After worrying over what to wear since going to bed the previous evening, Amelia eventually selected a white gown with dark blue embroidery on the sleeves and hem. The bodice was modestly cut, and embellished with a pretty silk ribbon that encircled her torso and hung down her back. So when Coventry finally arrived to escort her, she was satisfied that she looked her best. He, of course, was nothing short of outstanding, dressed in a navy blue jacket and beige-colored breeches. His boots, which were likely newly polished, accentuated the length and sturdiness of his legs in not just a fashionable way, but in a masculine one too.

“Allow me,” he said once they’d taken their leave of Lady Everly and Juliette and descended the outside steps to where his carriage awaited. Amelia’s maid, Heather, had chosen to sit outside with the driver, for which Amelia was grateful since she enjoyed being able to speak with Coventry in private.

He held out his hand and she paused, struck by the way the sun washed over his hair to highlight streaks of golden honey. His face was clean shaven, the planes of his cheeks so smooth she was tempted to reach up and test the surface with her fingers. Anticipation lingered in the confines of his bold brown eyes while his lips curved a little to the left—a slight tilt that spoke of an amused sort of pleasure.

One of his eyebrows drew up in expectation, and she chose not to linger any longer, her hand settling neatly in his before she stepped up into their conveyance. He climbed in behind her and claimed the opposite seat.

“You look lovely today.” His comment was spoken as the carriage rolled into motion and began its meandering progress toward Piccadilly.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

He pressed his lips together and studied her. “Do you think it might be possible to avoid saying Your Grace? I would prefer for you to call me Coventry.”

“I do call you Coventry,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but you also say Your Grace a lot, and frankly, I don’t much care for it.”

“Oh.” She considered that bit of information. “I thought I was supposed to use the honorific as much as possible, so I do so whenever I remember to.”

Chuckling, he leaned back into his seat to portray a pose of complete relaxation. “That rule mostly applies to when you are not well acquainted with the peer in question, but you and I are friends. We have certainly known each other long enough for you to be slightly more at ease around me.”

“But no given name.”

He gave her an odd sort of look. “No. That wouldn’t really be done when even my mother insists on using my title.”

Amelia sighed. “Forgive me, but I find that terribly strange and difficult to adjust to. I still call my brother Raphe. Huntley doesn’t come naturally.”

“I suppose it is a matter of what you have been used to.” He glanced out the window for a second before returning his attention to her. “For the ton, addressing a gentleman by his title denotes respect. Only a very close friend one has known since childhood would ever consider forgoing the use of it.”

“Surely wives are also permitted to do so.”

“Hmm . . . opinions on this vary. Some probably do address their husbands by their given names when in private.”

“Will you do so when you marry?” The question slipped out without her even thinking.

He stared at her before shifting a little as if with discomfort, then told her plainly, “I do not know. It is not something I have really considered since I have no immediate plan to snatch up a wife.”

Fearing she might have touched a nerve on account of his brusqueness, she pulled back a bit and considered an issue that truly puzzled her. “What I cannot figure out, is how to address a group of ladies who all hold the same title.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, let’s say there are ten duchesses in a room and—”

“An unlikely scenario since there are only five dukes in all of England and four of them are married.” He flashed her a smile that bore a teasing element to it.

Amelia allowed the effect of it to tighten her stomach before saying, “Very well, let’s say there are four duchesses in a room.”

He nodded, but that teasing smile of his lingered. It kept her feeling slightly unsteady and incredibly aware of his mouth. Trying not to look at it directly, she settled her gaze on his eyes and immediately regretted doing so, because the look there made heat pour through her in waves. There was something predatory about it that spoke to a secret yearning deep down inside. Not that she thought the look was the product of anything other than a bit of mischief on his part. He was just having some fun with her, that was all.

So she gathered her composure and continued with her question. “How does one distinguish between them when they are all to be addressed as Your Grace?”

“I suppose one would look at the duchess to whom one was speaking.”

Amelia shook her head in disagreement. “Using their names would be so much simpler. Can you imagine a conversation they might have between themselves? I think it would become rather confusing.”

“Once again, the scenario is unlikely to occur since two of the duchesses never visit Town anymore on account of their age.”

“But surely—”

“Just use the appropriate titles, my lady. You cannot go wrong with doing that.”

Amelia wasn’t sure she agreed. She could think of at least one way in which she could make it go wrong, but since the carriage was pulling to a stop and Coventry had turned his attention toward the door, she decided to drop it.

