contact.

Footsteps, a steady cadence in blackness, drew her attention again to that cracked door. Lydia peered into the gloom, and uncomfortable cold penetrated her skin. A sylphlike figure paced back and forth, back and forth. The tiny hairs at her nape quivered from another kind of chill.

There it was.

A large shadow. That monstrous shape, a floating specter, flickered past gaps in warped wood. Light slivered away when the figure moved. An occupied room at a public house shouldn’t cause concern, but she swallowed hard at the sound of those eerie steps. Someone abovestairs waited for them. This had to be a different kind of trouble.

“Let’s get Tristan and go home,” she said, her voice uneven.

“Right.” George tugged at his waistcoat and kept a cautious eye on that door. “Remember, be on your best behavior.”

Lydia grimaced at George’s back but followed him up creaking stairs in silence, doing her best to stave off worrisome nerves. How odd, this place. Everywhere, tables heaped with dirty dishes and half-empty tankards of ale, as if someone cleared the inn on a moment’s notice. A pair of beady-eyed rodents, bold in their watch, hunched over a crust of bread. Lydia hugged her cloak tight, unable to shake the haze of being off center and ill placed. Even more, she was poorly prepared. In her haste, she failed to comb her hair or don a corset. Though well covered, she squirmed at that brazen fact. As she took a bracing breath, the room’s odor assailed her again.

“Ugh, sour rags.” She pressed a hand under her nose. “That’s the horrible smell.”

Somehow, identifying that mundane lack of housekeeping helped her calm.

George’s fist pounded the door. “Shh, gel.”

“Why? Are we insulting the rats?” She rolled her eyes.

“Enter,” a male voice called from within.

A push against warped wood, and metal hinges whined their slow, high-pitched complaint. The door swung wide. Strangers—two men, tall and rather large—occupied the tight space. Tristan was nowhere in sight. A narrow, rumpled bed stretched vacant and forlorn. That alarm went off in her head again, yet George stepped into the room and waved her to follow. Lydia stepped past the threshold, and her inquisitive nature shushed those warnings for a better look at what she found inside.

A huge, sun-bronzed man leaned beside a tiny window, as nonchalant as you please. Her jaw dropped at the sight of him. Bald as an egg, he was, and sporting a full beard with three little braids to boot. A gold hoop gleamed from his ear. A pirate? Or a ruffler? He brought to mind those beefy men who roamed unsavory streets, smashing heads first, asking questions later, though he was nattily dressed in ruby-red velvet under his frock coat. Despite her best manners, she gaped.

Ah, but the other man was more mysterious, what with his collar flipped high and tricorn pulled low. A plain, oiled cloak covered him from his face down to his battered boots. A slit of eyes was the only sign of humanity. Any moment now, Lord Mysterious, a highwayman for sure, would brandish a musket, and they’d be done for.

“Montgomery,” the cloaked man greeted George and gave her a fleeting look.

“Milord.” George, hat in hand like an errand boy, spoke to Lord Mysterious but jabbed a thumb at her. “I’ve done as we agreed and brought her, but I haven’t yet broke the news to…to her mother, leastways. There’ll be hell to pay, if you know my meaning. Women can be all weepy and such about these things.”

“Your parley with Mrs. Montgomery is no concern of mine,” said Lord Mysterious.

For a highwayman, he spoke rather well…and George did address him as milord.

What was this again about her mother? And where’s Tristan? Lydia hugged herself for warmth and inched closer to the door’s shadows. George failed to inspire confidence the way he wiped his forehead and squirmed. She couldn’t be sure if that was sweat or rain on his face.

“If I may, milord, you’re a reasonable man. I was wondering, really, that is, I was thinking there must be another way.”

“Another way?” The cloaked man’s voice held a soft, menacing note. “You came to me with this bargain.”

Bargain? What bargain? Her head snapped to attention. Lud, but she should’ve pressed for details. The unsettling way her stepfather kept curling and uncurling his wide-brimmed hat didn’t bode well.

“If you could find a mite of forgiveness…maybe give me some time to find another remedy?” George spread his arms in supplication. “Lord Greenwich, please…surely, in your youth, you’ve done some reckless deeds—”

“Don’t.” Lord Greenwich’s voice cut short George’s blather.

The elusive Edward Sanford, Earl of Greenwich.

Thunder cracked overhead. The window’s wavy panes rattled.

The cloaked man was none other than one of England’s highborn sons, and Tristan and George’s employer. Her sigh of relief was loud enough that both strangers glanced her way.

Tristan’s in a pickle if nobility’s involved, but at least they weren’t in the company of common thugs. All things considered, a rare view of the eccentric Earl of Greenwich made the midnight rouse worthwhile. The men conversed in low tones, and Lydia indulged her curiosity, blatantly staring from the folds of her hood. Shameless behavior, of course, but why dither over that? Any woman in her shoes would do the same.

The Phantom of London. Enigma Earl. The Greenwich Recluse.

You had to be hiding in a cave to have not heard one of those infamous monikers. A scientist of note, he vanished a few years past from the public eye. Broadsheets claimed he never ventured out in the light of day. People whispered of a carriage bearing the Greenwich coat of arms, an ominous black conveyance tearing about Town, curtains drawn. Some said the earl suffered from madness. Some said he was stricken with a hideous, disfiguring disease. These silly stories came to mind because she read them to Great-Aunt Euphemia, who thrived on a steady diet of gossip pages.

Lydia pushed back her hood a fraction for a better look at London’s favorite phantom. When he raised his head, she glimpsed dark eyebrows and strands of gold-brown hair framing what must be his face hidden behind the collar. Apparently, the Enigma was blond. She smiled, recalling the whimsies of Town chatter when it eventually made its way to humble Wickersham. Shrouded as he was, one could see why so many peculiar assumptions abounded. Truly, George conversed with a slit of eyes. At that picture, a yawning laugh escaped her.

“Something funny, gel?” George snipped.

