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Hessian buried his face against Lily’s shoulder and buried a coach-load of self-reproach as well.

He’d had such worthy ambitions for his day: interview the former governess, speak with the duchess, report to Lily, and formulate the next step in a plan to see her freed from Walter Leggett’s schemes.

Items notably missing from that agenda had included:

Playacting to cozen confidential information from an unsuspecting innkeeper.

Peering into kitchen windows and climbing through same to inspect the governess’s personal abode.

Perching like London’s most unlikely gargoyle outside Lily’s window and watching her drift off to sleep before the fire.

Climbing into bed with Lily for any reason, even to comfort her amid upheaval that would have sent a woman of lesser fortitude into strong hysterics.

Making love with Lily.

Hessian had tried to stand fast against the need to hold her, touch her, kiss her. Without even trying, Lily had blasted through his best intentions, and here he was, hard as any standing stone decorating the Cumbrian countryside.

“Lily, this isn’t wise.”

She stroked his hair. “It’s much too late for wisdom, Hessian. Wisdom would have prevented my mother from risking my conception—and my father, whoever he might be. Wisdom would have put somebody trustworthy in charge of Mama’s money rather than my varlet of an uncle. Wisdom would have seen me raised somewhere other than a coaching inn and never let my sister be lost to me. We must make our own wisdom now.”

Her illogic was beguiling, her touch was irresistible. Hessian allowed himself a protracted kiss that started off tender and ended up incendiary.

Bad idea. Glorious, bad idea. “When I come back from Scotland, we can discuss—”

Lily resumed kissing him, bringing up the topics of desire, pleasure, and present joys rather than distant negotiations or headlong journeys. She had a firm grasp of the subject matter and a firmer grasp of Hessian himself.

“I want you naked, Hessian, and I want you badly.”

As an accomplished horseman, Hessian knew of two strategies for dealing with a runaway mount. The first, learned early in a horseman’s career, instructed the rider to use main strength to pull the horse’s head around to the rider’s knee, to force the beast to travel in smaller and smaller circles, which necessarily resulted in a reduction in speed—or in a series of vigorous bucks aided by the physics of a curve taken at a gallop.

The second strategy was one Hessian had come upon on his own: allow the creature to run free. Revel in the privilege of being one with an equine glorying in its natural spirits and pray God the footing was sound. Exhaustion usually brought the horse back under control soon enough, without a fruitless and often dangerous battle waged by the rider.

Hessian also theorized—hoped, more like—that knowing the occasional wild dash was permitted  allowed a spirited animal to better tolerate domestication. Horse after horse had proved his theory worthy.

Hessian was not a horse, but the compulsion to dash headlong, despite all caution to the contrary, pounded through his veins. 

He extricated himself from Lily’s arms and sat back. Her gaze held reproach and disappointment… until he untied the bow in the center of her nightgown’s décolletage. Then she smiled, and the considerable animal spirits lurking in Hessian’s soul sprang into a joyous gallop.

“This is not wise,” he said. “But for us, now, I cannot think it wrong.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, and Lily’s smile became all the encouragement he needed to shed his breeches and help her out of her nightgown. She beheld him as if he were her every passionate fantasy brought to life, and then she beckoned.

Hessian straddled her, his eyes closed lest the sight of her unclothed send his best intentions straight into the ditch. She brushed her hand over his chest, stroking the fine hair more than his skin. The effect was maddening, until her hand drifted lower and lower still.

“The last time,” she said, “I didn’t get to see you. I like this better.”

Hessian loved this—loved the gloss of her fingers over his cock, his stones, every part of him that knew nothing of plans, schedules, or calendars, and everything of wild pleasure.

“I like it all,” he said. “I like your every touch, your sighs, your kisses, your passion. I like your silences and your tart tongue. I like—I like that rather a lot.” 

She’d sleeved him with her grip and begun a slow stroking.

Then, “I like that rather too much. My turn to play, Lily.”

She was gracious in victory, letting him put his hands and mouth to her breasts, until she was an undulating sea of desire beneath him.

Hessian had been faithful to his wife, but he’d not been a saint before or since his first marriage. Nothing in his experience prepared him for the enchantment that intimacies with Lily wove. The experience was profoundly physical—and pleasurable—but also an encounter of the heart. Pleasing Lily was not only a matter of consideration, but also the measure of his own satisfaction.