They entered the town house where Mr. Gorrell had his place of business, waiting no more than five minutes in the reception room before he came to greet them. “Your Grace,” the man said without so much as a glance in Amelia’s direction. “What a delightful surprise!” He led the way through to his office and gestured toward a chair. “Please have a seat and tell me how I might be of service.”

Still standing, Coventry gave the man a solid perusal before pausing on his face. “You may begin by greeting Lady Amelia properly.”

It was as if she’d remained invisible until that point and the act of Coventry mentioning her name had made her materialize in the room. Mr. Gorrell’s eyes widened. Giving Amelia his attention, he then spoke a series of hasty apologies while keeping a wary eye on the duke. “I take it this is about the house you are interested in?” he finally asked.

“Yes.” Moving forward, Amelia went to sit down. “I’m here to pay the remainder of what I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing, lady.” Mr. Gorrell went to claim his seat behind his desk.

Coventry remained standing, hovering close to Amelia’s chair. She liked that—the solid feel of him at her back. It gave her strength and courage. “You’re mistaken,” she said. “Our agreement was for me to give you an additional two thousand five hundred pounds.”

Spreading his arms with a shrug that irked her, Mr. Gorrell leaned back against the squeaky leather of his seat and said, “I’m afraid that deal fell through when the other interested party made a higher offer.”

“No.” She could feel her stomach collapsing in a tumultuous roil of uneasiness. This couldn’t be happening. It simply could not. “You signed the sales contract. We both did. With the understanding that you wouldn’t sell the property to anyone else. I gave you three thousand pounds in order to ensure this!”

Mr. Gorrell looked at her with confusion. “Not as far as I recall. The way I remember it, you said the price was too high and that you could no longer afford it.”

“That’s not true!” Panic overcame her, sharpening her voice into something loud and shrill that she hated but couldn’t do anything about.

Mr. Gorrell crossed his arms over his stomach. “What proof do you have, my lady? The sales contract perhaps?”

“You took that because you said you needed it in order to finalize the sale. But you did give me this.” Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the table.

Coventry stepped forward to look at it. “This is a receipt signed by you, Mr. Gorrell.”

The solicitor picked up the paper and studied it. “No,” he said. “That’s not my signature.” He then pulled out a stack of papers from a drawer and placed them on top of his desk. Spreading them out, he pointed to each document in turn. “That is my signature. It looks entirely different.”

Picking up some of the documents, Coventry studied each one against the receipt. He looked at Amelia with a steady gaze that did little to comfort her at the moment. “They do indeed.”

“But . . .” She could feel herself shrinking beneath the weight of her own stupidity.

“So you see,” Mr. Gorrell said, “there is no agreement between us.”

Coventry stared at the man for a long uncomfortable moment until Mr. Gorrell averted his gaze and shifted with a hint of unease. The papers the duke held in his hand crumpled between his fingers, and he was suddenly standing on the opposite side of the desk, leaning over Mr. Gorrell’s cowering form. “I do not know what game you are playing at, Mr. Gorrell, but I would suggest you stop trying to cheat Lady Amelia out of her money before I decide to take offense to your tone. Meeting me at dawn would not be in your best interest, sir.”

Amelia stared. Had Coventry really just threatened to challenge Mr. Gorrell to a duel? It seemed absurd and yet somehow so very heroic. Still, she couldn’t allow him to shoot the man or worse, get shot while trying to do what she’d failed to do herself in protecting her best interest.

“Coventry,” she began, not knowing precisely how to continue.

He cut her a hard look that warned her to stay silent. “What I would like to know,” he said before she could manage to find her tongue, “is if another party actually exists or whether Mr. Gorrell here has simply chosen to steal from you.”

“Your Grace,” the solicitor muttered. “I’ll return the three thousand pounds to her ladyship if that will settle the dispute.”

“So you admit that I paid you,” Amelia said with disgust. “I don’t want the money back, however. What I want is the house you said you would sell to me.”

“Who else did you make a deal with?” Coventry asked in a low and terrifying tone.

Mr. Gorrell shook his head. “I cannot say. You have to believe me.”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Coventry told him. He leaned back and straightened himself to his full height. “Which is why you will accept the final payment we are going to make today. If you do not, I will personally see to it that charges are brought against you, and in case you are wondering, I have an excellent barrister who will no doubt make certain you enjoy a lovely retreat in Newgate Prison.”

