Ten

“So you’ll leave us on the morrow and take Mozart with you?” the duke asked as he pushed a brandy decanter toward his firstborn.

“Val seems ready for a change, and there’s plenty of peace and quiet in Yorkshire,” St. Just replied, pouring himself half a finger of brandy and watching as His Grace cut a deck of playing cards.

“Not drinking much these days, are you?” His Grace observed. “You’re my witness; I’m trying to behave, as well.”

“On the advice of the physicians?”

“Who else?” The duke rolled his eyes. “And once Her Grace gets wind of something like that, I am a doomed man.”

“I’ve never quite understood how she manages you,” St. Just said, taking a small sip of very good brandy.

“Neither have I.” His father smiled. “That’s part of her genius. Val gets his music from her, Westhaven his brains, and you…”

“Yes?” St. Just arched an eyebrow, for what could he possibly have inherited from a woman with whom he shared no blood?

“Your heart, lad.” The duke tossed his brandy back in a single swallow. “Hell and the devil, that’s good stuff.”

“My heart?”

“You were a puny little thing when your mother left you here.” The duke eyed his strapping son. “I am ashamed to say I did not take an adequate interest in your early years, which is part of what haunted me about Rose’s situation.”

“Would you care to explain that?”

“Let’s walk, shall we? Elsewise I’ll be pouring myself one more tot, and one more, and so forth, and Esther will be wroth.” He hoisted himself to his feet and led the way to the back gardens, St. Just ambling at his side.

“You were saying you were negligent,” St. Just prompted.

“I was.” His Grace smiled thinly. “Just as Her Grace informed me we were to become parents, the title befell me, and your mother attempted to renew her acquaintance with me. I sent her packing at first, but she was savvy enough to contact Esther a few years later and threaten to put it about I’d walked away from my by-blow.”

“So you were indeed negligent,” St. Just said, bewildered his father would so blatantly admit such a thing.

“It wasn’t until she contacted Esther that your mother bothered to let on you existed.” The duke sighed heavily. “Just as Gwen Hollister neglected to inform Victor of his paternity.”

“The circumstances were very different.”

The duke waved a dismissive hand. “Keep your powder dry, for God’s sake. We can all agree those circumstances were unfortunate all around. But in your case, I assumed your mother got pregnant on purpose then bided her time until I was invested. She approached me then waited until we had both heir and spare in hand before threatening us with you.”

“What do you mean, threatening you?” St. Just asked, his stomach beginning to rebel against even the small amount of brandy he’d imbibed.

“She wanted a king’s ransom to keep her mouth shut. Said she’d talk to the gossip rags, write her memoirs, drag my name through the mud, and so forth. I was younger than you are now, lad, and hadn’t much bottom. It was Esther who understood Kathleen’s real agenda.”

“Which was?”

“Kathleen said we could either pay, or she’d leave you on the doorstep for all the world to see. Esther told her we’d take you gladly, and Kathleen handed you over. The only condition Esther put on the transaction was that the woman was to stay away from me. My duchess is no fool.” The duke smiled dryly.

“So that’s why I never saw my mother again?”

The duke cocked his head. “You never saw her because she didn’t want to cost you what providence had tossed in your lap. Her Grace wrote to your mother every six months until your mother died when you were twelve. She sent likenesses and a lock of your hair. She took you to the park so your mother could sit in a closed carriage and see you from time to time, and when your mother passed on, Her Grace kept in touch with your Irish cousins. Her Grace accurately divined that Kathleen’s plan had become to see you raised under your father’s roof.”

St. Just heard his father’s voice, a tough, pragmatic bray that had been part of his life for more than a quarter century, but the words were barely registering over the pounding in his chest.

“I don’t understand,” he ground out. “Why wouldn’t my mother want me to know she was seeing me? I was five when she left me. I knew very well whose child I was.”

“Your mother,” the duke said with uncharacteristic gentleness, “wanted you to prosper, St. Just. She wasn’t a bad woman; she was a good woman, in fact, but she made hard choices, and in the end, did what was best for you. She wanted you to believe you were a son of this house and felt you’d not make that transition were she tugging your heartstrings in a different direction.”

St. Just sat there in the growing darkness, hearing crickets chirp and cicadas sing. A soft breeze was wafting over the flowers, and his whole life was being turned inside out.

“She didn’t just walk away,” he concluded.

“She retreated to a careful distance,” the duke said. “I have every confidence had she survived, she would have reestablished contact with you when your discretion could be trusted. In this regard, she was much more praiseworthy than Maggie’s mother.”

“How do you reconcile yourself to this?”

