“You look terribly tired,” Lady Foxworth remarked the following day at breakfast. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Not particularly,” Mary replied. She’d been too busy thinking about Signor Antonio and about what Amy had said about trying to spend more time with him.

“Well, you did have a very exciting evening, so I do not blame you.” Spooning some sugar into her tea, Lady Foxworth stirred the hot beverage before taking a dainty sip. Dipping her head toward Mary, she then lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “And in case you failed to notice, you are still the subject of attention.”

Glancing along the length of the table, Mary caught a couple of gentlemen staring in her general direction with unfeigned interest. They nodded politely in response to her awareness, whispered a few words to each other and served her a pair of brilliant smiles. Flattered, Mary smiled back at them before turning away. “It makes no sense.”

“Of course it does, my dear. You are far more beautiful than you give yourself credit for and last night, dressed in that gown you were wearing . . . well, you can see the result for yourself, surely.”

Mary scrunched her nose. “I hope this does not mean that I am going to have to fight off a hoard of annoying suitors.”

“I certainly hope it does,” Lady Foxworth said, her teacup clattering loudly against its saucer as she set it down a touch harder than usual. “And there is no need for you to find them annoying as long as you keep an open mind.”

To Mary’s way of thinking, any man who would try to convince her to do something that she had no desire to do—like marry, in this case—was bound to be annoying. To her chagrin, Rotridge had even managed to make her go boating later, in spite of her protests. Signor Antonio would never have tried to force her like that. Her heart trembled a little at the thought of him and of what she intended to do.

“What are your plans for the day?” Mary asked her aunt when they were done with their meal and had exited the dining room.

“Lady Duncaster tells me that Mr. Thomas Young will be arriving today and she has very kindly offered to introduce me to him.”

“That will be exciting for you,” Mary said, aware of her aunt’s admiration for the scientist. “I suppose you will be discussing his wave theory of light?”

“Oh yes. That, and his theory on color perception, which I find most fascinating.”

“I am simply dumbfounded by all the languages he can speak. Ten, is it?”

Lady Foxworth raised her eyebrows. “Twelve,” she said.

“That is incredible,” Mary remarked.

“And useful too, as proven by his successful efforts in translating the demotic text of the Rosetta Stone.”

“He did that as well?”

Lady Foxworth nodded. “I believe he is still working on the hieroglyphs, though I have every confidence that he will eventually decipher those too. How about you, Mary? What are your plans for the day? I know you have your boat ride with Rotridge later this afternoon.”

“Yes. I received a note from him this morning, suggesting that we head down to the lake together after luncheon, which allows me some time right now in which to see to my correspondence.”

“Then you have a busy day ahead of you as well, it would seem. I shall leave you to it then,” Lady Foxworth said as she started to turn away. “Perhaps you can join me for tea on the terrace after your boat ride?”

“I would love to,” Mary said, happy to have an excuse to extricate herself from Rotridge’s company if it became necessary for her to do so.

Returning upstairs to her bedchamber, Mary seated herself at her escritoire, prepared a piece of foolscap, readied her quill, and proceeded to write two letters—one to her brother, Lord Carthright, and the other to her bank, informing them to transfer the necessary funds to her brother upon his request. Sealing the letters, she sat back in her chair, pondering the idea that had been forming in her mind since the previous evening. “Amy,” she said, drawing her maid’s attention from across the room.

“Yes, my lady?” She’d been mending a loose ruffle on one of Mary’s chemises, but paused in her task and raised her head, giving Mary her full attention.

“I have been thinking about what you said last night—about giving my mystery man a chance.” Amy said nothing, but her curiosity was clear due to her arched eyebrows. “The problem is that I do not know where to find him.”

“There must be something for you to go on.”

“He called himself Signor Antonio.”

“Perhaps it is a clue,” Amy suggested. “His real name might be Anthony. Do you know of a peer by that name?”