“Did I laugh? Sorry about that.” Lydia covered her mouth, not caring a whit. “I thought we were here to save Tristan, not have a midnight meeting with your employer. Not sure why I’m here.”

“Like I told you in the hack. Silence, gel—”

Lord Greenwich stopped their exchange. “Be nice, Montgomery, or you’ll find me less lenient. No more delays. She goes with me…as per the agreement.”

Lydia snapped to attention. All vestiges of her hazy drowse vanished.

“What did you say?” Her head tipped toward the earl.

Lightning flashed. Pulsing brightness danced behind the nobleman’s shrouded bulk.

“You heard me.”

“Yes, I heard you, but I thought we were here to save Tristan. What’s this about an agreement?”

His dark eyes narrowed on her. “You are here to save your stepbrother…in a manner of speaking.”

“Then where is he?”

“His whereabouts are not my concern.”

Now this was all very cryptic. Lydia planted a hand on her hip, and taking a deep breath, tried for clarity.

“But I thought he was in some kind of minor scrape.”

“There’s nothing minor about your family’s troubles.” The earl scoffed, and his cultured voice sharpened. “I wouldn’t call your stepbrother borrowing money from some unsavory types minor. He came begging for help not long after he started his apprenticeship. My man of business”—he gestured to the well-dressed man near the window—“obliged him with a loan. When Tristan couldn’t repay that debt, he stole from Sanford Shipping. Your stepfather made matters worse by trying to cover it up…from me.” His lordship’s tone lightened at this. “Even lifted some coin for himself. But we waste time. You know this already.”

Lydia digested the news: Tristan and George were thieves; the earl found humor in the fact that they tried to pull the wool over his eyes; and he assumed she was fully apprised. Worse yet, Lydia was somehow embroiled in this mess, a mess that looked to be more than a paltry few coins lifted from a till. She glared at her stepfather, who shrunk under her withering stare, and then she faced Lord Greenwich.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, my lord, and this sounds like a worse muddle than what’s typical. But I fail to see what this has to do with me.” Irritation building, she enunciated each word. “If you please, sir, the hour is late, and my skirt is soggy.”

She shouldn’t take a nursemaid’s scolding tone with nobility, but thunder cracked overhead, a reminder of the nasty storm, and her patience ran dry. She had things to do come daybreak. The hearth’s fire flickered orange light across his lordship’s exposed slice of humanity, and his dark-eyed scrutiny softened.

“I understand this is all very abrupt, Miss Montgomery. We need to begin with proper introductions. I am Lord Greenwich.” The earl gave a small bow and motioned to the bald man. “And this is Mr. Jonas Bacon, my man of business.”

Her gaze snapped to Mr. Bacon’s hulking form. He managed a thin veneer of respectability by the fine clothes he wore and the good grace of a noble’s company. Man of business? What kind of business was one question banging around her head among the others crowding for space, but good manners prevailed. Lydia curtsied greetings before taking a deep breath and trying anew with sleep-deprived tolerance.

“Yes, I know who you are. I’ve gathered that much. But what do you mean by this agreement?”

The earl’s dark eyes widened under his black brim. “Are you telling me you know nothing?”

Doubt threaded his words, but she wouldn’t let that bother her.

“I’m very much uninformed, sir. I knew my stepfather was in your employ as clerk, and recently Tristan, but this is the first I’ve heard of any thievery. Terrible news…but I’m at a loss as to how my presence makes a difference.”

That slash of topaz-dark eyes searched her face, and the fine hairs on her neck bristled again. Heavens, she had nothing to hide, unlike these men. His lordship exchanged a glance with his man of business. Five of Mr. Bacon’s fingertips braced a washstand in relaxed repose, yet his indifference belied a pair of alert, assessing eyes. The earl sighed behind the collar as he faced her.

“My apologies, Miss Montgomery, I was led to believe you were an informed party”—he cast a sharp-eyed look at George—“on all aspects of this predicament.”

George coughed, and his thin body hunched within his greatcoat.

“Allow me to explain,” the earl continued. “More than a fortnight past, I confronted your stepfather with evidence of the theft. Of course there’d be a trial…certain conviction due to overwhelming evidence…incarceration at Newgate…unfortunately for your mother, the Compter—”

“TheCompter?” she yelled. “Are you mad? My mother won’t go there…least of all for something George did.”

“—until the debts have been satisfied,” Lord Greenwich finished. “Of course, being past your majority, you are in no way under familial obligation.”

Her stomach lurched at his casual discussion of her mother in that ancient Cheapside prison. Damp, moldy bricks reeked of death and excrement, casting its horrid pall long before the edifice came to view. Debtors and their families toiled in darkness, slogging for years before gaining freedom; others wasted to nothing, forgotten by the outside world. Scrawny children, released in daylight, begged and scrambled for ha’pennies while standing in filthy gutters, all in the name of repaying family debts. And the horrors of a woman alone…she shuddered. Lydia was of an age and free; her mother, shackled to George, was stuck. Forever.

“There must be another way.” Her voice rose with each word. “How bad is this blasted debt?”

He raised a gloved hand to halt her onslaught of words.

“No hysterics, please—”

“You talk of sending my mother to the Compter, and you’re bothered by hysterics,” she bit each word at him and took a step closer.

His lordship’s eyes closed a moment, as if he dipped into a well of forbearance. “If you’ll remain calm, I’ll finish.”

Lydia scowled at George, who was too busy wiping perspiration from his forehead; she’d get no help from that quarter. She wouldn’t put it past him to implicate her mother in some way just to weasel his way out of any consequence.

“There is an amenable solution…a plan, if you will.”

“Yes, I’m most interested to hear what plan was concocted withoutmyknowledge,” she said, glaring at the earl.

“Please understand, Miss Montgomery, I thought you were in full agreement to the solution your stepfather presented.” The cadence of his voice slowed. “Call it a creative remedy to satisfy an urgent requirement of mine.”

“I don’t care what you need. My mother will not go to that hellish place.”