The duke shrugged. “I was young and never expecting to inherit. There was not a more useless creature on God’s earth than myself as a young man. I behaved badly and have tried to right the wrongs I’ve done. Her Grace has had her hands full with me.”

“We all have,” St. Just muttered. “You know there were times when Bart and I were up to our knees in mud, living off cattail roots and whatever we could hunt, and he would turn to me and say, ‘At least His Grace can’t lecture us about duty now.’”

The duke looked chagrined but nodded. “I made the same mistakes with Bart my grandfather made with his sons, and my father made with me. Pathetic, but there it is. So promise me, St. Just, you and your brothers will do better, hmm? I will be watching from the right hand of the Father, drinking all the brandy I please, ranting at your brothers, and waiting for Her Grace. You may depend upon it. And see that you join me there in due course, or Her Grace will be unhappy. Wonder how God will deal with that?”

“You’d best not take up that position quite yet,” St. Just warned. “Rose told me before she left she wants more than this one summer with you. You are a bruising rider, and you know the best stories. As grandpapas go, you are in every way a capital fellow.”

“And you allowed her this fiction.” The duke smiled his most charming smile. “Your sons will do the same for you one day, St. Just.”

“Assuming I have sons.”

“Her Grace has remarked that your years of command will give you an edge when you take up parenting,” the duke said.

“Because I’m used to giving orders?”

“Because you’re used to having your orders ignored. But as to that, Rosecroft, I wanted you to know I’ve had a word with those fellows at the College of Arms.”

“Regarding?”

“Your earldom, my lad.” The duke glanced over at him. “And yes, I am meddling, but I don’t think you’ll mind if the language of your patent simply allows for your oldest child of any description to inherit.”

“Are you announcing a penchant for the St. Just line to produce bastards?” St. Just asked. “Shouldn’t it be my firstborn, natural, legitimate son surviving at the time of my death?”

“Should.” The duke’s tone became a bit frosty. “Should is not always a useful word. Your brother Bart should have lived, so should my older brother and your brother Victor. I flattered myself you would see any of your progeny inherit rather than have the Crown get its hands on what you will no doubt make a profitable little estate.”

“You’re sure I’ll make the earldom prosper?” St. Just asked, knowing the damage was done in terms of legal language.

“No doubt in my mind.” The duke grinned. “You and your brothers have the knack, unlike my humble self. I wield a wealth of influence, but had Westhaven not taken up the financial reins, that’s all I’d be wielding.”

“And you’ve told him this?”

“I have. Boy about embarrassed himself. Asked if I was enjoying good health or if I’d done something to aggravate his mother. I could answer yes to both honestly.”

“As you are always doing something to aggravate Her Grace,” St. Just concluded with reluctant affection.

“Just so, lad. Just so. For example, I am now going to wheedle my eldest into sharing just one more half a tot with his dear old papa, hmm?”

***

To St. Just’s great surprise, the duchess was up and waiting for him when he rose to depart before dawn the next morning. Breakfast had been a hurried business, with Val bleary-eyed across the teapot, muttering distractedly about scores and manuscripts. St. Just took himself down to the stables, where three more geldings were being readied for the trip north. Val would ride one, St. Just the other, and the third would carry a pack.

And there, on a dusty old tack trunk, sat Esther, Her Grace, Duchess of Moreland, in a night rail and wrapper, sturdy sabots on her dainty feet.

“Your Grace?” St. Just frowned down at her in surprise. “Does His Grace know you’ve taken to drifting about en dishabille?”

“He is snoring peacefully,” she replied, rising, “but Percy told me you’d been laboring under some misconceptions, and this is the last we will see of you for some time.”

“Shall we sit?” St. Just offered his arm and escorted her out to a stone bench flanked by flower beds. He loved this woman, but he’d be damned if he’d ever gotten the knack of deciphering her silences.

“St. Just, I am a mother,” the duchess began, “and you will recall this when I tell you your mother loved you. My heart broke for her the day she left you here, and it broke for you, as well.”

It’s still breaking for you. She didn’t say the words. They were evident to him in the earnestness of her expression.

“My little heart was none too pleased with the situation either,” he murmured. “I just wish…”

“Yes?”

“I wish I’d known she still… maintained an interest,” he said. “I feel petulant and stupid for it, but why wouldn’t a mother want a child to know she loved him?”

“Hard to understand, isn’t it? Imagine what it would have taken were Douglas to walk away from Rose.”

“I don’t understand.” St. Just frowned. “He would never abandon that child. He committed hanging felonies to protect her, come to think of it.”