“A couple of gentlemen come to mind, but one is not here and the other is married, so I doubt it can be either of them. But what if . . .” Biting her lip in contemplation, Mary drummed her fingers casually against the surface of her desk. “What if I were to write to Signor Antonio and leave the letter on the silver salver in the foyer. I doubt the butler will know who to deliver it to, so he will probably ask Lady Duncaster, and then she will have no choice but to help me.”

“She will be duty bound to deliver the letter,” Amy said, her eyes brightening with excitement.

“Yes. And then it will be up to Signor Antonio to decide what to do with the proposition that I intend to make him.”

“You will be going against Lady Foxworth’s wishes,” Amy pointed out.

“Are you trying to dissuade me now, after everything you have said? This was practically your idea.” Shifting in her seat, Mary reached for her quill. “Besides, it is a well-known fact that a good romance has a dragon that must be slayed in order to allow for a happily-ever-after.”

A choked sound escaped Amy. “I hope you are not referring to your aunt.”

Pressing her lips together, Mary tried not to laugh as she set her quill to the piece of paper in front of her. “Of course not,” she managed. “I am referring to the situation as a whole.”

It was just after noon when Mary descended to the dining room. She’d entrusted Amy with the tasks of posting her letters and discreetly placing the note for Signor Antonio on the salver in the foyer. Entering the dining room, she was met by Rotridge who looked as though he’d been standing guard in anticipation of her arrival.

He smiled broadly and offered her his arm. “You look just as lovely today as you did last night,” he said as he guided her toward a vacant spot at one end of the table.

“Perhaps we can join my aunt and Lady Duncaster,” Mary suggested, noting their presence at the other end of the room. “The gentleman they are talking to is Mr. Thomas Young, the scientist. I would love to participate in their conversation.”

“Perhaps we can do so later,” Rotridge said, not deviating from his path. Reaching the table, he pulled out a chair for Mary and gestured for her to take a seat. Leaning close to her, he murmured, “At present, I am too delighted by the prospect of having you all to myself.”

It was the sort of pronouncement that would make most young ladies blush. Mary arched a brow, but did as she was expected to do and claimed her seat with elegant poise. As soon as Rotridge was seated beside her however, she turned to him and said, “My lord, I know that you have the very best of intentions, but if you wish to win my favor, then I would advise you to pay attention to my interests.” Her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she waited for his response.

There was a brief moment of silence, but then he chuckled beside her. “You cannot honestly tell me that you would rather join them in favor of having a quiet tête-à-tête with me?”

Did his arrogance know no bounds? “You and I will have plenty of time to ourselves once we are out on the lake.”

“True, though I daresay it will hardly be enough.” His gaze drifted away from her eyes and toward the side of her head. “It is a shame that you did not choose to leave your hair down today. It looked so stunning last night, the way it tumbled over your shoulders in thick flowing curls.”

His voice had dropped to a gravelly tone that made Mary feel slightly uncomfortable. It shouldn’t, she supposed, since he had done nothing but compliment her. But there was something about his voice that she did not like, just as she hadn’t liked the way in which he’d smelled her hair the previous evening. It had felt . . . intrusive.

Aware that she would somehow have to come to terms with this if she was to spend the entire afternoon with the man, she decided to make an effort to change the subject. “Do you like to read?” she asked, hoping that they might be able to find something interesting to discuss.

“I had no choice but to do so when I attended school and university. It was such a chore really, which is why I have not bothered to read much of anything since.”

Mary’s mouth dropped. “But surely there must have been at least one book that you enjoyed during your studies.”

Reaching for his glass of wine, he seemed to ponder that for a moment. He suddenly grinned, his eyes flashing with unhindered mischief. “Now that you mention it, there was actually one particular book that could hold my interest for hours on end.”

“Oh? What was it called?”

“I cannot possibly tell you that.”

“Why on earth not?” she asked. “I am very well read, my lord, so it is possible that I have read this one as well and . . . What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I think it highly unlikely that you would have read this particular book.” His voice was a low whisper as he leaned closer to her—so close that his shoulder brushed against hers.

Mary shook her head. A plate of food was placed before her and she sat for a moment, just staring at it in confusion. “Was it political in nature?”

“Hardly.” He took a bite of his food.

