"That is most kind of you, sir," her father said, while the gentleman tethered his horse to the handrail above the page board. "But we don't wish to inconvenience you. Are you certain it is no bother?"

The gentleman stroked the horse's muscular neck, then his expression warmed as he bowed slightly at the waist. "As I said, it would be my pleasure. It's a perfect night for a drive."

She could sense her father's reluctance to accept the offer, as he did not enjoy being beholden to anyone for anything. God forbid that particular person might pay a visit to their isolated house in the country to provide him the opportunity to return the kindness. But under the present circumstances, they did not have much choice unless he would allow Rebecca to drive, and that was most certainly not going to happen.

Her father straightened his thin shoulders and finally resigned himself to the necessity of accepting the offer. "You are most kind," he said to the gentleman. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Newland, Earl of Creighton, and this is my daughter, Lady Rebecca Newland."

Introductions at last.

The gentleman held out his hand to shake her father's. "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Creighton, and a pleasure, Lady Rebecca." He bowed to her, revealing nothing of what had occurred between them earlier. Not a hint of a grin, wicked or otherwise. No mention of the way his hands had worked over her arms and down her neck.

"I am Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne," he said. "My father is the Duke of Pembroke."

"Of Pembroke Palace," her father blurted out.

"That is correct."

Good Lord, they were in illustrious company indeed, and they were about to employ a marquess, the future Duke of Pembroke, as their coachman.

"The palace is not far from here," he said. "Just under an hour's ride to the north."

This was his father's property, all of it, miles and miles of prosperous farmland and thick, lush forests. And he was the Marquess of Hawthorne, and heir to one of the oldest, most prestigious titles in England. Rebecca could barely comprehend it. A thrill rolled up her spine, as thick and compelling as the mist all around them.

"But what about our driver?" her father asked. "I'm half tempted to leave him here."

"Father…" Rebecca admonished, glancing down at the ground as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Lord Hawthorne smiled. She was so glad she finally knew what to call him.

"I might be tempted toward the same end myself," he said, "if he were my driver. But have no worries. I'll prop him up beside me, and he'll keep me company when the moon rises." Lord Hawthorne glanced up at the darkening sky. "Which will be very soon, so if you don't mind, I must insist we move on. Allow me?"

He opened the door to the coach and lowered the step, then straightened and held out his hand to Rebecca. A rush of butterflies invaded her belly at the thrilling notion of touching him again, and when she slowly wrapped her tiny, gloved fingers around his larger ones, she felt the strength of his whole arm and the rock-solid support he offered, which she already knew firsthand. She gathered her heavy wet skirts in her other hand, then met his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. His blue eyes were dazzling, captivating, disarming, and the whole world came to a shuddering halt on its axis.

She wet her lips and managed to say, "Thank you," in a quiet, ladylike voice. He bowed his head and handed her up.

Her heart was still racing when she sat down on the leather seat and watched the ducal heir assist her father up as well, holding him by the arm to steady his frail form.

How strong and capable he was, like a brave knight from a childhood story. None of this seemed real.

As soon as her father was seated, Lord Hawthorne raised the step, but Rebecca spoke up. "Your coat…"

He held up a hand. "I insist you take care of it for me until we arrive." Then he addressed both of them from the open door. "We shall reach the Cotswolds Arms in one hour, so settle in. I will see you when we get there."

He closed the door, and the coach bounced slightly under his weight as he climbed up onto the driver's seat outside. Rebecca and her father sat in silence, waiting while Lord Hawthorne lit the lamps, then the coach lurched forward. The harness jangled, and they began to roll on. They turned around in a clearing, back in the proper direction.

"I suppose we were lucky that young man came along when he did," her father said uncomfortably, folding both his hands upon his cane.

"He was very helpful." Rebecca took a deep breath and tried to settle in for the remainder of the journey, but it was not easy to relax when such a handsome, heroic man was sitting just outside, leading them out of the dense forest to their destination, after having saved her life and stirred her passions so unexpectedly. Her whole body was buzzing with delight under his warm, heavy, fur-trimmed coat, and it was a challenge just to sit still.

What a night, and, Lord, what a man. She couldn't wait to arrive at the inn just for the chance to be in his presence again, one more time, however briefly, before they said goodbye.

The coach came to a smooth halt outside the inn, and Rebecca heard voices in the dark outside. Within seconds the door opened and Lord Hawthorne was standing there in his black dinner jacket and elegant hat-more handsome than he was an hour before if that was possible-reaching a hand in to Rebecca.

"Here at last," he said, with more charm and appeal than any man had a right to possess.

"Yes, at last. Thank you." She accepted his hand, but before she could step out, he glanced down.

"Ah, forgive me, Lady Rebecca. I am remiss in my duties already. What a terrible footman I would make. I must lower the step." He let go of her hand and did just that, then straightened and met her gaze again with those enticing eyes.

He handed her down, then assisted her father as well. Pointing at a groom who was setting a bucket of water down in front of his horse still tethered to the rear, he said, "I've already spoken to Mr. Griffin here, an excellent young man, and he will take care of your horses. He will see to Mr. Smith as well, who will be escorted into the stable for the night."