“Consider your mother carried you under her heart for nine months,” the duchess replied. “She delivered you into this world at risk to her own life, prostituted herself to keep a roof over your head, and raised you every day for five years. How on earth could she have survived giving you up?”

St. Just shrugged. “I figured I wasn’t much fun to have underfoot. Small boys can be a big nuisance when a woman depends on her social life for her livelihood.”

“For God’s sake, Devlin.” The duchess stood and glared at him. “Would you have tossed one of your younger sisters to the press gang because she wasn’t much fun to have underfoot?”

“Of course not.” He got to his feet, using the advantage of his height to glare back at her. “My sisters are my family.”

“No woman tosses her own child aside for mere convenience,” Her Grace said, abruptly every inch the duchess despite being in nightclothes and wooden clogs. “You would not treat a horse that way; what makes you think Kathleen St. Just would treat her child thus?”

“It made sense.” St. Just stalked off a few paces, and for the first time in his life, raised his voice—not to a shout, but to an emphasis—at the duchess. “I was five years old. I thought my mother left me because she didn’t want me. I never saw her again, never got a letter, a Christmas present, or a glimpse of the damned woman. How was I supposed to know that added up to a heroic sacrifice? She left me, and in the care of a man who never spoke when he could yell, and never showed affection. She left me in the care of a woman I was told to address as Her Grace. I never knew your name until I was off at school, for God’s sake. How is that love to a little boy?”

He stood there, glaring down at a woman who had shown him nothing but kindness, who was still trying to show him nothing but kindness.

“You wait right here,” Esther said to him sternly, as if he were quite small, “and do not depart until I have returned. We’ve done you a disservice, St. Just, by assuming the past should stay buried, but you do us a disservice, as well, by thinking we’d toss you to the rag and bone man were you anything less than a perfect little soldier. Your brother was rash and vainglorious and suited to the soldier’s life, but I should never have let your father buy you a commission. I have regretted it every day for more than ten years, young man, and I will not stand by, heaping up more regrets, while you torment yourself with a fiction that your mother willingly orphaned you.”

She stomped off, putting St. Just in mind of the Greek goddesses of old. Her green eyes had spit fire, her words had cut like a lash, and she’d been magnificent.

“What on earth was that about?” Val asked, strolling down the path from the manor. “Her Grace just whipped by me as if His Grace was in very serious trouble.”

“Not His Grace.” St. Just shook his head. “Me. Am I a perfect little soldier, Val?”

Val looked him up and down. “A perfect, somewhat largish soldier.”

St. Just winced. “Perfect?”

“You were never injured, and yet you fought in every major battle on the Peninsula, as well as at Waterloo,” Val said. “You were mentioned regularly in the dispatches, decorated like a German Christmas tree, and any horse you touch now sells for a small fortune based in part on your reputation among your fellow officers. You were perfect enough we can now hang an earldom around your neck—and those aren’t dispensed like candy. I gather, though, you’ve acquired a little bit of tarnish around the edges?”

“The patina of age,” St. Just murmured. “Are you ready to depart?”

“I am. You’re not?”

“I am under orders to wait for Her Grace’s return. I find myself reluctant to disobey.”

“One can understand this, as the woman reduces Percival Windham to blancmange. And here she comes, albeit looking a little more the thing.”

“Valentine.” Her Grace nodded at her youngest son. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“I did. St. Just is my witness.”

“St. Just.” Her Grace shoved a packet of letters at his chest. “These should have been given to you a lifetime ago, but the moment was never right. Read them.”

He took the letters from her but did not even glance down at the papers in his hand. “They’re from my mother?”

She nodded, holding his gaze. “The last one was written about a week before her death, when she knew she would not recover. I still cannot read it without losing my composure. Now the both of you get on your horses and go before I start to cry.”

“Good-bye, Mother.” Val wrapped his arms around her and suffered kisses to both of his cheeks. “I will practice every day, mostly, and I will use my tooth powder, and I will keep St. Just out of trouble, mostly, and I will write, sometimes. I love you. Don’t tell my sisters where I’ve gone.”

“You naughty, honest boy,” his mother said. “Safe journey, and I love you.”

St. Just watched this scene, one like many stored in his memory of his half brothers casually teasing their mother, assuming she’d be there to tease when next they got around to paying a call. It made him a little crazy to see the same thing yet again today, so he turned to go.

“Devlin St. Just!” The duchess’s voice had the whiplash quality to it again, and Val grimaced at him in sympathy. Devlin turned and prepared for the usual lecture on his duty to look after his little brothers, but the duchess simply opened her arms to him. He went to her and cautiously leaned in for a hug.

