Angling herself to remain out of sight, she approached the oak door, which stood slightly ajar.

"-have appointments today with Beechmore, Penniwick, Haverly, and Walston," came her father's gruff voice.

"What about Eastling?" Mother asked.

"I spoke to him last night. He's scheduled to arrive directly between the others."

"Excellent. Good for them all to be aware of the competition. But of course you're favoring Eastling."

Julianne held her breath, waiting for her father's reply. When it came, her stomach clenched.

"Naturally," Father said. "The duke's holdings and influence are far more vast than the others'. If we can reach an agreement, the marriage could take place very quickly."

"Not for at least several months. There's a wedding to plan, the banns to post-"

"Eastling made mention of a special license. Said he'd have neither the time nor desire for a fancy affair before returning to Cornwall-with a bride-in two weeks' time. I'll know more after our meeting today, but you'd best prepare yourself to do whatever it is women do in such circumstances-arranging for a wedding dress, et cetera. And do it quickly."

The clink of silverware against china, followed by the scraping of a chair against the floor jerked Julianne from the stunned state into which she'd fallen and spurred her to action. She sprinted across the corridor and had just secreted herself in the small alcove there, when her father emerged from the dining room. Shrinking into the shadows, she willed herself to be invisible. He strode past. Seconds later she heard a door close firmly, indicating he'd entered his private study, as was his habit after breakfast.

For the space of several erratic heartbeats, Julianne remained frozen in place, her ears ringing like a death knell with the echo of her father's words. She pressed her palms against her cramping midsection, but the pressure did nothing to calm her inner tumult.

Dear God, this was worse than she'd thought. If Father's plans fell into place, she'd find herself married to the duke and shipped off to the wilds of Cornwall, all within a fortnight.

A silent scream reverberated through her, shaking her insides until they roiled in protest. Surely she shouldn't be so distraught, suffer such a violent reaction, to news that was hardly shocking; she'd always known she would marry, and in accordance with her father's wishes. Known full well the time was approaching for a husband to soon be chosen.

Yes, but she hadn't known soon would be quite so soon. Or that she'd find her prospective groom so unappealing. Or that she'd be forced to live in Cornwall, so far away from her beloved friends and everything she'd ever known.

A calm, inner voice of reasoning tried to insert itself into the panic threatening to overtake her. What difference did it make if her wedding took place in two weeks or two months? As for His Grace, given his wealth and position, he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom. And although he was past the first bloom of youth, he was far less decrepit than most men of his exalted rank. As for his dour, frosty demeanor, perhaps a young wife could coax him into better humor. She'd be a duchess. The toast of the ton. Mistress of a magnificent estate. She should be ecstatic.

Yet the thought of pledging her life to the duke, of being a wife to him… in word and deed… she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands tighter against her protesting stomach. The thought of him touching her, kissing her, of sharing intimacies with him…a shudder ran through her. When he'd held her during their waltz last night, she hadn't experienced the slightest spark of desire-a fact that was made even more painfully obvious after her passionate interlude with Gideon.

Still, the thought of marrying any of the other prospective suitors scheduled to call today left her equally bereft and empty. None of them were the sort of man she longed for, not only because she didn't find any of them attractive, but mostly because none of them cared a jot about her. Only her money. That and the fact that she looked decorative sitting on a settee.

She could see her life as the Duchess of Eastling stretched before her… years and years of a lonely, passionless existence with a cold, indifferent husband. No adventures, no jolts, no excitement…just day after lonely day.

An image of Gideon rose in her mind, and she had to press her lips together to quell the cry of longing that rose in her throat. A litany of if onlys raced through her mind. If only Gideon were a nobleman. If only she weren't an earl's daughter. If only she were free to follow her heart. If only she were brave enough to take what she wanted, to have the sort of adventure she craved. She wasn't foolish enough to believe Gideon cared for her, but neither was he immune to her, at least physically. And certainly she was attracted to him. Painfully so. In a way she'd never been to any other man. And she'd never describe him as boring. He wasn't tainted with the jaded ennui of the gentleman of the ton. And while he wasn't a nobleman, she knew, in her heart, that he was a noble man.

She forced her eyes open and pulled in several slow, calming breaths. Her future would be decided by the end of the day or very soon thereafter, and the Duke of Eastling loomed on her horizon like a gloomy, frosty, dark cloud. Time was short, urging her, compelling her, to do… something. Take some action. Grab what little happiness she could before she was shackled by unbreakable vows and an existence far away.

But how? What could she do? A humorless laugh escaped her. If only she had a ghostly lover like Maxwell from The Ghost of Devonshire Manor to assist her. He'd helped Lady Elaine in numerous ways, both in and out of the bedchamber-

She stilled, struck immobile by the idea that sprang to life in her mind. She shook her head, trying to jar the thought loose, but it refused to budge. Rather, it took root and grew at an alarming rate. She mulled it over for several minutes, frowning even as a sense of purpose and excitement snaked through her. The plan was so outrageous she doubted even Emily would dare it. It would require more courage than Julianne had ever exhibited in her entire life, for she risked a great deal. Indeed, she risked everything.

