As a girl, Jo had dreamt of her first London ball. She’d be gowned in a dress that shimmered beneath the thousands of candles, her hair adorned with pearls. She’d never want for a dance partner, and the evening would pass in a glorious, life-changing blur. She’d never imagined that she would be a thirty-one-year-old widow.

At least she had a new gown.

She glanced down at the pink silk with its sheer net overlay. It was, by far, the finest thing she’d ever worn. After discussing her wardrobe with Nora the other day, she and Lady Satterfield had decided she needed a ball gown immediately since they’d also decided she ought to attend the Harcourt ball tonight. That they’d been able to find a dress that was already made and required only a few alterations was a miracle.

That is not a miracle, Matthias would have said with a sneer. His religion was a convenience to suit his mercurial moods. If the parishioners had only known the truth…but of course, they never would.

Jo scowled as she pushed the thought away.

“What’s wrong?” Nora asked.

Jo smiled brightly, probably overcompensating and thus drawing even more attention to herself. “Nothing at all.”

Nora’s mouth turned down. “I don’t believe you. You’ve been nervous—or something—all evening.”

She and Jo had arrived at the ball an hour or so ago in the company of Lady Satterfield, who’d done an excellent job of introducing Jo to everyone worth meeting. Or so Lady Satterfield had described the endeavor. Now, Jo and Nora were stationed on the perimeter, not quite against the wall, but also not in the thick of things.

Lady Satterfield had gone off in search of a gentleman to dance with Jo. She felt like a charity case. But then she supposed she was, hanging on her sister’s skirts.

Was that how she saw herself? It wasn’t as if she had to be here. She had a small portion from Matthias and could live a modest life back in St. Ives, occupying a tiny cottage just outside the village. However, that existence sounded painfully dull and tragically sad.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if her sister, or Titus, for that matter, treated her like she wasn’t more than welcome. They wouldn’t want her to live alone.

Nora exhaled as she turned her inquisitive stare away from Jo. “You can ignore me, I suppose, but I know you too well. If you’d rather go home, we can.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you. I was trying to decide what I’m doing here.”

“Meeting people?” Nora offered.

“Yes, but to what end?”

“Must there be an end? Forget talk of marriage or even the future. Why not just enjoy the evening?” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s your first ball, after all.”

“Yes, I was musing about how different this is compared to my expectation. Remember how we used to imagine it?”

“Of course. We were going to marry Untouchables. We had such grand plans.” Nora’s gaze darkened. “And then I ruined everything.”

Jo edged closer to her sister and touched her forearm. “You didn’t.”

“How can you say that? I had to return home in shame, and you weren’t even allowed a Season.” Even if Nora’s scandal hadn’t tainted Jo, their cousin who’d sponsored Nora had refused to sponsor her.

“No, but things worked out all right for me, didn’t they?”

Tears formed in Nora’s eyes, but she blinked rapidly and pressed her fingers to either side of her nose. “I shan’t cry here.” She summoned a wobbly smile. “I’d thought they had, but I know you weren’t happy.”

Yes, Jo had shared her discontent several years ago, not long after Nora had married. But that was before she’d found out Matthias’s secrets. After that, she’d stopped talking about him altogether. “We weren’t a great match,” Jo said, preferring to keep things simple.

“I know, and I feel responsible. You’ve never said, but I think you wouldn’t have married him if you’d had other options.”

Of course she wouldn’t have. She’d planned to have a Season. She’d planned to marry an Untouchable. Nora had ruined things for her, but Jo would never say so. She didn’t blame her sister. Even so, that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

Jo pivoted from her sister lest she see the truth in her eyes. She started as she recognized Lord Knighton bearing toward them.

Oh, he looked magnificent in evening wear, his dark charcoal-colored coat offset by his silver-threaded waistcoat and the snow-white of his cravat. Was he uncomfortable? She wondered how long he’d be able to endure the garments and pictured him stripping them off. The ballroom suddenly seemed overly warm.

He strode right to her and offered a bow, first to Nora as required by her rank, and another to Jo. “Good evening. You look lovely.” His gaze swept over her.

“Thank you.”

“I thought we could discuss the governess interviews,” he said. “My secretary has arranged them for Tuesday.”

Jo nodded. “Good.”

“Lord Knighton, why don’t you ask Jo to waltz? It’s just starting.”

Waltz? At Nora’s insistence, Jo had practiced the steps earlier today, but she’d never actually waltzed. “I’m not certain that’s necessary.”

Lord Knighton held out his arm. “Would you do me the honor?”

Now she was trapped. Although if she could refuse any man and predict that he wouldn’t take offense, it was Knighton. Once she explained her anxiety, she’d no doubt he would understand given his own foibles.