The solicitor was visibly trembling beneath Coventry’s gaze. “I t-tried to dissuade her from making the purchase. Had I succeeded, n-none of this would have happened.” Swallowing, he shifted his wary eyes between Coventry and Amelia. “I’m a good solicitor.”

“You’re a thief,” Coventry told him sharply. “Now see to it that the sale is finalized or God help me, I’ll—”

“Very well.” Mr. Gorrell hastily relented. With shaking fingers, he produced some papers that he proceeded to fill out and sign. A seal was added, and the document was handed over to Amelia for her signature, as well. She read the document carefully and then looked up at Coventry who gave her a nod of approval before she wrote down her name.

“And here is the rest of the money,” Coventry said, placing a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string upon the desk.

Mr. Gorrell quickly unwrapped it to reveal a thick stack of crisp bank notes. “Thank you, Your Grace.” His expression was not as pleased as Amelia would have expected it to be. After all, the man had just received more money than the house was worth and had also avoided a duel. He ought to look more elated.

Pulling a set of keys from his jacket pocket, he offered them to Amelia. “Here is the second set I promised you.”

She held out her hand, and he dropped the keys into her palm with a jangle.

“If that is all,” Coventry said, stepping toward the door, “her ladyship and I would like to wish you a good day.”

Nodding, Amelia curled her fingers around the precious metal she now held and rose to her feet. “You’re a very dishonest individual, Mr. Gorrell. I can only hope our paths never cross again.”

With that, she turned on her heel and exited the office with the full intention of putting the despicable man from her mind. She now had a house to renovate after all, and that thought alone was enough to banish the bitterness Mr. Gorrell had instilled in her earlier, replacing it with a thrilling sense of excitement instead.

“The laborers I spoke with when I was considering the cost of repairs said it would probably take four months to complete,” Amelia told Coventry as they stepped into the dilapidated ballroom. After leaving Mr. Gorrell, they’d gone to take a look at the house since Coventry had not had the chance to consider the promises it held when he’d last been inside it.

“I believe it may take longer than that,” Coventry said. He crouched and studied the floor. “We are facing extensive work, my lady. As it is, I am not even sure the house is safe for us to visit.” Standing, he faced her.

“I think the place looks very promising,” she said.

She would not allow disappointment to show. Not when he’d been so incredibly helpful. She shot a look at him and he shook his head with a boyish grin that immediately turned her insides to goo. Lord, the man had a way of affecting her most feminine side, of heating her blood and making her want things that . . . No. She wouldn’t think of that. Not when doing so would only lead to misery. Lowell would make a far better subject for her attention.

With that in mind, she strolled toward the dining room only to find herself pulled to a halt by a firm set of fingers curling around her arm. Her breath hitched and she instinctively spun around, almost staggering beneath the dark gaze that now beheld her.

The edge of Coventry’s mouth lifted. “Forgive me if I startled you. That was not my intention.” He stepped back a little, but his hand remained where it was, emitting waves of heat that rippled up her arm, spreading its way through her torso and making her clamor for more distinct contact.

Lord help her, she wanted his hands not only on her arm, but on her shoulders and back as well. She wanted him touching her waist, her legs and even her ankles. But most specifically, she longed to feel him in other places—places she dared not even think of. And yet, as he stood there staring down at her with darkness hovering at the back of his eyes, she felt a wanton heat begin to pool and a tightness start to form. It was both uncomfortable and pleasant and so unlike any sensation she’d ever had before. It made her want to press up against him and savor his strength in a way that was both illuminating and frightening at the same time.

Because until that moment, she’d loved him and then not loved him. Now she felt herself falling for him all over again. Except it was different this time, because whereas before she’d been struck with a girlish fancy for a dashing man who’d kindly helped her and her family, she’d since met a darker, more powerful side to his character, and as much as that side had made her wonder about her feelings for him, it was also this side that had pulled her back, though in a different way than she’d ever imagined. Because somehow, in an odd turn of events, it was the anger she’d seen and the dangerous glint in his eyes when Mr. Gorrell had threatened to take advantage again that had called to a far more basic need inside her. It had awakened an awareness of her own elemental desires—desires she’d never fully considered until this exact moment when all her awareness was centered on his masculinity and how she longed to explore it further.

“My lady?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

His eyes slid away from hers for a second to study another part of her face. Looking back up, his hand dropped, leaving a cold patch in its place. “Which classroom do you plan on having in here?”