But if I don't, I'll have… nothing. No memories to hold dear in the long, lonely years ahead. None save those she'd made last night with Gideon. And those wouldn't be enough. She needed more. She wanted… nay, she craved more.

For years she'd envied Emily's daring. Sarah's cleverness. Carolyn's calm determination. Now was her chance. Her last chance. Her only chance. With only a fortnight of freedom left, she couldn't waste a single day.

Her better judgment and conscience shouted warnings, but she shoved them aside with a ruthless force she hadn't previously known she possessed. After all, what were a few more lies at this point?

After running her plan through her mind once again to make certain all the pieces were in place, she drew a resolute breath and stepped from the alcove. And headed toward her father's study.

Chapter 6

Gideon sat in an obscure corner of Lord Gatesbourne's foyer and seriously contemplated kicking the elegant arse of the next man who walked through the oak double doors. Yes, kicking him-perhaps tossing in a punch or two for good measure-then flinging him on his bruised posterior into the privet hedges. Headfirst. He'd been waiting on this damned uncomfortable mahogany bench that was probably worth more than all his own furniture combined for over an hour. If he had any sense, he'd get up and leave rather than suffering the humiliation of-

Of what?his inner voice jeered. Waiting on a titled gentleman's schedule?

Hardly. He'd been doing that for years. Any man foolish enough to work among the rich knew the world revolved around their agenda.

Yet what had his every muscle tensed and his entire body on edge wasn't the lowly bench he'd been relegated to, leaving him with nothing to occupy his time save watching haughty gentlemen come and go, being escorted down the long corridor by the earl's perfectly proper butler, Winslow. No, it was the parade of nose-in-the-air aristocrats themselves that had him ready to commit mayhem. Because he knew exactly why they were here. Every one of the bastards was vying for Julianne's hand.

Lords Haverly and Beechmore had come and gone, as had Lords Penniwick and Walston, although none of them were granted the amount of time bestowed on the Duke of Eastling.

None of them had spared Gideon so much as a glance.

While watching His Grace accept his walking stick and top hat from Winslow, Gideon had noted the shadows beneath the duke's frigid pale blue eyes. The slightly gray cast to his complexion. The man didn't look well rested. Of course, one didn't get much sleep when one was busy lifting the skirts of the fine ladies of the ton.

Just then another man entered the foyer, and Gideon inwardly frowned as but yet another flash of jealousy burned through him-this one more intense than the others. What the bloody hell was Logan Jennsen doing here? Other than gobs of money, what made the American more suitable for Julianne than Gideon himself? Jennsen held no title, nor did blue blood run through his veins.

Gideon had first met Jennsen when he'd interviewed the American, along with dozens of others, in relation to the same murder investigation two months ago during which he'd first met Julianne. He'd instantly known that Jennsen had secrets. The sort of secrets a man didn't share. With anyone. Easy for Gideon to recognize that look in Jennsen's eyes-the same way he recognized it in his own, every time he looked in the mirror. Yet it seemed gobs of money-something Gideon certainly didn't have-could buy an audience with Julianne's father. Bloody hell.

"His lordship will see you now," the dour-faced butler said to the wealthy American.

"Thank you, Winslow," Jennsen replied.

Tucked away on his bench, Gideon watched Winslow lead Jennsen down the corridor. The butler returned to his post a moment later, not offering Gideon anything more than a frown-but one only tossed in his general direction. Normally Gideon would have been mildly amused by this obvious display of someone who worked for the haughty upper echelons behaving equally as haughty as his employer when faced with someone not of the peerage or great wealth. But not today. Not when he had to force himself to remain seated rather than stalk down the corridor, grab Jennsen by his fancy cravat, and demand to know his intentions toward Julianne.

Bloody hell, he felt as if steam were about to erupt from his pores. Had he thought that merely tossing these bastards on their arses was enough? Ha! What he needed was a sword. With a very sharp point. To hasten their retreat. Toward the Thames. Perhaps a dip in the cold water would cool their ardor. In that case, you'd best jump in with them, his inner voice murmured.

Damn bloody pesky inner voice.

But at least it had kept him, for several seconds, from thinking about her.

Julianne.

Her name wound through his mind, coiling around his brain. Indeed, he'd thought of nothing else but her all night. All morning. Every minute until he'd left his Bow Street office, during the long walk to Grosvenor Square-one he'd hoped would clear his head but had not. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her in his arms were tattooed upon his senses, etched so deeply he despaired of ever exorcising them. Bloody hell, how long would it take before he forgot that kiss?