“You are not a perfect soldier,” she whispered, “but you are a perfect son, and I love you.” Her embrace was fierce, and in his arms, she did not feel like an older woman. She felt like a mother trying to get through to her pigheaded offspring.

“Good-bye,” he said, “I love you, too.”

She stepped back, her smile radiant. “Look after each other.” She shook her finger at them both. “I have my hands full with your father and your featherbrained sisters. I can’t be fretting about grown men.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” they said in unison, exchanging a smile. She let them go. She was still beaming from the front steps when they trotted down the drive.

***

“Can I play it?” Winnie asked, running her hands over the closed lid of the gleaming grand piano. It had been delivered that morning by four large men and four monstrous draft horses.

“Best not,” one of the men said. “If, God forbid, something busted on the way, Lord Val will want it righted first.”

Winnie looked disappointed but nodded.

“And I’d be keeping yon beast a safe distance, too.” The driver nodded at Scout. “Some of them like to nibble the linseed oil in the finishes, and half-gobbled piano legs will not set well with his lordship either.”

“He sounds like a man of particulars,” Emmie said.

The driver shrugged. “Easy fella to like, for Quality. Don’t be disrespecting his pianos.”

“Well, thank you for your efforts,” Emmie said as Winnie huffed out of the room with Scout at her heels. “Perhaps you’d like to come around to the kitchen before you head back to York?”

The man smiled. “That’d go aright, and where do the horses go?”

“The horses?” Emmie blinked. “You mean for some hay and water?”

The man shook his head. “Nah. The horses is from the other brother.”

“Lord Westhaven?” Emmie wracked her brain, but she was sure the stud farm was in St. Just’s possession. “Why would he send along such a team of… Sturdy fellows.”

“The two of ’em’s mares raised to the plough. All four is steady as ’ell and like as strong. Man’s got land, he needs a team.”

“I see.” The team would hardly fit in the stables, so thank God it was only coming autumn.

The rest of the day was taken up with provisioning the deliverymen for their journey south, having Stevens take the men into the village, and rearranging the stables so the larger horses could use the foaling stalls and the others the loose boxes.

And in the general disruption, Emmie realized she hadn’t seen Winnie since before luncheon.

Not this again. Winnie’s ramblings hadn’t exactly stopped since Rosecroft had taken over, but Winnie had willingly adopted the habit of announcing her intended destination, and then—bless the child—sticking to her itinerary. But the sun was setting, the evening air was not quite warm, and nobody had seen Winnie for hours.

Emmie wracked her brain for clues, but all she could come up with was Winnie’s comment over breakfast that the woods were prettiest in the fall.

The woods… noxious plants, snakes, rocks that twisted ankles, the pond, rabid animals Winnie would think needed help…

“Stevens,” Emmie said, voice shaking, “can we saddle up the mare? I want to make a pass through the woods before it’s full dark.”

“I’ll saddle up Caesar, too,” Stevens said. Emmie glanced at him, but her imagination had already started filling in the unspoken words… in case somebody needs to go for help, in case we need the vicar, in case there’s a body that has to be brought back to the manor.

“Are there Gypsies in the area, Stevens?” Emmie asked as she hefted a saddle onto Petunia.

“Not this late in the year. They head south, down to Devon and Cornwall when fall comes. We’ll find her, Miss Emmie. If need be, we can have Mr. Wentworth’s hounds come looking in the morning, but the child knows how to bide through the night on the property.”

“She does, but she’s only six years old, and anything from wild dogs to a bad fall can interfere with her best efforts to stay safe.”

“Let’s go, Miss Emmie.” Stevens led both horses out then handed her the reins while he doubled back into the barn for a lantern. “If we don’t find her, I’ll alert Vicar, and he can gather a searching party.”

“We have to find her.” The thought of having to tell Hadrian she’d lost Winnie—again—was no comfort at all. She hardly wanted to face the man, much less have to provide him with an example of his ability to solve her problems or succeed where she failed.

Shut up and ride. As Petunia dutifully picked up the trot, Emmie had the sense the admonition had come not from herself but somehow, from St. Just. His life had likely depended on his ability to do the next sensible thing, and now Winnie’s life might depend on Emmie’s ability to manage similarly. She did as ordered, keeping her mouth shut and eyes on the ground for any sign of Winnie or her dog, glad as the evening light began to fade that Stevens was with her.

And then she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, so she started hollering for the child. It was all but dark, and the moon not due to rise for at least two hours, when Emmie heard a faint bark in response to her ceaseless bellowing.

“That way.” She nodded in the direction of one of the tracks through the woods. “Toward the pond.”

“Careful!” Stevens admonished when she would have kicked the horse to a faster gait. “The leaves on wet ground make the going tricky. If she’s there, we’ll find her.”