In the end, she simply put her hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her to the dance floor. It could be her only chance.

“I’ve never waltzed,” she said softly.

“Me neither.”

She turned her head sharply to look at him. “Oh dear.”

“How hard can it be?” he asked as they stepped onto the dance floor.

He rested his hand on her waist and clasped her hand. She placed her palm on his shoulder and, despite the layers of clothing, was certain she could feel his muscle.

“See, we’re experts,” he said.

The couples around them began to move with the music, and for a moment, they stared at each other. Then he jolted forward, and Jo somehow managed to remember what she’d practiced earlier.

“Thankfully, this isn’t too taxing,” Bran said. “Provided you can count.”

“As it happens, I am excellent with numbers.”

“I would expect nothing less as you seem to be a woman of sharp intelligence.”

Warmth spread through Jo at his praise. “Thank you.”

They turned in a new direction, and his scent curled over her. He smelled of freshness and citrus.

“I appreciate you joining me for the interview on Tuesday. Is there anything I should prepare?”

She thought of their last endeavor. “No, I’ll ask Nora if she has any questions to recommend. Just promise me you’ll leave all your clothing on until we’re finished.”

“I did last time,” he said, moving her effortlessly across the floor. Truly, she didn’t have to do much but enjoy his touch. “And I’m completely clothed tonight. I thought I did an admirable job of it. Rather, my valet did.”

“You look splendid.” Her gaze dipped to his cravat and a bit lower. His silver waistcoat shimmered in the candlelight just like her dreamed-of ball gown.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I daresay I pale next to you. I’d grown accustomed to seeing you in gray. You are far lovelier in pink. I do hope you won’t go back to the drabber colors.”

She’d thought the same thing, but hadn’t committed until that moment. Lady Satterfield had insisted that she needed a new wardrobe, and Nora had offered to pay for it. That took Jo right back to feeling as though she were in need of their charity…which she was.

Stop thinking like that, she admonished herself.

“I fear I may have just insulted you again,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say you looked drab.”

“Oh, but I did. Between your distaste for certain clothing and my depressing wardrobe, we’re quite a pair.” Had she just referred to them as a pair? She rushed to say something else. “Speaking of wardrobes, I wanted to tell you that you need to wear gloves when you’re out.”

He looked at their clasped hands. “I am. Not that I’m enjoying it.”

“I was referring to the other day when you picked up Evie. You weren’t wearing gloves then.”

“No, I wasn’t. Must I really wear them to pick up my child from your house, of all places?”

“It isn’t my house. It’s the Duke of Kendal’s.”

He gave her a wry look. “I don’t think he’d mind.” He shook his head. “I’m not very good at being an earl.”

“Nonsense. You just need more practice. Most men prepare to inherit the title. You didn’t have that advantage.”

He gazed at her in appreciation. “Perhaps I’m the one who needs a governess. Surely she could teach me how to be an earl.”

She laughed at the image of him learning deportment. “I think you may be onto a grand idea. There ought to be a school for that, at least.”

“Oh, there is. It’s called Oxford. But I’d rather be lost at sea than return there.”

She felt a shudder go through his frame. “Why?”

His jaw hardened. “I was…awkward in my youth.” His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. “Some would say I still am, I’m sure. I didn’t fit in at Oxford. My brothers had attended there before me and ensured I had a reputation for oddity. Many of my schoolmates were brothers of their friends. They were predisposed to dislike and ridicule me.”

There was no pain in his revelation, but his tone held a distant quality, as if he were speaking of someone else. “How awful. Why would your brothers do such a thing?”

He lifted his shoulder, and she was aware of where they touched. She clasped him more tightly and wished that gloves could be optional in this instance. “Because that’s the way they always treated me. They were the best of friends and I was…a nuisance.”

A nuisance? How could anyone think that of their sibling? Or any member of their family? Jo and Nora’s father was a dunderhead and their relationship was distant, but if he needed them, they’d be there for him.

He pivoted again, taking them in a new direction. “I think Becky had fun at our house today.”

The sudden change in topic jarred Jo, but she didn’t say anything. If he’d rather not discuss the pain of his brothers’ treatment, especially in the middle of a ballroom, who was she to argue? That didn’t alleviate her curiosity, however.

“Yes, I heard all about the miniature marzipan castle. Becky insists she have one too.”

“I should’ve got one for her.”

“While kind of you, that isn’t necessary. Nora’s cook is actually quite skilled with marzipan, so she’s arranged for the girls to spend an afternoon with her in the kitchen.”

He grinned. “Evie will love that. What an excellent idea.”