“Careful, Miss Montgomery,” the earl cautioned. “You’re in no position to make such pronouncements…such is the way of things with theft and debt, an imperfect justice system to be sure.”

Lydia inhaled quickly, about to give his high and mightiness the sharp end of her tongue.

“Wait.” He raised a gloved hand. “I’m not without compassion. Understand, the power to resolve this matter rests in your hands.”

Lydia was sure she had the red-faced bearing of an angry fishwife. But he was nobility, and George and Tristan were clearly at fault.

“Go on, then.” Her arms clamped over her chest, bunching damp garments. “You said something about a plan.”

“Your stepfather overheard a conversation I had with my solicitor at Sanford Shipping. He knew of a particular and rather urgent need of mine. To get to the point—he offered you.”

“Offered me? You want to employ me to pay off this debt?” Lydia canted her head sideways. “That’s what this is about?”

Lord Greenwich had the nerve to be amused. At least she took the muffled sound behind the collar to be a laugh. Beside him, a heavy log rolled and split apart in the hearth. Firelight flared a bright dance of orange and yellow, exposing his splinter of skin.

“No, Miss Montgomery, I don’t want to employ you.” He paused, and topaz eyes scrutinized her. “I need you for a different purpose.”

Though bare of corset or stays, Lydia couldn’t shake the sensation of whalebone pinching her ribs. Breathing became difficult. Male stares bored into her, waiting. Her fingers dug at scratchy wool and muslin.

“Me? Why?”

His lordship sighed overlong and repeated in a monotone voice, “Because Tristan and your stepfather stole—”

“No,” she huffed. “I’m not a half-wit. I mean, why this odd trade? Makes no sense. If not to employ me and repay the debt, then what for?”

The earl’s shoulders squared. His dark-eyed look reached across the space and pinned her.

“More precisely, I need your body.”

CHAPTER2

Even a fish could stay out of trouble if it learned to keep its mouth shut.

—Proverb

“You are mad as a March hare.” The rude words slipped off her tongue. “Why would you need my body?” Lydia’s leather shoes scraped uneven planks as she inched backward.

“I assure you, I’m quite sane.” The earl watched her, clear-eyed and focused. “I need an heir. I’ll expect you to provide one for me, and possibly a second in due time.”

He stated his requirements as if this were simply a matter of course. They could have been discussing a mundane transaction of flour or wool. The deafening rush in her ears competed with the steady drum in her chest, muddling her brain. As the midnight hour approached, her life opened an unwelcome door, and the cascade pouring down on her was not appealing by any stretch. She had plans of her own and was quite done with men.

“And if I refuse?” Lydia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I will seek justice.”

Her mother’s gentle face clouded her mind, but under the folds of her cloak, Lydia’s hands covered her abdomen. Her womb was a negotiation piece. Babies…children were meant to be the fruit of something close to perfection between a man and a woman…something close to that perfect, dreamlike memory of her mother and long-dead father. Children deserved to grow into their own dreams and desires, not live as pawns or game pieces for the fulfillment of others.

The pressure, so much to absorb, caused a nagging throb. Lydia’s hand moved to her forehead. Her fingertips massaged her temple, wishing away George, Mr. Bacon, Lord Greenwich, this whole mess. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to picture her mother once again, and a different coldness that owed nothing to the weather crept over her. Lord Greenwich’s smooth, hypnotic voice broke the silence.

“Come. Step into the light.”

Lydia opened her eyes. Beside her, George licked his lips as his glittering, avaricious gaze bounced between her and Lord Greenwich. That calculating gleam of his…the irksome man saw an opening to bilk the situation.

George raised his index finger. “Perhaps, milord, we can renegotiate—”

She groaned.

“Jonas,” Lord Greenwich called behind him.

Mr. Bacon nodded his shiny pate and grasped the unspoken request. The velvet-clad brute moved off the wall with surprising grace for one his size. Then, some shuffling of feet, a firm redirection or two, and his lordship’s man of business gripped the back of George’s cloak with one hand, removing him, like a broom sweeping out refuse. The big man finished the job by shutting the slanted door neatly behind him.

“Perhaps I spoke to the wrong Montgomery.” The earl tipped his head in invitation. “Please. Come closer. This evening’s been an unexpected trial.”

No harm in that. The bewildering night might end well, if she could just have a sensible conversation with his lordship. After all, a peer of the realm ought not to marry a woman of little consequence, especially when one considered the dynasty in question. Matters could be negotiated, if only the earl would be reasonable.

But Lord Greenwich studied her with a different potency in his dark eyes. Lydia lowered her lashes, aware of how men’s minds worked. She needed to regroup and gather her wits, but the earl must have sensed her wariness, or so she guessed when he extended a gloved hand.

“Please. This need not be unpleasant.” His voice lulled her. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“Meaning sometimes you do,” she snipped.

A muffle of low, masculine laughter floated from his collar. “Only on a full moon.”

His quip surprised her much like a clue revealed. Still, this midnight meeting defied reason, best she use caution. When she didn’t move, his hand dropped to his side. His lordship’s presence grew bigger in the tiny room, though he stood a safe, respectable distance.

“Very well then. Why not take off your cloak?” he coaxed.

“How like a man,” she said, eyeing him from the safety of her hood. “Get a woman naked, first. Solve a problem, second.”

That earned her another low, masculine chuckle.

“Now, now,” he chided. “I’m not asking you to undress, only that you remove your cloak. As you informed all, you are wet and soggy.” Lord Greenwich motioned to the blazing hearth. “You could stand here and warm yourself…dry your damp skirts.”

How did he manage to be commanding and reasonable at the same time? With a sigh, she pushed back her faded red hood and stepped closer. The welcome fire warmed her ankles nicely.

“I am, if anything, ever accommodating,” she said, tart-tongued.

Her sharpness missed its mark. Instead, her target tipped his head with great interest, almost fascination, when her face came into view. Topaz-brown eyes inspected every exposed inch of her visage, searching her with blunt curiosity. A spark as hot and fast as flint striking stone shot through her. Flummoxed, Lydia squared her shoulders and tried for businesslike composure.