“Hessian Kettering, you have toyed with me long enough.”

Not nearly. He braced himself above her nonetheless, because the hour was late, and morning would arrive all too soon.

“That feels…” Lily’s sigh was the sweetest benediction. “You feel marvelous.”

Her body eased around him in glorious welcome, and then thought was impossible. All was pleasure, stretched between clamoring desire and a lover’s determination to deliver his lady more satisfaction than one mortal woman could endure.

Hessian succeeded—barely—for Lily had apparently been intent on a reciprocal goal. She lashed her legs around his flanks and counterpointed his thrusts until Hessian’s control began to slip.

Lily unraveled beneath him, and Hessian withdrew even as his own satisfaction overtook him. He shuddered his release against her belly, heaving as if he’d been run to ebullient exhaustion.

Which he had. He drifted into the drowsy aftermath, heedless of tomorrow’s challenges, heedless of anything save the soft rise and fall of Lily’s breasts against his chest. Her legs fell to his sides, flesh caressing flesh in yet more sweetness.

“I cannot let you go, Hessian.” She sounded dazed and disgruntled.

“At present, I can barely move.”

Lily smacked his bum—gently—which helped him pull together the scattered parts of his mind. Some brave, determined soul needed to leave the bed and locate a damp flannel. Hessian nominated himself, for Lily could not move until he peeled himself away from her.

In fact, she did not move even when he was standing beside the bed, the damp flannel in his hand. The picture she made—naked, tousled, replete—sent naughty thoughts coursing through him, when he should not have been able to sustain a naughty thought for the next week at least.

“You withdrew,” she said, stroking his hair as he swabbed at her belly.

“I nearly couldn’t.” Nearly hadn’t. “And withdrawing is not a guarantee of anything.”

“So why do it?”

“Because we are not married.” Weren’t even engaged. “Any reduction in the likelihood of conception should be encouraged.”

Logic was trickling back into Hessian’s brain, and he resented it for the irritant it had become: The preferred approach to preventing conception was to keep one’s breeches buttoned.

“You’ll come back.” Lily spoke with assurance, and yet, her eyes held a question.

“I will return from Scotland, but that’s not enough, Lily. I must return with enough proof of Walter’s scheme to pry his fingers from your fortune and your future. By traveling north, I leave you to face a significant risk, for we have no guarantee Walter will wait another two weeks to see you wed to Oscar.”

Lily studied the cloth in Hessian’s hand, then flipped the covers up. “But that ceremony will not be valid.”

Hessian took the flannel behind the privacy screen rinsed it thoroughly, and wrung it far more tightly than the occasion warranted.

He came back to the bed and sat at Lily’s hip. “The ceremony will not be valid, but you must go through with it, lest Walter become suspicious that you are intent on exposing his malfeasance. And following a wedding, Oscar will expect a wedding night.”

The idea made Hessian ill, but to deny the possibility was to deny Lily time to plot against that fate.

She sat, back braced against the headboard, knees drawn up, covers tucked high. “Oscar would not survive such a wedding night, and then I’d be a felon in truth.”

“That’s one option,” Hessian said. “Not one I can recommend.”

Lily studied him, though the fire was dying and not much light remained. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“I’ve been fretting about it.” Endlessly. “I have a few ideas.”

Lily scooted over, Hessian climbed in beside her, and they talked far into the night about ways to keep Lily safe, while Hessian was hundreds of miles away, searching for a means to set her free. He made love with her once more—withdrawing again—and then slipped out into the waning night after promising her that come fire, flood, plague, or pirates, he’d return to London.

And to her.

“I never suspected you of a devious streak,” Worth Kettering said. “You were always the fellow who insisted on citing the rules, even when we played cricket or got up a team for crew. You arrive on time, you never overstay your welcome. You reply to all correspondence within a week and pay your tithe to the penny, no matter how poor your harvest.”

Worth would also have said that Hessian was a firm believer in a good night’s sleep, and yet, his lordship looked far from rested in the dawn’s early light.

“What rule do I break by trading traveling coaches with you?” Hessian replied as the grooms loaded a trunk onto the back of the vehicle.

Jacaranda might have asked such a question. “The rule that says I’m the brother who has all the mad adventures, takes stupid risks, and rackets about the realm on short notice.”