Following suit, Mary tried to quell her annoyance, but couldn’t quite seem to manage it. “My lord, I may be a woman, but that does not mean that I cannot discuss matters that are of interest to men.”

Tilting his head, he stared into her eyes with an intensity that made her squirm. “Very well then, I shall humor you. The book was called How to Please a Lady.”

Mary frowned. “I do not recall hearing of it before, but I must admit that I am surprised that you would find a book on etiquette so diverting.”

“Etiquette?” His eyes shimmered with mirth. “My dear, you are entirely mistaken.”

“How so?”

Shaking his head, he took another bite of his food. “It is becoming increasingly clear to me that no matter how educated a lady may claim to be, she has absolutely no knowledge of the only subject that truly matters.”

“My lord, I cannot help but feel as though you are mocking me.”

“Then you must forgive me, for that is not my intention. Indeed, you are not the one to blame for your ignorance in the one area that will determine your ability to not only find a husband, but to keep him.”

“As I have said before, I have no interest in marriage.”

He allowed his eyes to roam over her for a moment. Mary dropped her gaze to her plate and proceeded to study a piece of lettuce with great interest.

“Perhaps if I enlighten you, you will change your mind.” There was a buoyancy to his words that made them sound more casual than Mary knew them to be.

A shiver danced across her skin, but it was not the welcoming variety that she’d felt when Signor Antonio had held her in his arms during the waltz, but rather the sort that warned her to beware. “I doubt it,” she said. Finishing her meal, she reached for her wine. “Once I set my mind to something, I am not easily swayed.”

“Then we are not that dissimilar, you and I.” Pushing away from the table, he rose and helped her do so as well. “Shall we?”

Mary hesitated. Every fiber of her being warned her not to do as he asked. She decided to act on her instinct. “Please forgive me, but I do not feel entirely well.”

He gave her a dubious look. “The fresh air will do you good. Come along.” Unable to forget the look in his eyes when he’d smelled her hair, his unwillingness to let her go when she’d asked him to do so, or the strange cadence of his voice when he’d spoken of that book he liked so much, she shook her head. “I apologize, but I think you will have to go without me.”

Although he did not look pleased by the change in plan, he smiled tightly and nodded in acquiescence. “I see that your aunt has departed. Would you like me to call for her to assist you?”

“No. There is no need to trouble her.”

“In that case, please allow me to escort you to the stairs.”

Seeing no harm in that, she agreed. In fact, his exemplary behavior right now made her wonder if she might have misjudged him. And yet . . . she could not ignore the soft tremors that shook her every time he glanced her way.

“I do hope that you will give my suggestion some serious thought,” he said as they walked along the corridor that would take them through to a larger hallway beyond.

It took her a moment to recall the matter to which he was referring. “Are you aware of how unusual it is for a gentleman to voice his desire to marry a lady as hastily as you have done?”

“You think me too forward?”

“I think your interest in me is too abrupt. It defies logic.”

“Then let me be clear,” he told her bluntly. “My desire to marry you is based exclusively on physical attraction.”

“But I am not especially pretty.” Staring ahead of her, Mary focused on her destination, relieved to know that she was not alone with Lord Rotridge, but surrounded by other guests and servants. “And even if I were, a marriage based on looks alone will never be successful or happy. In time, as I grow older, you will tire of me.”

He shrugged. “You are probably right, but by then you will have children with which to occupy your time. I doubt you will notice if I choose to take a mistress.”

Mary turned her head toward him so abruptly that her neck hurt. She stared at him. Had he really just said that? The flint in his eyes confirmed that he had. “What you are suggesting is absurd! There would be no love or even friendship. All I would be to you is an object for you to own.” She shook her head. “I do not wish to marry, my lord. I have told you this, but in case you choose not to believe me, please know that your confession right now has done nothing to change my mind—quite the contrary.”

“I need an heir,” he said, his jaw visibly clenching as he met her gaze.

Mary fought the urge to pull away, refusing to be cowed by him. “Then I am afraid you will have to find someone more obliging.”