“I’m sure something can be done to rectify this debt.”

“Your cloak.”

“My cloak?” she repeated, running her palms over damp wool.

“Remove it.”

Something in his firm tone brooked no disagreement. Her leaden hands obeyed, loosening the frogs and loops under her chin with graceless plucking. Her well-worn red half cloak, a sign of her modest station, parted and swayed, all while his gaze roamed over her, head to hem, waiting. A stag, tense and alert, scenting a doe came to mind. This was one way a woman could find herself flat on her back, as well she knew from times past.

Wind and rain squalled outside as the last closure came undone. Damp wool slipped from her shoulders. Though fully clothed, she couldn’t shake the sense of being stripped bare under his lordship’s keen scrutiny. Lydia clutched her cloak in both hands and made a rumpled shield. There really ought to be more space between them.

Lightning slashed the room. Quick flashes split darkness behind Lord Greenwich. His acute study drifted up her skirts to pause just below her neckline—he stared at her bosom, and her traitorous, corsetless bosom pointed back. Was it the cold air? Or him? Lydia inched her cloak higher, and his lordship, undaunted in his perusal, returned to his intense study of her face. Was he pleased? That she entertained such a question shocked her.

The earl clasped his hands behind his back. “Turn around.”

She gave an indignant huff and glared, not budging an inch. “I will not.”

“If you please, Miss Montgomery.” He made the request sound courtly. “I’m only asking you to take a turn.”

The cloak, rough scratchy wool, bunched tighter in her hands. “Next, you’ll want to check my teeth.”

His lordship twirled his finger. “A single rotation will suffice.”

Being at the mercy of his good grace reminded her to get this done and over with…all the better to move on to a more reasonable solution. Her mother’s welfare beat a constant drum in her head; thus, she obliged him. The water-stained ceiling became the safest place to look as she crossed one foot over the other, beginning a slow circle.

“You know, my lord, I have a small amount of my own funds. Well, not much, really, but if we could discuss this tomorrow. At luncheon perhaps? I might have a solution of my own.”

“No. We do this my way.”

Fire crackled and floorboards creaked from her slow circling movement. A tickling sensation flowed over her, touching everywhere. Her lack of corset set her cheeks aflame. Yet, his scrutiny was fascinating. She bemoaned her wrinkled, outdated dress. Did he notice? Or did he notice her smooth skin and glossy waves of sleep-mussed sable hair, of which her great-aunt raved? The earl’s impertinent gaze ranged everywhere.

“If you’re quite through, my lord,” she said with some starch.

Lydia pressed the cloak closer. Lud, but he needed a set down. She’d dealt with overzealous farmers and country squires in the past and knew how to put men in their place. Men were all the same, no matter their status. The quality of their clothes differed, but all were flesh and blood underneath. A biting remark formed on her lips.

He reached for her.

She froze.

Lord Greenwich’s gloved hand hovered near her face in the gentlest fashion, as if he wanted to touch her but held himself in check. They stood that way for a few, eternal seconds. Only his warmth touched her cheek. So close, she smelled oiled leather and saw the stitching on his glove. Why the hesitation?

Long moments stretched, measured by the sound of rainfall. His brown eyes studied her lips, her hair, even the outline of her ear, as odd as the notion was. His lordship examined her as if he would memorize shape and texture without contact. He angled his head, the black tricorne casting shadows, and something passed between them: something elusive and slight when his gaze met hers…a current of curiosity that must have beckoned him to test her.

A lone, leather-clad finger trailed over her cheek, so light. Lord Greenwich’s subtle connection caused tantalizing shivers, shivers that followed his whisper-soft caress on Lydia’s skin. His exploring finger slipped under her chin and angled her face toward firelight.

“You’re a thorough one,” she said breathy and low. “No doctor’s ever examined me thus.”

His dark gaze flicked to hers. “Even phantoms have their standards.”

The tip of his glove grazed her neck, a mere hint of touch. His eyes fixated on that fraction of her exposed flesh, following the line his finger traced. Unexpected warmth swirled across her body, yet her feet were stuck. His hand dropped to his side, and the earl stepped back, breaking the current.

“You realize I offer marriage?” He clasped his hands behind his back and spoke matter-of-factly.

They were back to the evening’s transaction. But her breathing, heavier from the singular invasion of his gloved hand, hadn’t recovered.

“A legitimate heir requires as much,” she managed, trying to sound like a woman with some wits about her.

“You would lack for nothing. As my wife, you will have every luxury, I daresay more than—”

“My mother,” she blurted. Was she giving in to this bargain?

Lydia needed to gauge the man who held all the cards, and this discomfiting sense that all was out of her control. Even more, she needed him to remove that infernal greatcoat, or at least have him drop his collar. Hadn’t she done as much for him?

He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes. What about your mother?”

“Leave my mother alone. No harm befalls her.” Lydia twisted and bunched her cloak, rationalizing what was important and what was not. “Tristan and my stepfather can rot for all I care, but I don’t want my mother to suffer for anything they’ve done.”

“Of course. You have my word. She will live as free as she pleases.”

Free. She smirked at the notion. That was a relative word where her mother was concerned. Still, he agreed so quickly. Hands clasped behind his back, his lordship was all business. Yes, she had to protect her mother, but her whole reason for coming to London also hung in the balance.

Her plan could not be pushed aside any more than she could stop breathing.

And one ought to consider how the Sanford name could help with that.

Her mental scale tipped in favor of this preposterous agreement. She was in no hurry for marriage fetters with any man, if ever at all, thank you very much. However, a peer of the realm could open doors, doors previously closed to her. Lydia’s mental scale slanted more toward the earl’s scheme.

Her chin tipped high. “And I want a measure of freedom.”

Lord Greenwich crossed his arms. The action caused his collar to slip lower, revealing the top of a blade-straight nose.