Startled by the question, Amelia took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. Yes, they were here to discuss the renovations, not for her to have a lust-induced fantasy while undergoing some sort of feminine awakening.

“The light spilling in from these windows over here would make this an excellent room for art. We can put a partition over here, perhaps one that can easily be removed at a later date if necessary. It doesn’t have to be made from brick.”

“You are thinking of a wooden one?”

“It would be faster and have less of an impact on the structure of the building, I should think.”

He studied the spot she’d indicated on the floor. “If you move it a little bit further to the right, you may be able to have an extra window on this side. You will still get enough light for the art room, but it will prevent this room over here from being too dark.”

It was something she’d been considering; she just hadn’t wanted the art room to be too small since space would be required for easels. But perhaps that was a sacrifice she would have to make since the other classroom would need a decent amount of light as well—at least enough for the students to read and write. To use oil lamps or candles during the day would be ridiculous.

“You are right,” she said. “Dividing the space like that does make more sense.”

His gaze drove into hers. “You do not have to agree with me.”

“I know.” She turned to continue on through to the dining room as she’d initially planned, satisfied with the knowledge that she’d left him looking as unstable as she had felt a few moments earlier.

Keeping a moderate amount of distance, Thomas followed Lady Amelia while she made her tour of the house with her maid never more than a few paces away. That must have been Lady Everly’s doing, for which he had to allow a degree of appreciation since he might otherwise have taken advantage several times already.

Arriving in the dining room, he studied the cracks in the plaster and the spots of rot in the flooring. The plaster would be easily repaired, the floor not so much. A lot of boards would have to be replaced and if Lady Amelia decided to match the wood, it would probably be expensive. But he would advise her to do so since it would at least restore the splendor of the house and make it easier for her to sell in case the school didn’t work out.

Not that he didn’t expect it to now that he’d gotten to know her better. She had a powerful will. It propelled her forward regardless of the obstacles placed in her path. And although he’d had to threaten Mr. Gorrell in order to conclude the business with him, Lady Amelia had not shied away from the scoundrel when he’d all but told her that he was taking her money and giving her nothing in return. Indeed, she’d faced him head-on, insisting she was in the right and he was in the wrong.

It wasn’t until Mr. Gorrell had picked her argument apart with his lies that Thomas had chosen to step in and do what Lady Amelia did not have the power to do. And now, watching as she moved around this dilapidated place she owned with beatific joy sparkling in her eyes as she planned and plotted her next course of action, he found himself overcome by her enthusiasm. It was so infectious he’d felt compelled to reach out and touch her.

What had happened next had confounded him to his core. Because there was no denying the awareness that had come to life in her gaze when he’d let his hand linger upon her arm. It had been aglow with surprise, wonder, pleasure and then . . . most incredibly of all . . . raw, unrestrained desire. The effect had been so powerful it had almost knocked him completely off center—something she’d actually accomplished seconds later when she’d tossed him a sultry smile and murmured, “I know.”

There had just been something about the expression—something that made him want to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to only God knew where. He hadn’t thought that part through before reminding himself of time and place and who the lady was that he was presently thinking such dastardly things about. Huntley’s sister. Lady Amelia. An innocent debutante destined to make a prime catch this Season. He really couldn’t afford to let himself lust after her. It had been bad enough in the carriage on the way to Mr. Gorrell’s when she’d asked about using his given name. Hell, he could think of several scenarios now in which hearing her say it would be his undoing.

Glancing across at where she was presently standing in front of a large window with sunshine spilling in on her, he couldn’t help but marvel at his own idiocy. How the hell had it taken so long for him to realize how lovely she was? And not only that, but smart too and stubborn as hell and a few more things that were getting under his skin. She was different from any other woman he’d ever known—completely unique—and he wanted her more and more with each passing second.

It was all because of that damnable dress she’d worn to the Elmwood ball. Although he had to admit she would have gotten his attention without it the moment she’d brought out her business plan. Because that was not something he’d been expecting. Not in the least. Indeed, it had positively stumped him that she had endeavored to put such a thing together and then proceeded to present it with such unequivocal professionalism. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. But to actually pursue her . . . He simply couldn’t. Because doing so would involve marriage, and that was something he couldn’t offer. Not when all of his attention had to be pinned on his responsibility and the boy who needed him. There was no room in his life for another person as long as Jeremy depended on his help.

With that in mind, he trained his features into something bland that he hoped would mask his true feelings. “Would you like me to interview the laborers you plan on hiring?” he asked when they returned to the foyer.