So Emmie kept to a shuffling trot, nearly fainting with relief when Scout barked happily to greet them as they broke into the clearing. Winnie was sitting on a rock, pitching pebbles into the water.

“Hullo, Miss Emmie.” Winnie looked up, perfectly at ease. “Hullo, Stevens.”

“Bronwyn Farnum.” Emmie got off her horse and stomped over to the child. “What on earth are you doing out here in the woods after dark?”

“I used to come here a lot,” Winnie said diffidently, “and I wasn’t hungry at tea time. Did you know Scout can swim?”

Stevens cleared his throat and glanced at the darkening sky.

“Winnie,” Emmie said, gathering her patience, “you are not to wander off, and you know this. We’ll discuss the situation further when we have you safely at home.”

“C’mon, Miss Winnie.” Stevens held out a hand. He stood the child on a boulder, mounted, then hefted her up before him.

“Where’s Scout?” Winnie looked around anxiously. Stevens let out a piercing whistle, and the dog bounded out of the undergrowth to dance at the horses’ feet.

“Home, Stevens.” Emmie nodded at the trail. “Please.”

When they reached the manor, Steven dismounted, lifted Winnie to the ground, then gathered up the reins and snapped his fingers at the dog.

“But Scout hasn’t had his supper yet,” Winnie said, her tone indignant. “He needs to come get his scraps.”

“Winnie,” Emmie said through clenched teeth, “there are no dinner scraps tonight because Cook did not make us dinner. You were wandering, and I was searching for you. Scout has not had his dinner; neither have I nor Stevens nor these horses.”

“You know I always come home,” Winnie shot back. “You should have told Cook that Scout would be hungry when we came back.”

“To the house.” Emmie pointed, her tone nearly vicious. “You have been rude, inconsiderate, and mean, Winnie Farnum. I am disappointed in you, exhausted, and not in the mood for your disrespect. If you want your dog to be fed tonight, then march.”

Winnie shot her a murderous glare then stalked off to the house, indignation in every line and sinew of her form.

“She’s so little.” Emmie shook her head as she watched Winnie go. “Even the church would say she hasn’t reached the age of reason.”

“She’s reached an age when she can fall in the pond,” Stevens replied laconically as he began to loosen girths. “Not a parent in the world wouldn’t be upset with her.”

With that sentiment ringing in her ears, Emmie made her own way back up to the house. Her steps were heavy and slow, anxiety no longer fueling her movements, her mood despairing, and her stamina—physical and emotional—gone. She went in the back door and found Winnie sitting at the counter, a plate of buttered bread before her.

Bread Emmie had wrapped up for delivery to a customer tomorrow.

“Winnie?” Winnie looked up at her indifferently and kept chewing like a squirrel. “Did you even wash your hands?”

“I was playing at the pond all afternoon, and my hands were wet a lot.”

“Your hands”—Emmie grabbed her by one paw—“are muddy, and you’ve also been playing with Scout, Winnie. What is the rule?”

“Wash your hands after you play with the dog,” Winnie replied, talking with her mouth full. “But Scout was in the pond, so he wasn’t dirty.” The dog had been a rank, sloppy mess. Emmie sat and propped her chin on her fist.

“Win? What has gotten into you? You aren’t a nasty little girl, and yet for the past few days, more than that really, you’ve been a complete, croaking toad.”

A flicker of humor crossed Winnie’s face at that epithet, but it soon vanished.

“You’ve been a toad,” Winnie said. “You’re always tired and always baking and always making me do lessons. I like Scout better than you.”

“Scout is a good fellow, but I’ve always had to bake, and you’ve had lessons since you were little. What’s the real problem, Win?” But Winnie had said all she intended to say, taking a long sip of her milk and setting the mug down on the table.

“May I be excused?”

“You may not. You will wash your hands and your plate and cup, wrap up a loaf from the bread box, not the customer shelves, then make up some stale bread, milk, and cheese rinds for Scout’s dinner. While you do that, I will have a bath sent up to your room, and I will most assuredly not be reading to you tonight.”

Winnie scowled. “Why not? I’m cleaning up my mess and feeding my dog.”

“And you’ve kept your cousin up late when you just told me you know I’m tired.”

Rather than get into an argument, Emmie went upstairs and got out Winnie’s nightclothes and bath accessories. She changed out of her own clothes and made a quick use of the bathwater while it was piping hot, then got out in time to dry off before Winnie reappeared.