“It was mine, actually.” Jo wasn’t sure why she’d revealed that—it hardly mattered whose idea it was. Actually, maybe she did know. He’d smiled so enthusiastically, and she’d wanted that directed at her.

“Of course it was your idea. When I commented the other day that you should be my governess, I wasn’t entirely teasing.” And she’d been so certain he was. “But I think you should actually be a mother.” He peered at her, his dark blue eyes piercing into her and somehow stealing her breath.

Or maybe it was what he’d said. Yes, definitely that.

She should be a mother.

The ache that was so often buried in her gut rose to the surface. She nearly stumbled, but he clasped her more tightly, one hand flattening against her spine and the other gently squeezing her fingers.

“All right?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “It was bound to happen,” she said tightly, still fighting the emotion roiling inside her.

“I suppose so, given our novice state.”

Thankfully, the music drew to a close. Jo was eager to escape the sudden cloying oppression of the ballroom. The heat, the eyes, the…expectation. She needed air. “You’ve acquitted yourself quite well.” Her voice sounded thin to her ears, but hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

“High praise that seems a bit flawed, but it’s probably boorish of me to dispute you.” He flashed her a half smile. “But then you already know I’m a boor in private.”

She put her hand on his arm as he escorted her from the dance floor. “I wouldn’t call you a boor, my lord.”

“If we were in Barbados I’d ask you to call me Bran.”

“They wouldn’t call you my lord?”

“After I inherited, I asked them not to. Why bother since I was leaving anyway?”

He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met before. “You live by your own rules, don’t you?” she asked.

“Rules, like cravats, are constricting. I prefer to just live in comfort and contentment.” He delivered her to Nora and Lady Satterfield, who’d returned.

She withdrew her hand and thanked him for the dance. She liked his perspective, especially right now when she was feeling so agitated in the ballroom. In fact, while propriety demanded she stand there and chat for a few minutes, she couldn’t bear it. A dull sound had started in her ears, and she felt as though she couldn’t take a deep breath.

She needed to go outside, or at the very least, to the retiring room. “If you’ll excuse me.” She caught the worried glint in Nora’s eye, but hurried from the ballroom without a backward glance.

* * *

Watching Mrs. Shaw’s pink skirts flutter about her ankles as she fled, Bran was certain he’d said something wrong. Again. Was it that he’d been ungracious when she’d offered him a compliment about his dancing? He’d only wanted to put her at ease since it seemed as though her misstep had caused her distress.

Maybe that was it. She was merely embarrassed. People, women in particular, had always been a mystery to Bran. As soon as he thought he’d worked something out, he was thrown off course once more. At least he seemed to be improving. Things had been much worse in his youth. Had he really mentioned that to her?

And that was why he preferred to avoid things like this ball.

Along with the damnable clothing he was forced to wear. Hudson had insisted that his cravat hold more starch than usual, which was next to none, so tonight was a special torture. As a result, Bran felt as though he were suffering the hangman’s noose.

Furthermore, he despised close crowds, and the throng in the ballroom had swelled while they were dancing. Torture was exactly the right word. He envied Mrs. Shaw’s flight.

“Did you have a nice dance?” Lady Satterfield asked politely.

Bran could see that the Duchess was anxious to go after her sister, but she didn’t. He’d give her that opportunity by leaving. “We did, thank you. If you’ll excuse me.”

Both women blinked at him, appearing a bit nonplussed. He could attribute that to Mrs. Shaw’s abrupt departure, but why not his as well? He ought to have stayed and exchanged a few pleasantries. Instead, he’d dashed off at the earliest possible moment.

Damn, maybe he really wasn’t any better than he’d been in his youth.

He made his way through the ballroom, uncertain of where he was going. Suddenly, he caught the gaze of a gentleman. He looked familiar… Bugger, it was that Talbot ass, whom he’d met at Brooks’s the other night.

Desperate to avoid the man, Bran saw the open door to the terrace and revised his direction. Quickening his pace, he stepped outside. Lit with sconces, the terrace held several people milling about. Still too many people. Not to mention, Talbot had only to follow him outside.

Looking around for an escape, Bran noted stairs down to the garden. There were several pathways, each with flickering torches, but only for a certain distance. The farther along a path, the dimmer the light became until the route simply faded into darkness.

Bran practically ran for the nearest path.

As soon as he passed the last light, he tugged his gloves off and stuffed them into the pockets of his coat. Then he pulled his cravat free, letting the ends drape down his front. So much for simply loosening it.

Why had he bothered coming tonight? Because he’d allowed bloody Clare and Kendal to talk him into it. And Kendal wasn’t even here. Was Clare? Bran hadn’t seen him, and he no longer cared.