Hessian accepted a leather satchel from the butler, who returned to the house after sparing Worth a nod. The only activity in the alley was from Hessian’s household, a quiet, purposeful procession of servants and goods from mews to house and back again.

“Walter Leggett spies,” Hessian said, rummaging in the satchel. “He watches Lily, her old governess, his own son, and he’s probably watching you and me, or he soon will be. Send my coach out to Trysting to fetch Yolanda, as I indicated on the schedule, and I will be much in your debt. The damned thing isn’t in here. Kendall, a moment.”

The footman scampered around from the back of the vehicle, leaving his compatriot to finish securing the trunk. “My lord?”

Footmen were to come in matched sets in the best households, and Kendall’s complexion would not match that of any other servant in Hessian’s employ. Worth noted this as another inconsistency between the man Hessian had become and the rather dull fellow Worth had decided he must be. The Earl of Grampion ought to observe society’s unwritten rules as well as those printed in the manuals of the sporting associations. 

“I forgot a handwritten volume,” Hessian said to Kendall, “a journal, in the drawer of my bedside table. The book is marked with a year embossed on the cover and spine. Might you retrieve it for me?”

“Of course, my lord.” Kendall was off at a trot, while Hessian tossed the satchel into the traveling coach.

“About that schedule,” Worth said. “Will I have to hire Oscar Leggett in truth? From what I’ve observed, he hasn’t a thought for anything except getting drunk, chasing opera dancers, and getting into arrears at his club.”

“Such a waste of good tailoring would benefit enormously from seeing how hard you work,” Hessian said, flipping open a gold pocket watch then eyeing the gray sky. “You will look after Lily? Communicate regularly with Rosecroft? Look in on my staff?”

Another footman charged across the alley bearing a picnic basket that was stashed inside the coach.

“You think I work hard?”

“Incessantly, would be closer to the mark,” Hessian said, tucking his watch away. “I don’t suppose you’ve come across any more clues regarding Leggett’s finances?”

Worth took Hessian by the arm and led him a dozen steps from the coach. “He hasn’t a single marker out at any club I know of, not one. Nobody can recall seeing him at a charity do for the past two years, not even in the company of his niece. He attends social dinners, but he’s yet to host any this year.”

“Is he growing eccentric?”

Kendall reappeared from the house, Lady Evers’s journal in his hand. He remained by the coach, a respectful distance away.

“Leggett’s behavior is growing eccentric.” Which was bad news for all concerned when a fortune had likely gone missing. “What’s in that box?”

Another parcel had been affixed to the back of the coach, this one sizable, but with one side of wire mesh rather than wood.

“Pigeons. Rosecroft has kindly lent me two. They’ll cover the distance from Dumfries to London in less than a day, if the weather’s fair. Kendall, my thanks.”

Who was this man? Hessian had thought through details Worth would never have considered, had minions running in six directions, and was attempting a journey in two weeks that Worth would not have tried to complete in a month.

The footman passed over the journal, which Hessian stashed into a pocket of his greatcoat.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

Kendall was a young man, tall and lean, as footmen were supposed to be. After tearing into the house, climbing three flights of stairs, and tearing back to the mews, he wasn’t out of breath.

“You miss her, don’t you?” Hessian said. “You miss your Jenny.”

Kendall’s expression went from polite inquiry, to astonished, to blank. “Grampion is my home, my lord. London is… not home.”

As best Worth recalled, there was a scullery maid named Jenny at the family seat.

“I have yet to take my leave of my ward,” Hessian said. “If you can pack a bag and be on the box in fifteen minutes, you may accompany me. The journey will be brutal, but we’ll stop at Grampion, however briefly. You will bide there when I return to London.”

Never had a footman smiled as broadly, bowed as quickly, or leaped a garden gate as handily.

“How did you know he was pining for his lady?” Worth asked, not that a footman was supposed to have a lady.

“Because I’m pining for mine,” Hessian said, “and I haven’t even left Town. And here is my other lady.”

The nursery maid had carried a sleepy Daisy down to the mews. The child was in her nightgown and swaddled in a blanket. Her braid was all but undone and her expression cross.

“I want to go with you,” Daisy said as Hessian took her from her nursemaid and perched the girl on his hip. “I want to go home.”