You are tired, she told herself as she dressed, and out of sorts, and your day was thoroughly disrupted. She found her room, took down her hair, gave it a few swats with the brush before fumbling it into a braid, then climbed onto her bed. The sheets felt cool and clean against her skin, and as she closed her eyes, she sent up one prayer for Winnie’s safety and happiness, and one that the earl arrived safely and soon. She couldn’t help but sense that somehow, Winnie’s bad behavior was tied to the earl’s continuing absence.

Her sleep should have been dreamless, so utterly tired had she allowed herself to become. But Emmie rose to awareness near midnight, not fully awake but no longer dreaming, unless the sense of the mattress dipping under a heavy weight was imagined.

The single thought he’s home floated sweetly through her mind, then she was wrapped in warmth and allowed to drift back to sleep. When she came awake a few hours later, he’s home echoed in her mind again, and she realized she hadn’t been dreaming. St. Just was in her bed and had been for hours. In the way of minds not yet fully alert, she felt the sentiment two ways: He is safely arrived to his home, and more convincingly, he is my home.

“Easy,” St. Just murmured, moving his hands over her. “I missed you so, Emmie. Just let me hold you.”

He sounded half asleep, and his hands fell still. A great undignified relief swept through Emmie, and she realized she’d been half expecting each letter from him would be to let her know he’d be staying in London for the winter or for the next five years. Or he was sending for Winnie so she might be raised in proximity to her Aunt Anna; or he was sending along a proper London governess, and Emmie’s help would no longer be needed.

But he was home. None of those outcomes were going to befall her just yet, and if they did, St. Just would at least let her have her say first.

And the relief went beyond that because, damn the man, she’d missed him.

She rolled, fitting her naked backside to his front. When his hand came slipping around her waist to anchor her against him, she slid her fingers through his and let sleep claim her again.

Beside her, St. Just listened until Emmie’s breathing had returned to a regular, slow cadence. When he was convinced she’d returned to sleep, he let himself relax, as well, musing that he hadn’t made a specific decision to climb into the bed and fall asleep.

He’d decided to greet her before finding his own bed, but she’d already been fast asleep, not even rousing when he knocked quietly on her door.

He’d decided to treat himself to the sight of her peaceful slumbers, but he’d done so sitting on the edge of her bed, where it had been all too easy to trace his fingers across her sleeping features.

He’d decided to just hold her for a bit, a liberty she’d granted him already and surely no intrusion as long as he didn’t wake her.

He’d decided to shed his clothes, as he’d been traveling, and a quick wash was only courteous before he touched her further.

He’d decided to climb into bed naked, because his clothes were not clean and the bed linens and lady in the bed were.

He’d decided to close his eyes, just to rest for a moment in the inexpressible comfort of having her in his arms again.

And in every decision, she’d been wonderfully, tacitly complicit. And now, with the worst of his exhaustion and worry eased, he was deciding to steal just a kiss, something Emmie had permitted and even enjoyed with him before.

Cautiously, he eased her to her back and brought his body carefully over hers. Balancing on forearms and knees, he crouched over her, breathing in her beguiling floral scent before touching his lips to hers. She murmured something in her sleep then subsided, so he repeated the gesture, brushing his lips across hers in a hint of a kiss.

“Devlin.” Her arms wound around his neck, and she sighed contentedly.

“Emmie,” he whispered back, letting their bodies barely touch. He was mildly aroused—Emmie’s derriere had been pressed to his groin—but now a pulse began to beat in his vitals. He kissed her again, more lingeringly, and brushed stray wisps of hair back from her forehead. “Kiss me, Emmie,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

She angled up and brushed her lips over his. “Missed you, too.”

Instead of a stolen kiss, it became one long spree of larceny and arousal and growing loss of resolve. He had not gotten into bed with her to seduce her, but by God, she seemed bent on seducing him. As her mouth opened to plunder his, Emmie began to undulate against him—breasts, hips, legs, hips, breasts, in slow, seeking waves of pleasure.

“More,” she murmured, bringing her legs around his flanks, crossing her ankles at the small of his back and pulling him down to her.

“Emmie, no.” He resisted, but the feel of her smooth belly against the head of his cock was making thought a struggle. “Look at me.” But she wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do.

“St. Just.” She arched against him again. “Devlin, please.” When he still hesitated, she searched across the sheet and found his hand, then brought it to her breast. “Please.”

“Oh, Emmie.” He buried his face against her shoulder and palmed her breast in a gentle, gliding caress that had her turning her face to his chest and arching against him again.

She fused her mouth to his, even as those little begging, sighing sounds began in her throat. Her hands traveled up and down his back—kneading, coaxing, and putting his best intentions to flight.