"Will he be all right?" Rebecca asked.

Lord Hawthorne looked at her with pointed intensity, and she felt a sudden wave of dread, for the end was near. She would be forced to say goodbye to him, and who knew when she would ever see him again? If she would ever see him again.

"He will be fine," he replied. "He was mumbling quite lucidly the whole way here."

Her father shifted his cane from one hand to the other. "I cannot thank you enough, Lord Hawthorne. You have been most helpful. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."

"Just see your lovely daughter home safely, sir."

Rebecca sighed with a strange mixture of joy and sadness. If only Lord Hawthorne knew this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, and that she thought him the most captivating, attractive man in the world. If only he knew that she was wishing this moment did not have to end, and that she would not have to return to her secluded home and her impossibly quiet life with her reclusive father.

"At least join us for dinner here at the inn," her father said.

Yes, please!

"Or a drink at least," he added.

It was not like her father to wish to dine with a guest, for he was not a sociable man, which proved it. Lord Hawthorne did have more charm than was humanly possible, if he was able to turn her father into a convivial person.

"I appreciate the offer," Lord Hawthorne replied. "But I am afraid I must decline. I have a previous engagement."

Her shoulders heaved with disappointment. She wondered where he'd been going before he'd come upon them.

"I see," her father replied. "I hope we have not imposed."

"Not at all."

"Then let me extend an open invitation to you," her father added. "If you are ever near Burford, you must come to Creighton Manor for dinner. It would be a great honor to welcome you."

And that, quite frankly, was a miracle, and the best thing she'd ever heard her father say.

"Thank you, Lord Creighton," he replied. "Likewise, I shall see that you are invited to Pembroke Palace." He bowed to Rebecca. "It was an honor making your acquaintance, both of you. Have a safe trip home and enjoy your stay at the inn." He went to fetch his horse.

Rebecca continued to watch him, wishing she could know him better, and wondering about all the tiny details of his life. What did he like to do when he was not rescuing young maidens in the forest? Did he hunt? Did he enjoy politics? Dinner parties? Was he always this charming?

And had he found a bride yet?

She knew what her father would say to such a silly, romantic notion. You're only seventeen-too young to be thinking of marriage.

But she would not be seventeen forever.

They stood outside the inn while Lord Hawthorne mounted his horse. He turned the great animal around, then touched the brim of his hat. "Safe journey."

"Same to you," her father replied.

He kicked his boot heels and said, "Onward, Asher," then trotted down the hill in the moonlight. Rebecca watched him the whole way until the hoofbeats faded to silence and their brief encounter found a private, profound place in her memory.

She sighed when she considered how this night compared to the empty stillness of her existence back home, but supposed her life would not be so empty now. Not after what had just occurred, because she would have this to dream about and give her hope for the future. Yes, Lord Hawthorne would figure prominently in her dreams for a long time to come.

And soon she would be entering society as a lady-the very next Season if her father permitted it-and it was entirely possible she would encounter Lord Hawthorne again in different circumstances. As a woman.

She quivered with excitement when she imagined it, and surrendered to the fact that she would spend the next year of her life fantasizing about that moment.

Chapter 3

Four Years Later April, 1874

On the day Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, returned to Pembroke Palace after a three-year journey abroad, it was raining. In fact, it had been raining in every corner of England for six days straight. Bridges and roads had been washed away, rivers were rising, and the farmers were indoors-the idea of spring planting nothing more than a hazy dream in their heads until the weather passed.

Devon's coach was barely making it up the hill on the steep approach to the palace, for the road was slick with mud and the horses could not gain a proper footing. His driver was shouting and snapping his whip at them, and the sensation of the carriage wheels slipping and sliding put Devon on edge more than he cared to admit.

He gripped the side of the coach and looked out the window. The rain fell harder still. The clouds hung low over the hilltops, thick and heavy, like a pillow coming down upon one's head. He ran a hand over the top of his thigh to his knee and squeezed at the deep, aching sensation of that old wound he preferred to forget, but it was impossible to ignore the pain on a damp day like this.

Springtime in England. How he loathed it. If it weren't for his mother's fiftieth birthday celebration and her flood of letters over the past six months imploring him to come home for the grand masquerade ball, he would still be in America, enjoying his freedom and his comfortable, homeless wandering.

He breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment, and cupped his forehead in his hand. He recalled the last letter she had sent, where she had tried so hard to sound cheerful. He knew, however, that there was a great deal she was not telling him about what was going on at home. He had recognized her anxiety in the white spaces between the lines.

Then again, perhaps it was simply the fact that she was coming to the end of another decade of her life and was feeling the weight of her regrets over how her life had unfolded. Or perhaps at this stage in her life, she was bidding farewell to impossible dreams.

He opened his eyes and looked again through the glass, streaked with water and splattered with mud. He desired his mother's happiness, just as he desired Charlotte's, his sister, who had written him dozens of letters as well over the past three years, keeping him informed of her joys and tragedies, always asking when he would return, never mentioning why he had left. She was twenty-three now, and her life, like their mother's, had not unfolded as she'd believed it would.