Had it really been a waste of time? He had managed a waltz after all.

Yes, a single waltz. He congratulated himself on his mediocrity.

He was supposed to be wife hunting. But he’d be damned if he could do that. He hadn’t even been able to have a conversation with Mrs. Shaw without harkening back to his miserable past. It was difficult to be here in London, especially at a social event such as this, and not think of his brothers, how they’d driven him from England.

Not that he regretted it. The moment his ship had set sail, he’d felt free. And happy. He’d certainly never imagined he’d be back here.

There was enough light filtering through the garden that he could make his way along the path. But then it turned, and he was thrust into total darkness.

He heard an intake of breath as if it were the snap of a sail in the wind. He wasn’t alone. Then he heard the rustle of fabric and knew it was a woman.

“I can hear you,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He belatedly realized it was possible she wasn’t by herself, that there was perhaps a gentleman with her. He’d just turn and go—and hopefully find a way out without having to return to the ballroom.

“Lord Knighton?”

The voice was familiar. He relaxed even as his senses vaulted to hyperawareness. “Mrs. Shaw.”

“I just…I needed some cool air.”

“I did as well.” He moved toward the sound of her voice. “I’m glad I found you. Now I can apologize for causing you distress. I’m not sure what I said or did, but I suspect it was my inability to accept your kind compliment.”

“What?” She sounded genuinely perplexed. “You didn’t cause me distress.”

There was a quiver to her tone. He wasn’t sure he believed her, but if she was trying to spare his feelings, he’d let her do whatever made her comfortable.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” she said from rather nearby, meaning he’d managed to move closer. “Talking about your past, about Oxford, seemed to bother you. I didn’t mean to cause you any upset.”

“You didn’t. I’m the one who brought it up.” And he still didn’t know why, except that he felt unabashedly comfortable with her. “I’ve spent fifteen years putting that behind me. Being back in England has brought it all to the surface again.”

“If you’d like to tell me what ‘it all’ is, I’d be glad to listen.”

He considered that, but reliving his brothers’ torture and his mother’s ambivalence wasn’t something he wanted to do. Feeling as constricted as he had in the ballroom, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his arm.

“Are you disrobing again?” she asked.

“You can hear that?”

“I’m afraid so. But since I can’t see you, it really doesn’t signify.”

He chuckled, pleased with her logic. “As it happens, I’d already untied my cravat before I arrived here.”

“I can’t even manage to feign shock.” Now her voice held a lilt of humor, as if she were smiling.

He laughed again, and a cool, early spring breeze wafted over him. How he missed the warmth of Barbados.

“Will you tell me about it?” she asked.

Had he said that out loud—about Barbados? Apparently so. “I could stand here all night and not manage to tell you everything.”

“Then just tell me something.”

He closed his eyes and summoned his home. “The colors there are like nothing you’ve ever seen—the blue-green water, the white-gold sand, colors that not even the rainbow can do justice to.”

“It sounds beautiful.” Her voice was soft, almost reverent. “How did you decide to go there?”

He opened his eyes but still couldn’t see her. “That was where the ship was headed. I didn’t care where I was going, so long as it wasn’t here.”

“You must have been terribly miserable.” She sounded as if she’d moved a bit closer.

“I wasn’t needed here.” Or wanted, really. His entire family had encouraged him to buy a commission or perhaps take a vicarage. He’d considered both ideas, but in the end had simply walked on the first ship leaving England. And he’d never looked back.

“And now?” Her question whispered over him, lulling him with its sweet curiosity.

“Now, I’m the earl. I’m needed.”

“And your brothers are gone.”

He exhaled, as if realizing for the first time that they really were gone. That he could perhaps be here and be happy. Or at least not miserable. Still, it wasn’t home. Not yet. “I miss the blazing sun.”

“Especially right now, I’d wager.”

He heard a tremor in her voice. “Wait, are you chilled? Where are you?” He reached out with his free hand and touched her.

Stepping forward—it didn’t take much to reach her—he settled his coat on her shoulders. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

He didn’t take his hands away. “Why did you come out here?”

“I—”

He heard the hesitation in her voice and felt a shiver in her body. He didn’t think that was from the night air. “You can tell me. If you want.”

“I felt…overwhelmed. As if I couldn’t breathe. I just needed to get out.”

God, he’d felt like that his entire life. “I was never able to sit still when I was younger. Or wear clothing. I often felt like I wanted to crawl out of my very skin. I used to scratch myself raw.”

“That sounds horrid. How did you stop?”

“I don’t know. Leaving here helped.”

“And now that you’re back? Things aren’t as bad as they were?”