“Emmie, I don’t want you to… Emmie.” He drew back, and his movement allowed her to trail her fingers over his nipples. “For the love of God, woman…”

He gave up trying to reason, to argue, to make sure she knew what they were doing and what the ramifications were. Joining his body to hers had become an inevitable, unstoppable certainty, and God bless the woman, sooner suited her better than later.

“Emmie.” He caught both her hands in his and levered up over her. “Hold still, love. Look at me.” Unable to touch him, caged by his strength, Emmie opened slumberous eyes and met his gaze.

“Let me do this next part.” He released her hands and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You can scream down the house, claw my back bloody, or burst out in song in five minutes, but for right now, you have to relax and let me give the orders.”

She nodded once, a smile of pained sweetness creasing her lips.

“All right.” He closed his eyes in relief and anticipation. Carefully, he probed at her sex with his cock, and immediately Emmie was rocking her hips up to him, trying to glove him in her tight heat.

Fall back and regroup, he ordered himself, as Emmie was having difficulties with his initial strategy.

“Take me in your hand, Emmie. Show me where you want me.” When her fingers curled softly around him, he thought he might explode on the spot, but by watching the wonder and concentration in her eyes, he held off.

She took her jolly time, stroking along his length, exploring the velvety glans and the turgid length of him, but still he remained poised above her. When she cupped his stones with deft, curious fingers, he groaned in desperation, and she looked up at him with concern.

“When you’re ready,” he gritted out. And please God, let it be bloody damned now.

She had the presence of mind enough to stroke him along the damp crease of her sex, wetting him thoroughly, reassuring him she was ready. When she finally snugged his cock to the vaginal orifice itself, St. Just expelled a pent-up breath of rejoicing.

“Now,” he said sternly, “you let me manage this.”

If he could, he thought desperately. Emmie was hot and wet and sweet and moving in the smallest, most arousing undulations of her hips. He pushed against her gently and gained the first glorious increment of penetration, then paused. She was blessedly—wickedly—tight, and he was loathe to move more forcefully lest he hurt her. This provoked a more determined rocking from Emmie, so he understood that giving her time to adjust to him wasn’t her plan.

“Let me take it easy,” he whispered, hoping to distract her with kisses. He moved his mouth as languorously as he could on hers, and thank the gods, some of her urgency subsided. He pushed a little farther into her body and set up a slow rocking rhythm of his own. She moved easily in counterpoint to him, sighing her pleasure into his mouth.

By careful, relentless degrees, he joined their bodies, using his mouth and hands and voice to distract, soothe, and pleasure her. She was still tight, her body enveloping him in heat and desire, but she seemed content to let him set the pace and make the decisions, as long as he kept moving in her.

And he never wanted to stop. His own pleasure was gathering, but still he took his time, kept his thrusts deliberate, his kisses languid, until he felt fire rising from the woman in his arms.

“St. Just.” She lunged up to bury her face against his throat. “I need…”

“I know.” He increased his tempo minutely. “And you shall have, soon.”

But of all the maneuvers to pull out of her arsenal, Emmie latched her mouth onto his nipple and suckled. Her hands sank into his buttocks, pulling him down to her with more strength than he’d thought she possessed. Then she bit him just hard enough to send fire shooting to his groin.

“Oh, JesusandalltheSaints, Emmie…” Restraint evaporated, and his own passion ascended. He thrust harder, faster, and deeper, and knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

But then—glorious, generous, lovely woman—she was keening and arching up, digging her fingers into his flesh even as her sheath convulsed around him in pounding spasms. Into the maelstrom of her pleasure, he spent himself, his climax wracking him for long, silent moments while he surrendered to drenching, mindless joy.

He tried to raise himself off her even as aftershocks coursed through them both, but Emmie shook her head and held him to her.

“Not yet,” she whispered, eyes closed. He laid his cheek against hers and agreed, as movement away from her was yet beyond him. Two damned years, he thought dazedly. Two damned years since he’d even been able to enjoy a woman’s body, but he’d go through every day of it again if he could know this was waiting for him at the end.

Emmie was stroking the hair at his nape, her breathing still labored. He could feel himself softening and knew he’d soon slip from her body.

“Push me off you,” he whispered. “I can’t move, and we’re about to get messy.”

Nothing, not a giggle, a sigh, or a helpful little shove. He pushed up to his elbows then used one hand to carefully extricate himself from her, shifting up to avoid the clean sheets. He maneuvered off the bed and navigated his way, largely by feel, to the wash water. He wrung out a flannel and made it back to the bed without barking his shins.

“Bend your knees, Emmie.” With one hand, he found her, letting his fingers drift up her thigh to locate her damp sex.