“I am accustomed to getting what I want, Lady Mary, and I have decided that I want you.” Shards of ice spilled from his words. He drew her closer. “But if it is a courtship that you demand, then a courtship you shall have. By all means.”

Jitters flurried around her belly, rising up into her chest like a swarm of bees. “It will make no difference,” she told him defiantly. “You are not the sort of man whom I would wish to be bound to for the rest of my life. I am sorry.”

For one frightening moment, his expression hardened and Mary feared he might actually try to harm her in some way. But then he drew a breath and loosened his hold, smiling at her as if he found humor in her comment. “Is that because you have already set your sights on someone else?”

Mary shook her head. “No. It is because you do not want me for the right reasons. Consequently, you do not tempt me to abandon the life that I have otherwise imagined for myself.”

His smile tightened a little around the edges. “What about Signor Antonio? Does he tempt you?”

“It is too soon to tell,” Mary said without thinking. “I know very little about him.”

Rotridge’s eyes narrowed into two dark slits, but he said nothing further, for which Mary was remarkably grateful. Instead, he led her to the foot of the stairs. “I believe an apology is in order,” he said upon releasing her arm. “Directness has always served me well, but I fear I may have been too candid with you. If I have offended you in any way—”

“It is not just the candidness, my lord. It is the fact that you and I want entirely different things out of life. If we were to marry, one of us would be burdened with unhappiness, and I suspect that someone would be me.”

“You would be financially independent with children to care for and a husband who would stay out of your way. I have always believed that to be most women’s dream.”

Allowing a smile that took some effort to produce, Mary said, “It may well be. Unfortunately, I am not like most women. My hopes and dreams are entirely different from the norm.”

He did not look mollified, but seemed to accept the finality of her statement nonetheless. Bowing, he thanked her for her company before excusing himself and heading back in the direction from which they’d come. Expelling a breath, Mary started up the stairs, thankful that her brief encounter with the Earl of Rotridge had finally come to an end.

It was five o’clock in the evening when Richard woke and got out of bed. As usual, he’d slept through the day, the heavy curtains drawn tightly together in order to keep out the light. Reaching for the tinderbox on his bedside table, he struck a flint and lit an oil lamp, his thoughts returning, as they always did, to the sound of shots being fired, of screams wrought from frightened men’s throats while hooves thudded upon the bloodstained ground. Next came the memory of a dimly lit room, of heavy chains wound around his limbs while fire consumed him. He could feel it even now—the fierce torment of his burning flesh.

Briefly, he closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be long now before the man responsible for it would finally pay the price he deserved. As far as Richard was concerned, that day could not come soon enough.

Crossing to the washbasin, he splashed cool water on his face and reached for a towel. Deliberately, he turned his mind to happier thoughts and considered the lady he’d met the previous evening at the masquerade ball.

Following the conversation with Lady Foxworth, he’d returned to his bedchamber where he’d watched the rest of the ball from his window. He’d seen Lady Eleanor dance with Spencer’s friend, Chadwick, irritated by the overwhelming sense of possessiveness that had come over him. Once the ball had ended and the guests had gone to bed, he’d stayed up, just as he’d done every night for years, trying to rid his mind of her. It had been a futile effort that not even his violin had been able to help him with.

Reaching for his shirt, he pulled the garment over his head and tied the closure shut. He put his stockings and breeches on next, not that he was planning to go anywhere, but Spencer would be stopping by with food soon and Richard felt that he owed his brother the respect of at least getting dressed before he arrived.

With this in mind, he glanced toward the door and immediately frowned. What the devil? It looked as though a letter had been pushed beneath it, which was slightly odd since Spencer usually brought him his correspondence. Striding toward it, Richard bowed down and picked the letter up, briefly studying the wax seal of a rose before flipping the letter over. His heart made a loud thud inside his chest at the sight of the neat script gracing the front. Signor Antonio.

Crossing to one of the armchairs, he lowered himself onto the seat. Holding the letter between both hands, he hesitated opening it, unsure of whether or not he wanted to know what it said. It had to be from her. But how had it arrived in his room? The only explanation he could think of was that Lady Duncaster must have gotten involved, but how Lady Eleanor had managed to convince her to defy Lady Foxworth’s wishes, he could not fathom.