No, he supposed they weren’t. Just as he had a few moments ago, when she’d pointed out that his brothers were indeed gone, he felt a lightness. Because of her.

Without thinking, he moved his hands closer to her neck and stroked the bare flesh above the collar of his coat, his thumbs tracing just below her jaw. He felt the muscles in her neck contract as she swallowed.

Her pulse sped beneath his touch. He moved closer until their bodies barely met. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“Yes.”

He lowered his mouth and found her lips, moving softly but purposefully. He realized he hadn’t asked permission. Yet she’d given it.

He cupped her face, gently tilting her head. Her hands came up against his chest, but not to push him away. No, her fingertips pressed into him and then curled around the lengths of his cravat, effectively tugging him to her.

With a soft groan, he curled his hand around her neck and deepened the kiss, his lips molding against hers. She moved her hands up the cravat and wrapped them around his shoulders, all the while bringing her chest to his.

The feel of her so close ignited a passion that had lain dormant within him the last several years, since Louisa’s death. He hadn’t been a monk, but he also hadn’t felt this.

Desire curled in his gut and hardened his cock. He moved one hand down her back and splayed his hand at the base of her spine, his fingers caressing the top of her backside.

Her hips pressed into his, and she gasped. Her mouth opened beneath his, and he took the invitation—prayed it was an invitation—stroking his tongue along her lips. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders as her tongue met his.

This wasn’t what he’d planned. Hell, he’d just wanted to escape the ballroom and find a moment’s peace. Instead, he’d found heaven.

Their bodies came together as need spread through him like wildfire, hot and erratic and completely uncontainable. This could spiral beyond his control so easily… He eased back—just a bit—calming the kiss.

She pulled on his cravat again and took control of the kiss, her lips moving over his before opening once more. If she wasn’t going to back away, neither was he.

He speared into her mouth, and she moaned, a dark, sensual sound that only fueled his desire. He didn’t know how long they kissed, but by the time they finally parted, his heart was thundering in his chest and his breath came in short, fast pants.

She sounded much the same, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“The same thing that came over me. Anyway, I started it.”

“And tried to finish it—I think. But I wouldn’t let you.” Her voice wobbled a bit, and he couldn’t tell if it was due to uncertainty or embarrassment or something else entirely.

“Hopefully, you can tell that didn’t bother me. On the contrary. Mrs. Shaw, that was extraordinary.” His body was screaming for completion, and if he were a different man, he might consider continuing their mutual seduction right here in this dark, private corner of the garden. His reaction wasn’t an exaggeration. He wanted her with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in years.

He drew her to him again, their bodies connecting. “You are extraordinary.”

“I’m… Thank you.”

He had the sense she was going to argue with him. He was coming to know her—she thought less of herself than she ought, he realized. She was incredibly intelligent and wise and caring, and yet she didn’t seem to know that. Or project that. In a way, it reminded him of himself when he was younger, before he’d escaped.

And watching her with Evie made him smile. His daughter spoke of her often, how she always spent time with her and Becky, whether it involved making clothes for the dolls, reading them stories, or apparently arranging for them to mold marzipan with the cook.

Yes, she should be a mother. Why not Evie’s mother? He needed a wife, and he liked her. He sure as hell liked kissing her. He knew he’d enjoy bedding her too.

“Marry me,” he blurted.

She stiffened, but even if she hadn’t, he’d immediately realized he’d bungled that proposal.

She took a step back. “I cannot.”

Yes, completely cocked it up. He clasped her hand, not wanting her to go. “I’m sorry, that was incredibly awkward. As I mentioned earlier, I’m quite good at that. Mrs. Shaw, would you do me the great honor of becoming my countess?”

“We scarcely know each other. I can’t—” She pulled her hand from his. “No.”

“Why not? It makes perfect sense. I need a mother for Evie, and you’ve developed an excellent rapport with her. Add in this apparent attraction we feel, and it’s a logical match.”

“Logical?” He heard the befuddlement in her tone and suspected that had been the wrong thing to say. Hell, he’d never been much of a romantic. Louisa had tried to train him. He’d at least learned to bring her flowers on occasion. Yes, he’d send Mrs. Shaw—Joanna—flowers tomorrow.

“I mean to say that you’d make a wonderful countess—and mother.”

“No, I won’t.” Her tone was cold. “I was married eight years, Lord Knighton, and I have no children to show for it. You say this is a logical match, but you want children—an heir—and I can’t give you one. So you see, it’s an impossible match.”

Suddenly, she thrust his coat into his arms. He caught it against him as she strode past and fled down the path toward the light.

Bran stayed in the dark. That was the only place he really belonged.