“You’re in no position to make demands, Miss Montgomery.” His cultured voice firmed. “Especially, oddly phrased ones.”

Lydia licked her lips. She should have asked for funds. He probably expected as much, but she lacked the cunning for that sort of thing. She wanted what she wanted, however out of the ordinary that may be. Her cloak knotted into a tighter ball in her hands. Like a juggler at a country fair, her mind tossed each notion and problem up high and worked to keep track; then a new one joined the whirl.

“On the contrary, my lord, no respectable family of rank will marry their daughters to you because…” Her voice trailed off as she searched his collar, unable to meet his eyes.

Lydia recalled the scandal pages, each with their own lurid story of a failed liaison with another noble family. The common theme in all the gossip rags claimed the engagement fell apart last summer when his betrothed slashed her wrists and nearly bled to death. Nasty business it was that drove the family into seclusion. The earl’s notoriety as ThePhantomofLondon grew. Was he horrid to that young woman?

Reading about the disgrace made little more than passing news for her and her great-aunt. This close to the earl, discomfort poked Lydia’s conscience like a stick. Gossip charged a hefty price: she saw it in his eyes. Shame must have stung him, and all of England played voyeur, entertained by his private pain. Nevertheless, her empathy had its limits. Lord Greenwich tilted his head back and looked at her as an unexpected chess rival.

“Apparently, I underestimated you.” His voice softened. “It’s true. Certain circumstances have made the possibility of marriage…difficult.” He paused, and his tone turned weary. “You asked for freedom. What kind of freedom?”

She hesitated. How to word this? After all, what she wanted was out of the ordinary.

“To…to…pursue the same quiet interests I enjoyed in the country, with the occasional stay in London, where I’ll—”

“I don’t participate in Society.” He nearly growled the words at her.

“Yes, I understand this.” She searched the exposed part of him. “I…I only wish to maintain my…interests, such as they are—” Lydia squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye with a different approach. “Give me free rein, my lord, and I’m confident that I can be of assistance to your needs. As often as you like.”

His head snapped to soldierly attention. That last distracting bit was a tad bold, but men were rather simple. Wasn’t food or sex what most men clamored for? Keep those appetites sated, and a woman could do what she wanted. Lord Greenwich stepped forward, invading her space. His dark eyes narrowed as he searched her face.

With the hot fire at her back and cloaked man leaning close, there was no place to go. Silence stretched between them, save the rain easing to a light patter outside. A ceiling stain turned into a steady drip; its subtle ping of water droplets hit a porcelain bowl on the floor with hypnotic rhythm.

The bottom of his cloak brushed her skirt. She couldn’t be sure if the earl was trying to read her or intimidate. Lydia’s neck tensed, ready to snap, but she met Lord Greenwich’s stare, despite his invasive closeness. Stiff-armed, stiff-necked, she pressed her cloak to her ribs.

His eyes crinkled in the corners. “Very well, Miss Montgomery, we have a deal.”

Her jaw dropped. She stared at him as wide-eyed as her great-aunt’s cow. Lord Greenwich took a step back, pointing at the cloak she clutched to her chest.

“You’ll want to put that on, won’t you? There’s a storm outside.” The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Stunned, she fumbled with her cloak and managed a wobbly smile.

The cloth had rotated into a tight ball. A mass of jumbled nerves, she whisked her hand from the mess, and the garment dropped. Lydia and Lord Greenwich knelt to the floor at the same time. They crouched low and close; her head almost touched his hat. As she reached for her cloak, her bare hand bumped his gloved fingers.

Her quick inhale was slight. “Oh.”

The touch was trivial, yet Lydia couldn’t help but check for visible signs of normal flesh and bone. What woman wouldn’t? Her study of his gloved appendage must have gone on too long. When she glanced up, she met the earl’s hard-eyed gaze.

“Checking for a hideous claw?”

She flinched, locked by his dark stare and whiplike sarcasm. There was a rustle of movement, the slip of leather against leather, but she dare not look down. One of his eyebrows rose in challenge.

“Aren’t you going to look?”

She winced, but her gaze took a cautious path to his high collar, then dropped in a rapid fall of curiosity to the second sign of humanity from this arcane man. Veins roped the skin of a very normal, rather large, but nicely shaped masculine hand. Gold hairs sprung from bronzed flesh. Scraped knuckles were darker brown, leading to long, tanned fingers. Odd, a recluse wasn’t supposed to be so tan.

How would those fingers feel on her skin?

The unbidden question sent a jolt through her body. He flipped the appendage over for her to see his palm dotted with calluses at the base of each finger. A plain white linen cuff obscured his wrist, but Lord Greenwich had a different reaction to her study.

“You see, Miss Montgomery, I’m human. Every. Inch. A human.”

Each razor-sharp word hit the mark. Lydia’s face tingled with unwelcome heat. In spite of her blunder, she looked him square in the eye.

“I don’t doubt your humanity, my lord. I simply wonder about the complete stranger who bartered for my body. This situation, after all, was heaped on me with only a moment’s notice, late at night when most souls are abed. And you stay hidden in your cloak.”

“That’s the deal I offer. I like my privacy. I’m sure you’ve read the gossip columns,” he mocked. “They’ve mentioned as much.”

“Begetting an heir, my lord, involves more exposed flesh than your hand,” she said.

Oh, that was brilliant.

“I’m familiar with the process.”

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut at his dry tone; he must think her rather dim. She smarted as much from his gibe about gossip pages as her impulsive tongue. More unwelcome warmth spilled over her face and neck. If only the floor would swallow her now.

Lydia stood up and smoothed damp palms down her muslin skirt. Perhaps she’d try for reason at a later time. Lud, but she needed her bed. A body couldn’t keep a clear head without decent sleep.

Lord Greenwich rose to full height and, in gentlemanly fashion, held open the cloak for her. She stepped back into the cloak but studied his ungloved hand folding the garment’s edges over her shoulders. His mannered voice vibrated close to her ear.