He slid his finger beneath the wax, breaking it. Considering the way in which they’d parted last night, he supposed the letter would insist upon some sort of explanation. As much as Lady Eleanor deserved one, he knew it wasn’t something that he was prepared to grant. Unfolding the letter, he started to read, his heart kicking up a notch at the recognition of her voice delivered to him so clearly in the form of writing.

A soft knock at the door drew Richard’s attention away from the letter. Muttering a curse, he folded it back up, got to his feet and placed it securely in the pocket of his breeches as he went to the door and unlocked it. Moving away, he went to stand by the window, drawing back the curtain so he could look out at the garden while his brother entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“It was quite a lively event last night,” he said, staring toward the part of the garden where he’d first spoken with Lady Eleanor.

“I wish you could have participated,” Spencer said.

Richard heard him walk over to a small table and setting something down—a tray with food, no doubt. Turning slowly away from the window, Richard offered his brother the side of his face that remained unscarred. “Such things no longer interest me.”

Sighing with resignation, Spencer indicated the carafe on the side table. “Mind if I pour myself a glass?”

“Be my guest,” Richard told him. Stepping toward the armchair he’d recently vacated, he asked Spencer to pour him one as well. His thoughts rested on the letter in his pocket and what the rest of it might say, but he could hardly throw Spencer out of his room in his eagerness to discover this.

“I do not understand you,” Spencer said as he placed a glass of brandy in front of Richard and sat down across from him. “You are still an eligible gentleman.”

Studying his brother, Richard raised his glass to his lips and took a slow sip. “You know how untrue that is. One look at me and all the young ladies will have a fit of the vapors.”

“Sarah did not,” Spencer reminded him. “If you recall, she told you that the scarring is not as bad as all that.” Richard grunted disagreement. “And besides, the ball last night was a masquerade. You could easily have been there without anyone being the wiser.”

For a fleeting second, Richard considered telling Spencer that he had been. Sharing his encounter with Lady Eleanor was especially tempting, but he resisted. If Spencer knew, he would probably become more adamant about Richard going out in public. There was also the added risk that he would mention Richard’s attendance at the ball to their parents and sisters, which would only make Richard’s situation more difficult. “To what avail?” he asked instead.

“I do not know,” Spencer murmured with a shake of his head. “You have always loved music.”

“True.”

“You would also have had an opportunity to meet someone.”

“I presume that you are referring to a lady?”

“Well, you are hardly going to form an attachment by remaining in your bedchamber all the time, and with a mask—”

“We have discussed this many times before,” Richard said, annoyed by Spencer’s insistence.

Spencer stared at him for a long moment. Picking up his glass, he drained it in one long gulp. “You cannot stay dead forever.”

Richard clenched his jaw. “It is best this way.”

“Best for whom?” Rising, Spencer went to the sideboard and set down his glass on the tray there. “You will not let Mama or our sisters see you, yet you expect them to carry on this farce on your behalf.”

“I have never asked them to lie for me. People made their own assumptions when I failed to put in a public appearance after the war was over. It was commonly known that I was missing in action. All I asked was that nobody celebrate my return when I finally managed to make my way home.”

“It is dishonest.”

“To some degree perhaps, but I believe that Mama and our sisters preferred to go along with it rather than having to answer an endless amount of intrusive questions.”

“They respect your decision because they love you, Richard. That is not the same as agreeing with it, and it certainly does not make it right.”

Richard knew that there was a great deal of truth to this. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give in. Not now when he was so close to exacting his revenge on the man who’d once betrayed him. “It has been five years. I am sure most people have forgotten about me. To make an appearance now would make no sense unless I was planning to live a normal life, but we both know that doing so will be impossible.”

“Richard—”

“I look the way I do, Spencer. There is no changing that, so even if I were to meet a woman who appealed to me—one with whom I might imagine spending my future . . .” He saw Lady Eleanor’s kind eyes within the confines of his mind, her pretty mouth curving as she smiled up at him. “There is very little chance that she would agree to become my wife, least of all when I am not even in possession of a title.”