“It’s cool,” he warned, but his touch was gentle, and he knew the washcloth was soothing because he heard her sigh in the dark.

“There’s my girl.” He tossed the rag to the hearth. “Now, cuddle up. Do you know, I think you put bruises on my arse, woman?” He stretched out on his side, right smack beside her. “You have slain me, Emmie Farnum.” He sighed happily and felt cautiously for her in the dark. His hand found her hair, which he smoothed back in a tender caress. “I badly needed slaying, too, I can tell you.” He bumped her cheek with his nose and pulled back abruptly.

“I would have said you were in need of slaying, as well,” he said slowly, “but why the tears, Emmie, love?” There were women who cried in intimate circumstances, a trait he’d always found endearing, but they weren’t Emmie, and her cheek wasn’t damp. It was wet.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, pulling her over his body. He positioned her to straddle him and wrapped an arm around her even while his hand continued to explore her face. He thought he’d been careful, but at the end, he’d been ardent—or too rough?

“Sweetheart.” He found her cheek with his lips. “I am so heartily sorry.”

“For what?” she expostulated, sitting up on him. “I am the one who needs to apologize. Oh, God, help me, I was hoping you wouldn’t learn this of me, and I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t… I just…” She was working herself up to a state. Even in the dark, her voice alone testified to rising hysteria.

“Emmie.” He leaned up and gathered her in his arms. “Emmie, hush.”

But she couldn’t hush; she was sobbing and hiccupping and gulping in his arms, leaving him helpless to do more than hold her, murmur meaningless reassurances, and then finally, lay her gently on her side, climb out of bed, and fish his handkerchief out of his pockets. All the while though, he sorted through their encounter and seized upon a credible source of Emmie’s upset.

“You were not a virgin,” he said evenly as he tucked the handkerchief into her hand and gathered her back over him.

“I was n-n-not,” she said, seizing up again in misery. “And I h-h-hate to cry. But of course you know.”

I do now, he thought with a small smile, though had he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so willing to bed her—he hoped.

“Cease your tears, Emmie love.” He tucked her closer. “I am sorry for your sake you are so upset, and I hope your previous liaisons were not painful, but as for me, I am far more interested in your future than your past.” A moment of silence went by, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her lovely back, and then she looked up at him.

“You cannot mean that.”

“I can,” he corrected her gently. “I know you were without anyone to protect you, and you were in service. One of my own sisters was damned near seduced by a footman, Emmie. It happens, and that’s the end of it. Has your heart been broken?”

She nodded on a shuddery breath.

“Shall I trounce him for you? Flirt with his wife?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice sounding a little less shaky. “But you must see I am an unwholesome influence on Bronwyn.”

“You are a very wholesome influence on me,” he retorted, “and Winnie loves you. How can that be unwholesome?”

“Because if she remains in my care, she will grow up to be just like me, my aunt, my mother… The Farnum women are no better than they should be. Everybody knows it, and now you know it, too.”

Female logic was a contradiction in terms, his father would say—not in Her Grace’s hearing.

St. Just cradled her jaw with one hand. “You think I would have my pleasure of you then leap out of bed, shocked to my bones because you had some experience before I seduced you?”

“You should.”

“We can shelve this debate for later. I am not bothered by your circumstances if you are not bothered I’ve been swiving willing women since I came upon a toothsome dairy maid when I was fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” Emmie tried to rear up, but he gently restrained her.

“I matured early,” he said with smug simplicity, “and she was probably three years my senior. Now calm down and let me assure you Winnie is not going to end up like your mother and aunt.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“She’s not,” the earl went on as if Emmie hadn’t spoken, “because you are going to be my countess, and Winnie will have to find her own earl.”

“Oh, St. Just.” Emmie groaned. “You’re demented if you think I’d marry you after this.”

“Not demented.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just determined, but I know for form’s sake you will argue, so I won’t propose this minute. I am a reasonable man, most of the time anyway, but also quite tired and utterly content, thanks to you. Just hush, Emmie Farnum, and let me hold you while you sleep.”

She subsided into silence, but St. Just wasn’t fooled. She was no doubt marshalling those arguments, getting ready to convince him that despite the preciousness of what they’d just shared, despite her being lovely and dear and destined to be his, they should not marry.

Silly woman.

She was home and peace and safety and light. She was what every weary soldier had ever vainly sought in the arms of a whore, a tavern brawl, or a tankard of ale. She was the laughter of children and the reason old men would smile in remembrance. She was his heart, his soul, his sanity, and having finally found her, he was never, ever going to let her go.

When he awoke, still replete and happy in the broad light of day, she was gone.