He’d gone to speak to Angelique’s father only a week before his death, informing the man of his intention to track down his daughter and bring her home to England. And then marry her. He hadn’t anticipated that she’d have to come home for Derington’s funeral.

Angelique had fallen asleep within moments of going to bed. And yet now she lay awake, her encounter with Heyworth plaguing her dreams. She thought about all she’d lost two years before. If Heyworth had not been so deceitful, Angelique would have married him happily, for she’d desired him as she’d wanted no other.

And it seemed that had not changed in the least.

The fact that she could not control her attraction for Heyworth, in spite of all that had happened, was beyond annoying. Fortunately, he was gone now, so she would be able to put him out of her thoughts as she’d finally managed to do in Italy. Until the next time she needed money, that is. Every farthing she required to live on would have to come from the Duke and, judging by their earlier interchange, she would no doubt have to go through the same rubbish she’d had to endure earlier.

She was twenty-four years old and, as Aunt Minerva was so fond of reminding her, well on her way to being quite solidly on the shelf. And now she was beholden to a man whose very presence made her heart quake in her chest.

It would have been so easy to lean into the comfort of his body. But Angelique again recalled the conversation she’d had with Lord Rathby only two days before she was to marry Heyworth. She was grateful that at least Rathby had been honest with her, unlike her fiancé and her own father. Neither of them must have thought she’d mind having a husband who kept a mistress in Chelsea.

Well, she did mind, and she was not about to go through the same misery her mother had. Luckily, she’d learned of Heyworth’s duplicity before she’d made any vows to him.

In need of a glass of milk to soothe her nerves, Angelique got out of bed and pulled a light wrapper over her chemise. Her nerves might be in a tizzy, but the house was quiet, and comfortably warm. Angelique crept down the stairs and headed in the direction of the kitchen, only to stop cold when she smelled smoke coming from the portico.

A fire would be disastrous. Angelique ran quickly towards the smell, afraid that Thornberry might have left one of his cheroots burning.

“You!” She stopped short when she saw Heyworth stretched out on one of the padded chaises.

He moved like an agile predator, coming to his feet without the slightest effort, and moving — stalking — towards her. He’d discarded his coat and collar, and had rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. In the pale lamplight, Angelique could easily appreciate the dusting of dark hair on his forearms, and his powerful hands. He tossed away the cheroot and her mouth went dry with feminine awareness.

Angelique felt next to naked. Her chemise was nearly transparent, and her dressing gown hardly better. As he came towards her, she felt her bare toes curl on the cool floor.

“I knew your hair would be even more lovely when you let it down.” He touched her shoulder, but only to pick up a lock of her hair, which he rubbed between two of his fingers.

“I thought you’d left … gone to the inn.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not going to let you go so easily this time.”

Every nerve ending in Angelique’s body was fully alert and clamouring for his touch. And then she remembered why she’d gotten off so easily two years before.

“I was very sorry to learn of your mother’s death, Heyworth. It couldn’t have been long after … after we … after I …”

“Thank you,” he said, stepping even closer. “I was in no position to come after you in Italy then. But, rest assured, had circumstances been different, I would have.”

His eyelashes were long and black, the perfect frame for his persuasive eyes. Angelique swallowed when he slid his hand along her jaw and cupped the side of her face. She tried to back away.

But her feet would not move. His touch felt like balm on a raw wound, far too compelling to disregard. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, brushing lightly against her mouth as he’d done during the earliest days of their courtship.

Angelique had tried to forget the shuddering pleasure of those light kisses, but her dreams had often reminded her of his sensual power. Far too often.

She wanted him now, wanted his arms around her, his brawny chest against her breasts, his loins against her own. She shuddered, and he suddenly deepened their kiss.

A small cry came from the back of her throat when he drew her close, changing the angle of his head for deeper penetration. His tongue touched hers, and Angelique’s knees went weak, though she felt protected by the heat of his body, and his powerful embrace. His arousal was thick and heavy against her pelvis and, when he moved, a sensation of pure pleasure skittered up her spine.

Her wrapper slid off her shoulders, and Angelique yearned for more. No, less. Much less clothing between them. She wanted to feel Heyworth’s bare skin against hers, their legs twining together. She’d dreamed of it often enough.

He lowered one strap of her chemise, and Angelique cried out with amazement when he cupped her bare breast.

“Aye, ’tis soft and full as I always imagined it. You are so perfect, my sweet.”

Angelique let out a low sigh when he bent down and touched the swollen peak with his tongue. He held her securely, but she felt as though she were floating in a sea of sensation, of need. She wanted it all — it seemed as though she’d always wanted to lie with him, to finally share her physical passions with the man she loved.

“Rathby lied, Angel,” he whispered, his voice harsh. He feathered kisses up to her neck. “He’s a scoundrel who doesn’t deserve half the credence you’ve given him.”

Angelique pulled away suddenly, as though a pitcher of frigid seawater had been dumped upon her head. What was she doing? Allowing her heart to be broken yet again? By the same man who’d nearly destroyed her two years before?

Disgusted by the whimper she heard coming from her own throat, she covered her breast with her chemise and whirled away, then made haste to the staircase. It took only seconds to scamper upstairs, where she quickly entered her bedchamber, closing the door tightly behind her. If she’d had a key, she would have locked it.