Spencer’s left eyebrow went up a notch. “You have a fine fortune, thanks to those clever investments that you have made with your secretary’s assistance.”

Richard nodded. “Mr. Collister is, without a doubt, invaluable. But money will not be enough. Not when it comes to capturing a young lady’s heart.”

“Clearly you have forgotten the way in which Society operates.” Pouring himself another glass of brandy, Spencer returned to his seat. “There are plenty of young ladies among our set who would not give a damn about what you look like as long as you are rich enough to supply them with new gowns and fripperies every Season.”

Richard felt his forehead strain beneath a frown. “If you think that I would have any interest in those sorts of women, then you do not know me at all. I despise superficiality and greed.”

A hint of a smile touched Spencer’s lips. “The thing of it is, Richard, if you do happen to find a lady who is not in it for the money, chances are that she will not care about your appearance either. Such a woman—a selfless and kind woman—will want you for you, in which case your scars will not make any difference.” Placing the rim of his glass to his lips, he took a sip, his eyes bright with the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

Needing distance, Richard rose and walked back to the window where he looked out at the black sky. Fragments of the conversations he’d shared with Lady Eleanor spilled through his mind. She’d enjoyed his company, but she hadn’t known who he was or what he looked like. “Do you suppose that if the right woman were given the chance to get to know me properly, that she might be able to develop some degree of fondness for me? Even if I did not allow her to see my face?”

“I think that you would have to let her see your face eventually.” Spencer spoke carefully, as if he feared Richard’s reaction. “To encourage any woman to marry you without doing so, would be very unfair.”

Richard started, dropping the curtain as he turned back to face his brother. “Of course. I was not suggesting any form of trickery. I was merely wondering if a moment might arise where I could show myself to her without my appearance altering her regard.”

Spencer blew out a deep breath. “I would like to think so. But unfortunately, your chance of meeting such a lady in disguise has passed. I do not believe that Lady Duncaster is planning to host another masquerade ball in the immediate future.”

Richard nodded. He would not mention Lady Eleanor. She was a secret that he intended to keep close to his heart. “It is getting late,” he said. “I believe you should be getting back to your wife?”

“Yes. I probably should.” Spencer’s footsteps tapped against the floor as he walked over to the door. “I wish you a good night, Richard.”

Richard inclined his head. “Same to you. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow evening.”

As soon as he was gone, Richard reached inside his pocket and retrieved the note from Lady Eleanor.

Richard felt his stomach tighten as he reread the final sentence. Clearly, the lady was suggesting a secret assignation. The thought was certainly intriguing, not to mention tempting. Glancing toward the clock on the mantelpiece, Richard noted the time, barely visible in the dimly lit room. Ten o’clock. Pensively, he reached for his violin, tucking it beneath his chin before sliding the bow slowly across the strings. The effect was a languid moan, like that of a satisfied lover.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the haunting melody to flow through him. It represented everything that he was, all that he had suffered, and the patience with which he was carrying out his vendetta. It reminded him of five long years of solitude, nights filled with equal measures of yearning and loathing, both deeply imbedded within his soul.

The tune drew to an end and Richard opened his eyes to find himself staring into the long mirror that hung on the wall. His blood pumped slightly faster through his veins as he took in the damaged flesh. To subject Lady Eleanor to such ugliness in the hope that she might be willing to accept him as a potential suitor, would be foolhardy. Worse, would be the selfishness of letting her into his life when he was so consumed by anger. He ought to dissuade her.

Still standing by the window later, he watched as the cloaked figure of a woman stepped out onto the terrace below. She didn’t have to look up for him to know that it was her, her steps eager with anticipation as she walked toward disappointment. As sorry as he was for it, Richard knew that it was for the best. He waited until she was out of sight and was just about to turn away from the window when someone else exited the house. Richard peered down at the man who was presently crossing the terrace with brisk steps, the back of his neck pricking as he recognized Rotridge. And he was heading straight after Lady Eleanor. Hell and damnation!