Worth took himself around to the back of the coach, rather than watch a small child wake up an entire neighborhood with an early morning tantrum.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave you,” Hessian said. “I will miss at least eight outings to the park, four visits with Miss Bronwyn, three visits to a certain toy shop with your Auntie Jacaranda. Your Uncle Worth will get to feed ducks with you, take you for an ice or two at Gunter’s Tea Shop, and take you up before him in the park. I will miss all of this, and so much more. You will write to me, won’t you?”

The question bespoke genuine regret to be parting—from a child who’d turned the household upside down.

“Will you write back?” Daisy asked.

“I will, though I’ll probably return before my epistles reach you. You must do me one special favor while I’m gone, Daisy.”

“I’ll be good.”

“You are always as good as you know how to be,” Hessian said. “You must keep an eye out for our Miss Lily. If you see her in the park, you will offer her cheerful company. If you run into her at the toy shop, you should ask for her to aid your selection. She has very few friends, and you are special to her.”

This was part of Hessian’s plan to ensure Lily Ferguson had frequent opportunities to send for aid or to inform others of her uncle’s mischief. Worth was to keep a coach in readiness to take the lady to Dover—bags packed, coin on hand—until Hessian returned.

He’d thought of everything—and of everyone—and Worth hated that his brother was making this journey without him.

“Do you promise, cross your heart, that you will come back?” Daisy asked.

“I promise, cross my heart, that I will come back,” Hessian said, coming around the rear of the coach. “You must promise me that you’ll not have so much fun at Uncle Worth’s that you disdain to rejoin my household.”

Daisy squeezed Hessian tightly around the neck. “Uncle Worth is nice, but you’re my…” Little brows drew down.

Hessian kissed her forehead. “Precisely, I am yours to keep, forever. Worth, take the best care of my Daisy. No stuffing her with sweets or choosing a pony for her so she’ll like you better.”

Worth took the child from his brother. “Not even one pony?” Because that was what he must say to keep himself from bursting into tears.

The footman Kendall made another graceful leap over the garden gate, a tied bundle in his hand. “I’m ready, my lord!”

“So one observes,” Hessian said. “Up you go.”

The coach rocked as Kendall climbed up to the box, and the horses, knowing well what a boarding passenger presaged, shifted in the traces.

“Worth,” Hessian said, pulling on his gloves, “you will take as good care of my Daisy as you would of your own dear child. If you must buy her a pony, it shall be the handsomest, sweetest, best-behaved pony in the realm. Do I make myself clear?”

For the first time in years, yes. The real Hessian Kettering was coming clear to his own brother. Greater love hath no man, than he who will cede to another the pleasure of buying a girl her first pony.

“I understand completely, your lordship. Daisy, shall we wave the coach on its way?”

She rested her head against Worth’s shoulder. “He promised. He can go now. I will name my pony Grampion.”

Hessian brushed a kiss to the child’s cheek, smacked Worth on the arm, and climbed into the coach. “That is the best name a pony could ever have,” he said, peering down through the window. “My love stays with you, Daisy. Remind Uncle Worth to open the bedroom curtains at night.”

He blew the child a kiss—when did Hessian start blowing anybody kisses?—and the groom raised the steps and closed the door.

Worth retreated a few feet, the coachman gave the command to walk on, and the coach rolled down the alley at a sedate—unremarkable—pace.

“I miss him,” Daisy said. “Will he really come back?”

Don’t cheer her up, Hessian had said. Admit that her sadness is appropriate and then distract her from it. Had Hessian’s own grief and sadness taught him that strategy?

“He will absolutely come back, or you and I and Auntie Jacaranda will collect your friend Miss Lily and trot up to Scotland to fetch him home.” As plans went, that was a pale sketch compared to the field orders, lists, maps, and calendars Hessian had put together on very short notice.

No matter. Worth’s plan was sincere and sound, and he had two weeks to talk his wife into it.

“Would you like some breakfast?” he asked. “I could use a serving of toast and chocolate.”

“I’m supposed to make you take me to look at ponies,” Daisy said. “This will cheer you up. His lordship said.”

The coach turned onto the street at the end of the alley.

Godspeed, Brother. “One never shops for ponies on an empty stomach or in one’s nightgown. Are you packed for your visit with me and Aunt Jacaranda?”

“Do you still miss him? I still miss him.”

“Yes, Daisy. I still miss him.” And will every minute for the next two weeks. Doubtless, only Lily Ferguson is missing him more.