Whether it was to prevent Heyworth from entering, or to keep herself from making the same foolish mistakes with him again, she was not sure.

Two

Heyworth was up early, but he didn’t enter the breakfast room until Angelique and her aunt had gone in and begun their meal. He wanted to give Angelique no possible avenue for avoidance. Of him.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, drinking in the sight of her.

“Your Grace,” said the elder Miss Drummond, “I had no idea you were still here. Why, I …”

“There is a horse race tomorrow down at Maidstone. Which means, of course, there are no rooms to be had within twenty miles.” He took a seat across from Angelique, who would not look at him. Still, he took satisfaction in the blush that rose on her cheeks, for she was obviously recalling the intensely sensuous interlude they’d shared the night before.

“I hadn’t heard,” said Minerva. She turned to Angelique. “Did you know of it?”

“No, Aunt.”

“Well, it has naught to do with us,” the older woman remarked.

Heyworth did not take his eyes from Angelique as he stirred his tea and half listened to her aunt discourse on the subject of escaping to the country only to find the crowds of London encroaching on their little corner of Berkshire. He’d never spent a morning with Angelique before, their courtship always taking the conventional course: afternoon rides in the park, balls and soirées in the evenings.

In the time before their aborted wedding day, Heyworth had imagined vividly the mornings they would soon spend together in bed — making love before the servants brought their breakfast, feeding each other tender morsels between heated kisses, then making love again before they arose to face the day.

She wanted him. Heyworth had no doubt whatsoever of that. If only he’d kept his silence last night, she would never have recalled the reason for her precipitous abandonment of their nuptials. He’d have driven her as mad with desire as she made him, and they’d have consummated their bond. Then Angelique would have had no choice but to make use of the special licence Heyworth had had the foresight to procure before coming to Berkshire.

But, dash it, he wanted Angelique to trust him. It had been far too easy for Rathby to convince her of Heyworth’s alleged misstep. He did not understand how she had so easily believed Rathby’s lies rather than his honest declaration of love.

For he did love her. He’d buried himself in his work — and his grief — and tried to forget her two years before, but it had been impossible. He was determined not to err this time. For he knew how much he had to lose.

Angelique was never happier to have an interruption than when Squire Stillwater arrived. She had slept badly the night before, and felt exhausted — from the funeral, the travel, the late night nearly succumbing to Heyworth’s seductions.

She rose quickly from her seat when Thornberry announced him, intending to go into the drawing room to receive their old family friend. Her grandmother and Mrs Stillwater had been close in years past, and she had always been more than kind to Angelique.

“Bring him in, Thornberry,” said Heyworth, stopping Angelique in her tracks. “Set another place and let him join us here.”

She scowled at Heyworth, looking squarely at him for the first time since he’d entered the breakfast room. She had not trusted herself to do so before.

And with good reason. He was outfitted as any gentleman might be, in a green waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes, a black cutaway frock coat, and dun-coloured trews. And yet he filled them out as no other gentleman could do. His raw masculinity was beyond tempting, but Angelique wanted nothing to do with a man who could lie so convincingly to her.

Her father had made a far too frequent practice of it with her mother. Women, drink and cards … Viscount Derington had done it all, and lied to Suzette through his teeth about his women and his gaming losses. His behaviour and the pain it caused her mother had taught her well. Angelique had no intention of losing her heart to a scoundrel like her father. When Rathby had told her the truth about Heyworth, she’d picked up her skirts and fled as quickly as possible to Florence, where she had friends.

“Good morning, good morning!” said Squire Stillwater as he entered the breakfast room.

He was barely as tall as Angelique, had the ruddiest complexion and brightest smile of anyone she’d ever known. The sight of him there, in Primrose Cottage, brought back memories of earlier days, and Angelique felt a deep twinge of grief for the loss of her father. She hadn’t shed a tear for him, and yet now she was on the verge.

She took a sip of tea to clear the sudden burning in her throat.

“Oh dear,” said the Squire. “I fear I have interrupted your breakfast.”

“Not at all,” said Heyworth, as though he owned Primrose Cottage. Angelique was temporarily glad of his proprietary manner, for it changed the cheerless direction of her thoughts. “Please join us.”

“Alas, but no. I cannot. We heard word of the Miss Drummonds’ arrival, and Mrs Stillwater bade me to ride over first thing … well, nearly first thing—” he chuckled “—to invite you to sup with us this evening at Tapton Manor. We had no idea Your Grace was here as well. You’ve come down for the race?”

“Aye,” Heyworth replied. Angelique looked at him sharply. Hadn’t he come to Berkshire … well, for her?

“The festivities are in full swing. Perhaps you’ll go into town and enjoy the fair — a real medieval exhibition with … Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear.” Stillwater seemed to take note of Angelique’s mourning attire all at once. He and his wife had travelled to London for the funeral, of course, but they were not compelled in any way to observe a mourning period for Viscount Derington. “Please accept my sincere apologies … I should never have mentioned—”

“Thank you, Squire. Though we cannot attend any of the activities in town, my aunt and I would be pleased to join you this evening. ’Twill be an intimate gathering?”