“If you don’t mind, that would be helpful,” she said. They stepped outside with her maid in tow, and he waited while Lady Amelia locked the door. “Perhaps we can have another outing tomorrow? I would like to decide on the windows since ordering them may take some time. The same can be said of the flooring.”

His heart rolled over in his chest at the very idea of seeing her again so soon, but he reminded himself that it might be advisable not to—that a few days apart would be in the best interest of both of them. “I am afraid I have some other commitments that I must attend to for the next few days. Next week would work better.”

With a nod that failed to convey what she was thinking, she started toward the awaiting carriage with him by her side. “Very well,” she told him plainly. A tight smile followed. “Next week it is then.”

Arriving home, Thomas removed his gloves, discarded them on a table in the foyer and continued up the stairs to the nursery. “Hello,” he said as he entered. He deliberately kept his voice quiet but cheerful.

Both his mother and the nurse looked his way. They offered greetings of their own with smiles to go with them. Jeremy, however, kept his eyes on the canvas before him, his concentration fixed on his paintbrush’s circular movement.

“He is painting a carriage,” his mother explained.

Thomas didn’t comment. He crouched next to the child and studied what was meant to be a wheel. The carriage would probably be added later. “Has he finished his morning lessons?”

His mother and the nurse exchanged a look before his mother rose and gestured for him to follow. They retreated some distance and she quietly explained, “Miss Greyer has handed in her notice.”

Thomas felt his jaw tighten. “Why?”

“She said she found Jeremy impossible to work with.” Her eyes reflected the despair he knew she felt. “Jeremy didn’t engage in conversation about any of the topics Miss Greyer tried to bring up in an effort to engage his interest, and after a while he just started repeating something, she said, over and over.” Her brows knit with worry. “She called him a daft little idiot.”

Thomas felt his temples begin to pound in response to the blood that rushed to the top of his head. Miss Greyer was fortunate to have taken her leave before he’d learned of this incident, or she might have gotten her neck wrung for spouting such insensitive cruelty.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, he told his mother tightly, “Thank you for letting me know.” He glanced to where Jeremy sat and drew a deep breath. “No more governesses.”

“But he needs to be taught and—”

“I will do it, Mama.”

She shook her head as though not quite understanding him. “I do not see where you will find the time. Jeremy is not like other children. He requires a lot of attention.”

“Yes,” he told her sharply. “I am aware of that. And I realize I also have parliament and Huntley’s sisters to attend to, but Jeremy is important. You know that as well as I.”

She nodded. “Perhaps if you cut your parliamentarian session short this year and only attend the occasional meetings?”

“That will give me more time with Jeremy in the mornings.” He considered the prospect. “It is a good plan since there is only a month left of the Season anyway. And as far as my bill is concerned—”

“Don’t you think you ought to wait with that for a few more years and see how things develop?”

Thomas’s vision darkened. “I thought you supported me in this.”

“I support the principle, but I am not certain that pushing this bill would be in Jeremy’s best interest.”

“You believe he will not be capable of running a dukedom.” The words sounded flat and angry to Thomas’s ears—a perfect reflection of how he felt.

“He is only five years old, Coventry.” The touch of her hand on his arm made him flinch. She let it fall away. “I think it is too soon to tell.”

Feeling numb, betrayed and defeated, Thomas turned away from her and went to sit with Jeremy. “You may leave us,” he told the nurse before leveling his mother with endless amounts of hurt. “You too.”

“Coventry . . .”

He dropped his gaze to the painting. “Please go.”

A moment passed and then the door to the room clicked shut. He expelled a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, regretting he’d caused his mother pain. She was only looking out for Jeremy’s best interests after all, whether he chose to agree with her opinion or not.

“That is a fine wheel,” he said. Jeremy’s hand didn’t stop its circular motion. “If you paint another, you can set the carriage on top.”

When there was still no response, he carefully moved to touch Jeremy’s hand. The boy stilled, but never looked up as Thomas repositioned his hand where the next wheel should go. There was a slight hesitation—a moment of anticipation—and then Jeremy returned his paintbrush to where it had been before and resumed the movement.

Thomas sighed. He had no idea of how to teach the boy or of how to advise and help him. He wasn’t always this difficult to reach, but Thomas supposed the incident with Miss Greyer had had a particularly negative impact. So he chose not to press for a greater response. Instead, he kept Jeremy company with nothing more than his presence until finally, the boy stopped painting and quietly asked, “Can I have a story?”