“In due time, Miss Montgomery, you’ll see much more than my hand.” His warmth and nearness sent a shiver skittering across her neck. “But first, we have the business of finding our way home.”

“Home?” She whipped around to face him.

“Yes. Greenwich Park. My home.”

The fire made his brown eyes sparkle. That’s when she saw a white cleft on his skin, a minute scar, next to his right eye. She breathed a sigh of relief and made an effort to smile.

“Of course. You’ll return to your home, and I’ll return to my mine.”

“No, you’re coming with me.”

He was irritatingly calm and in command. Certainly he didn’t expect her to go home with him this very night. Despite her bravado moments ago, all was moving much too fast. That unwelcome whirling sensation came back with a vengeance. This truly was going to happen.

Now?

Lydia swiped at a bothersome strand of hair that fell across her face.

“Milord, the hour is late. I’m tired. You must be tired. Of course, you realize…” Her voice faltered, and she took a shallow breath. “I…I expected to return home. To my home.” She swallowed hard. “Surely, you don’t expect…”

“Expect what?”

Hands clasped behind him, Lord Greenwich exuded pragmatic patience. Or was he playing with her? Something in the slight arch of his eyebrows made her wonder. If only he’d lower his collar, then she could see his face, all the better to read him. But her patience thinned to near snapping, and her vision narrowed on him.

“What I mean is, no true gentleman would even think…” Her voice trailed off again. Lydia stomped her foot and groaned her frustration. “Blast it! You’re impossible. This whole situation’s impossible. I’m tired. And you know very well what I’m trying to say.”

“A moment ago, you were concerned about the business of our begetting an heir. You even expressed the need to see more of my flesh. Now you’re turning missish over a simple carriage ride to my home. What’s it to be?” he asked.

“I…” Words failed her.

She was sure there was a teasing smile behind that collar. His lordship baited her, and she was simply too tired and flustered to set him straight about that missish business. He must have grasped her rattled state. With precise care, he slid the leather glove back on his hand.

“Let me put your mind at ease, Miss Montgomery. I grant you this evening has been unusually difficult. If you’re concerned about Society’s strictures, don’t be. I do what I want, when I want.” Fingers splayed, he methodically tugged on the glove for a tight fit. Lord Greenwich studied the gauntlet a moment, then pinned her with his dark stare. “I am not a rutting monster. We sojourn to my home tonight. For sleep. Nothing else. In the morning after you’re rested, we’ll talk. Does that put your mind at ease?” He didn’t wait for a response but walked to the door and pulled it open. “Shall we?”

Shadows cast darkness over him. An air of arrogance and expectation and, she guessed, fatigue enveloped him. The evening’s drama wore thin for him as well. Drained of keen thought, Lydia followed him as if he were a lodestone. The earl offered his arm for escort, and her ungloved hand slid over his thick leather sleeve. Lord Greenwich was not a man of small stature, this much she could tell. Maybe it was the sureness of his step as they descended, but he walked with confidence, and that went a long way in soothing her.

Belowstairs, George and Mr. Bacon waited for them by the hearth. At least the smaller rats had been chased away.

“All’s well, then? You’ll not seek the magistrate, milord?” George called out to them as he wiped his forehead. “I’m free to go?”

“Free?” Lord Greenwich scoffed. “Go home, Montgomery. I’ll be in contact.”

George didn’t even consider her. His lack of concern didn’t sting—more the notion that she had no say in the matter rankled. That these men bartered her like common goods grated deeply. Lord Greenwich must have felt her stiffen, because he placed a hand atop hers resting on his arm. The gesture reassured but did nothing to abate her ire.

“Feel good about selling me to save your skin?” she jeered.

“I made sure you, your mam, and your sister were fed all those years, didn’t I?” George jammed on his hat.

So that’s how it was? Lydia inhaled sharply, about to say something ill-mannered, when the earl squeezed her hand. A firm warning grip it was.

“Go home, Montgomery, before this turns into a family brawl.”

George’s wide mouth clamped shut, giving him the maw of a toad. His eyes beaded as he glanced from the earl to her and back to the earl, but he took his leave, mumbling under his breath. He banged a table in quick departure and left the inn door wide open. His heels clicked, fading in the night from his hasty retreat. Mr. Bacon closed the distance to the open portal, tipping his head in the direction George had run. The hissing storm swirled his frock coat around legs as big as tree trunks.

“I’ll keep a careful eye,” he said, setting a Dutch cap on his bald head. He nodded at her, and his gold earring glinted. “Miss.”

Lord Greenwich moved his hand to the small of her back and led her to the door. The familiar connection told Lydia the balance of power was his: she belonged to him. Unfazed by the storm, the earl strode to the center of the drive, and arm raised high, called for his carriage. His actions were ordinary, and one could daresay, considerate.

He stood, a steadfast form, impervious to howling weather. Lydia recalled tidbits about the infamous Earl of Greenwich. The whole Greenwich dynasty, in fact, fell on one disaster after another, as if cursed. Such curse business sounded like foolish nonsense, helped sell scandal pages, but she admitted it was very strange how calamity camped at their door. Once they were golden: successful shipping concerns; father and youngest son renowned for their scientific prowess; the eldest son cut a dashing figure in Society; each family member beautiful like Renaissance art, or so people said.

Now, one of England’s greatest sons was reduced to a midnight meeting at a backwater inn.

In the darkness, hooves clattered. The black lacquer coach approached. The earl directed the large conveyance toward the inn door. At least she wouldn’t squish through mud and muck. Nobility had its benefits. Lord Greenwich spoke over raging winds as he came to the door.

“You’re not turning missish on me again. I could have a footman chase after Mr. Bacon, but he’s a sorry substitute for a chaperone.” Rain beat down on him, but he set a hand to his chest in dramatic chivalry. “I assure you, your virtue’s safe with me.”

“Quite,” was her tight reply.

Over the storm, she detected a note of tolerant reassurance. Lydia opened her mouth, ready to say something tart, but the tired, shuttered expression in his eyes stopped her. The middle of a downpour was not the time to trade quips about virtue. Better save that delicate subject for later.

A footman, his periwig sodden, attended the carriage steps and raised a candle lantern to light the way. With all formality, his lordship swept his hand toward the open door.

“Miss Montgomery, after you.”

Lightning split black skies, revealing the carriage’s fine forest-green leather and brass-studded interior. A dreamlike quality of stepping off a cliff into a chasm enveloped her. Lydia braced herself and dashed into the vehicle, and Lord Greenwich followed close behind.

“To Greenwich Park.”

The door snapped shut. The light was gone.

Lydia fidgeted against the squab, letting her eyes adjust to blackness. Without a word, the earl settled his head into the corner and crossed his arms. He tugged down his hat and stretched one booted leg across the seat, bracing the other on the floor. She waited for him to say something. Anything. Lydia cleared her throat, hoping for some acknowledgment of her presence.

Nothing.

Black carriage curtains swished back and forth as the vehicle rumbled down the road, allowing occasional light to splash the interior. Her vision traced his lounging frame swathed in bulky leather, where a rounded paunch might hide beneath for all she knew. Lord Greenwich’s collar covered his face. The man refused to unmask himself even in pitch dark. His head lolled, keeping time with the carriage’s bumps and sways.

“He sleeps,” she whispered.

With her eyes adjusted to the dark, Lydia spied a heavy blanket folded next to her. She draped herself in wool and hunkered down. Cloth tickled her chin, and her mind fairly buzzed in the steady vehicle. She wasn’t fully reconciled that this would truly happen.

How could she delicately extract herself without reprisals to her mother?

Her mind turned to another matter—a matter she could hide from his lordship for the time being. She’d have to. Her fingertips grazed her abdomen. Would that be her way out of this mess?

Men could be particular about these things. She shook her head and smiled at the mysterious man stretched out before her. If she truly found herself stuck, what wife doesn’t have a secret or two she keeps from her husband?

CHAPTER3

If you must live in the river, befriend the crocodile.

—Indian Proverb

“Miss Montgomery…Miss Montgomery…” a persistent male voice intruded. “We’ve arrived.”

Lydia rubbed sleep-grained eyes. The earl. His slit of eyes and hat pulled low appeared less ominous: gold-brown hair came loose from his queue and spilled over his collar, quite the ordinary, mussed traveler. She yawned and stretched, not genteel but satisfying, until cold air nipped at her face and hands.

In the drive, wind drove heavy mist sideways at a footman who stood a respectful distance, his candle lantern swaying. Beyond him, a wide sweep of curved gray steps led to a large open doorway—a dark, ominous cavity. Lurid visions of dust and cobwebs and bats camped in her brain. Such notions were probably foolish, yet a body could only wonder.

“What time is it?” She groaned.

The earl, oblivious to the driving mist, pulled a silver fob from his cloak.

“Precisely half past midnight, but the hour’s irrelevant.” He returned the glinting timepiece to his pocket and extended a gloved hand. “Come. You’ll find the house more inviting.”

She frowned at the imposing edifice. The footman standing in the drive shivered. He needed to be abed as much as she. Stalling, and thereby keeping the servant from the comfort of his bed, equaled the height of inconsideration. The warm wool blanket dropped to the floor, and Lydia set her hand in the earl’s firm grip. She stuck her foot outside, but awareness wasn’t with her. That cavernous black doorway claimed her attention, and therein was her problem.

Trouble came in mere seconds, as it usually did for her.

The step was slick. She slipped. The sole of her leather shoe slid off the step’s edge.

“Oww!” she yelped as her foot banged the graveled drive hard.

Legs buckling, down she went, like a graceless sack of flour. What’s worse, she slammed into the earl, her shoulder punching his midsection.

“Ooomph!” Lord Greenwich grunted but moved quickly to save her from falling all the way to the ground.

Her face mashed against leather and linen. Strong hands held her arms. At least she didn’t knock the earl down. Grabbing for purchase, her fingers touched warm wool…buttons…skin.

Her face pressed into fabric, she murmured, “I’m so very sorry.”

Lydia tried to right herself, but relief turned to horror: she was a mortified eye level with the pewter buttons of Lord Greenwich’s breeches. Stalwart English mist snapped sense into her. That and seeing his placket bunched low in her fist. Her fingers grazed smooth flesh. Another, more interesting sliver of Lord Greenwich’s skin was exposed: pale, intimate skin just below his navel. Lydia yanked back her hand, and a pewter button went flying.

“Oh no!” she cried as humiliating heat flared across her face and neck.

“Miss Montgomery? Are you injured?” Lord Greenwich asked above the wind, slowly lifting her up.

He sounded unperturbed at having a woman’s hands on the front of his breeches. Their bodies pressed together, and in the upset, Lydia’s hood slipped from her head. Drizzle wet her skin and hair. Oh, how she wished the cloak would swallow her up and blow her to another district.

“I’m sorry. So clumsy of me.”

“Not to worry,” he said above increasing wind. “Did you twist your ankle?”

Lord Greenwich held her close. Concern reflected in his eyes. Considering the circumstances, plenty of leather and wool made a proper barrier between them, enough to satisfy the stodgiest matron, but the alarming proximity was too much. Lydia jerked free and, without thinking, stepped back. The earl stood bolt upright, strands of his gold-blond hair whipping in the wind. Even in darkness, she caught the narrowing of his eyes.

“Forgive me for intruding on your maidenly sensibilities. I thought only to stop you from falling to the ground.” His harsh words bit like frost to bare flesh.

He must think me repulsed.

She clapped a hand over her eyes and groaned. This was not the first time her hand was on the front placket of a man’s breeches, but now was not the time to clarify that point. More to the matter, she needed to clear up this debacle, but that would not be. Lord Greenwich’s bootheels pounded the gravel drive in his hasty exit. When she lowered her hand, he took the stairs two at a time, his leather cape sweeping wide like a huge bird of prey.

“My lord, please…” Her voice was lost in the night wind.

Either he didn’t hear her entreaty, or he ignored her.

“Oh, blast it!” Lydia clutched her skirts high—showing too much leg—for a dash to the door.

The footman’s slack-jawed gape stopped her short.

“As if you’ve never seen the like,” she retorted. “Just go warm yourself.”

Teeth chattering, he bobbed his head. “Yes, miss. Good night, miss.”

Lydia bounded up the stone stairs, excess cloth from her skirts bunched high. She needed to set things right. She burst into a dim interior and stopped to shake her wet garments. Her noisy entrance didn’t distract the earl. He snubbed her—she saw as much when his back stiffened—and went right on speaking to two women holding guttering candles, the sole light for the cavernous entry.

She near burst to explain, but the need to say something to Lord Greenwich was overruled by impertinent curiosity. A plump, older woman and another woman, whose face was hidden from view, listened to the earl. Both, apparently servants roused in the middle of the night, wore thick robes.

Amidst his lordship’s muffled instructions, the hidden woman turned sharply in a flutter of pale blond hair, as if to get a better look at the miscreant hovering at the door. Lydia cringed; he must have relayed the minor misunderstanding by the carriage or some other unflattering news about her.

Lydia’s fingers started flicking at a frayed thread inside her cloak, and then she looked overhead. Not a cobweb in sight. Her shoe tapped the marble floor: the black-and-white expanse stretched underfoot, making intricate geometric designs where not covered with carpets. His lordship ignored that toe tapping and kept his shrouded profile to the older woman. Her graying braid bobbed up and down her back as she nodded. Finally, he turned to Lydia.

“Miss Montgomery, this is Edith Lumley. She will see to your comfort. If you need anything, let her know.” He raised a hand toward the other woman, who stepped forward. “And this is my housekeeper, Miss Mayhew.” With a curt nod, he finished, “I bid you good night.”

That last pleasantry was quite a proper set-down.

What’s more, the housekeeper was shockingly beautiful.

He said Miss Mayhew, not the generally preferred Mrs., which nobility hired or women of that class manufactured for appearances sake. Lydia gaped at the housekeeper and murmured greetings before turning to the earl. Lud, the man moved fast, going without a candle to light his way. Did he have a beast’s night vision? The black hall swallowed him whole, with his boots echoing retreat.

“Your lordship, please…” she cried after him.

There was a momentary hitch in the earl’s step and then a quickened pace. Somewhere in the deep shadows, a door opened and clicked firmly shut. Lydia wanted to crumble from the indignity witnessed by these virtual strangers. Miss Mayhew, a vision of flaxen blond perfection, frowned toward the dark hall and then at Lydia.

“Let us see to your comfort,” the housekeeper said, smoothly turning to the older woman. “Edith, please take Miss Montgomery to her room. Unfortunately, I must attend to something else.”

Miss Mayhew, cupping a lone candle, floated down another dark hall, but not before turning her mouth in a small, disapproving moue at Lydia. Owl-eyed, Miss Lumley nodded and placed a comforting arm around Lydia.

“Don’t mind his lordship, miss. He’s usually an affable sort. Sometimes he needs to be alone with his thoughts.”

“Please take me to him, Miss Lumley. I must apologize—”

“Apologize? Now, now, miss. Not to worry. And please call me Edith,” she said, patting Lydia’s back as she led her to some stairs. “Sometimes a woman has to let a man stew before he needs to apologize to her.” The older woman winked. “I’m sure ’twill all be right as rain come morn. And, Lord knows, we’ve plenty of that these days, haven’t we?”

Gentle pressure guided Lydia. Miss Lumley stopped, and concern crossed her features.

“If your ankle’s well enough, that is? His lordship mentioned you might’ve hurt it getting out of the carriage.”

“Yes, it’s fine.” Lydia twisted around, trying to figure out which door hid Lord Greenwich. A slender white line lit one part of the hall, but the maid pushed her along to the stairs.

“Good enough, miss. Though not ‘miss’ for long, right?” The maid chuckled. “Ah, it’ll be good to have a lady take charge of the house. Of course, Miss Mayhew’s done a fine job, but a wife gives a home the personal touch…and children soon, we can only hope.”

Now that was doubtful. His lordship couldn’t be bothered to hear an apology, much less look at her. At the mention of the stunning housekeeper, a niggling question pressed its point: Whydidtheearlseekastrangertoprovideanheirwhenabeautiful, unmarried woman already lived under his roof?

* * *

After the door snapped shut, Edward peeled off his hat and cloak, tossing aside his armor to the outside world. He needed his study’s comfort and solitude. Even the air smelled better in here; his lungs expanded, testing that notion. Leather-bound volumes brushed with oil, the flat scent of beeswax polish on wood, and…

Tick, tick, tick. His mind, however, moved like a constant clock, keeping rest at bay. Categorical thinking divided the evening into neat columns. Column one: he coerced a woman to his home—a woman with vivid green eyes and smooth skin, though he couldn’t fully vouch for the latter, since he’d touched her glove to skin, but appearances were promising.

He’d used all the weapons in his arsenal to achieve Miss Montgomery’s acquiescence: persuasion, reason, family wealth and name, a little humor…and yes, threats.

Column two: he needed her—a simple detail encased in messy reality. The flesh-and-blood part of him admitted he wanted her. What was meant to be a simple transaction at a tumbledown inn turned into the unexpected. That surprising business of caressing her neck, albeit with his gloves on, set him back a notch.

Prowling his study, Edward contemplated that verity. His father’s silver fob pressed inside his hip pocket, a reminder of familial duty. Time ticked by with the persistence of an astronomical clock. The universe moved forward, and so must he.

Nothing else would be accomplished tonight. He chuckled, recalling the astonishment on Miss Montgomery’s face when he stated she’d go home with him. Tonight. Considering the evening’s proposition, her assumption that he would demand conjugal rights this very evening made logical sense.