Bemused, Hannah stared at the pale rose silk dress that Mary had laid out on the bed. The gown was lovely, despite the suggestion in the lines that it had been remade from a gown that originated in the previous century.

“Lady Blackwold sent this for you to wear to dinner tonight,” Mary said in a toneless voice. Her downcast gaze seemed to be focused on the tips of her black shoes, and she clasped her red chapped hands in front of her crisp, white apron.

“Thank you,” Hannah responded for want of a better reply. A sense of being maneuvered into place assailed her.

Certainly, the dowager had made it clear earlier that, while Hannah’s reputation might be too damaged for acceptance by Polite Society or her titled grandson, she was not so ruined that she wouldn’t do for her other grandson, Henry Hodges. Particularly since the possibility existed that Henry might obtain the title of baron if he ignored the deficiencies in Hannah’s reputation.

What the dowager failed to realize was that if Mr. Hodges could gain a title that way, so could any other gentleman Hannah cared to consider.

Which might make her very popular, despite her damaged reputation.

She studied the silk dress with distaste. She had no desire to flirt with Mr. Hodges or attempt to attract his attention. Earlier in the day, her feelings concerning that gentleman had been lukewarm, at best, when he insisted she leave her sewing for a walk in the garden. She neither craved his company nor disliked him.

Now, however, since the dowager’s inexplicable decision to throw Hannah at his head, she felt a distinct distaste for both him and the silk dress.

“The dress will suit you,” Mary said grudgingly as she reached out to smooth a small wrinkle out of the softly glimmering fabric. “With your fair coloring and all.”

“I’m not sure I wish to wear it.”

Mary stared at her, her mouth hanging open. “Miss?”

Turning away, Hannah glanced at the gowns neatly folded on the shelves of the open wardrobe. Her response had been churlish—beneath her. “Never mind.” Hannah sighed. “It is lovely. Lady Blackwold is too generous.”

“Yes, she be that, Miss.”

At last, something on which they could both agree.

Hannah was beginning to realize that she was unlikely to ever make a friend out of the taciturn maid, but she had to admit that Mary never let her personal feelings—whatever they might be—interfere with her performance of her job.

After helping Hannah into her dress, Mary wrapped a linen towel around Hannah’s shoulders, and with extraordinarily gentle strokes of the brush, created a simple but becoming hairstyle. She swept Hannah’s hair up into a fashionable knot, threaded with a pink ribbon that matched the silk gown, and created cascades of delicate ringlets on either side of Hannah’s face.

Gazing into the mirror, Hannah caught the maid’s reflected gaze and smiled. “You have done a beautiful job with very poor material, Mary. You are to be commended.” She turned her head from one side to the other to view the results. “I don’t believe I have ever looked better.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Mary removed the linen cloth from around Hannah’s neck and busied herself putting everything away. “You’d best be getting along to the sitting room—Lady Blackwold will be waiting.”

A sigh escaped from Hannah as she stood and shook out her dress. Her pearl earrings swayed and her fingers went to the matching necklace. Its pearly sheen echoed the lustrous silk of her dress, and a few pearls picked up a touch of the pale rose, giving the necklace richness and warmth.

The bruises that had developed on her back and hips after being buffeted by the storm were invisible under her elegant dress, but they reminded her of their existence whenever she moved. Her headache made her feel too ill to eat, but she had to at least try. She cast a lingering glance at the bed before she took a deep breath, straightened her back, and walked out of her bedchamber.

Dinner turned out to be much less tedious than Hannah expected. When Blackwold appeared, his neat appearance caused a moment of stunned silence. His valet had worked miracles for the marquess’s evening attire was immaculate, his neckcloth was well-knotted, and even his thick hair had been brushed until it gleamed.

The flutter in Hannah’s stomach made her clasp her hands together tightly and stare down, afraid of what her eyes might reveal.

Once they recovered from the surprise, the dowager and Henry Hodges vied to outdo each other with amusing stories of their experiences in London.

To Hannah’s dismay, course after course was served. Oysters and a thick, aromatic fish soup were followed by a venison roast, larded with bacon, crispy-skinned roasted potatoes, and asparagus in a delicate cream sauce laced with sherry. By the time the final course of dried fruit and cheese appeared, Hannah could only sip her Madeira and hope that no one noticed that she failed to take any of the proffered delicacies.

As they picked over the final course, a sidelong glance at Blackwold made Hannah grin. She bit her lower lip to avoid laughing.

A thick lock of hair hung over his brow and somehow, his neckcloth seemed to be slowly unraveling itself from its previous careful arrangement. The top button of his waistcoat had also come undone, though she could not imagine how, for the button was still tightly sewn to the pale blue and silver-embroidered silk.

The fluttering sensation she’d experienced earlier returned. There was something endearing in his increasing untidiness, and a feeling of warmth filled her.

“Shall we leave the men to their secrets?” Lady Blackwold asked, pressing her palms against the tabletop as she stood.

“Of course,” Hannah replied, flushing. Had the dowager noticed Hannah’s glances at Blackwold?

She felt embarrassed and flustered. The fingers of her right hand brushed over her pearls, playing over their smooth, warm surface. Like a child unable to resist the one thing she had been denied, she couldn’t seem to stop surreptitiously gazing at the marquess. In fact, she was worse than any schoolroom miss besotted by her brother’s tutor, she reprimanded herself.

Thankfully, the dowager either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore Hannah’s blushes. She took Hannah’s arm and drew her to the sitting room, continuing a rambling story about her first Season in London, where she appeared to have been the toast of the town and quite ensorcelled at least a dozen fashionable young men.

“I must say, you are looking very well this evening, Miss Cowles. Mary has quite outdone herself,” Lady Blackwold said as she sat with a gusty sigh in the red damask wing chair nearest the fire.

“Yes. She is a very skilled maid.”

“Have you considered what I said earlier?”

Hannah’s brow wrinkled as she sat down in the chair next to her. “What you said earlier?”

“About my grandson. Henry. He is much taken with you, I believe.” The dowager laughed and wriggled her small feet with delight. “I knew that gown would suit you and that Henry would notice. And those delicious pearls—you could not have chosen more wisely. Well done, girl.”

Hannah’s hands tightened on the armrests. She deliberately released her hold and clasped them gently in her lap. “I do not wish to lead him—or you—on, Lady Blackwold. I appreciate the gown and everything you have done for me, but I have no wish to marry—”

“No wish to marry!” The dowager’s voice rose. She frowned at Hannah. “You cannot understand what lies ahead of you, if you do not marry.” Her wrinkles smoothed away as a pensive look entered her face. “Marriage is not without its terrors, certainly. So many girls die before their time. Childbirth—it is difficult, as you no doubt know. I can understand and sympathize if you are frightened. But there are worse things. To be old and alone…” A shudder went through her. “You cannot want that. At least I have my family—my sons and grandsons. I am not entirely alone.”

Hannah nodded, but despite Lady Blackwold’s words, she sensed that the dowager did feel alone, despite her large family. Alone and unwanted, living at Blackrock on sufferance because she had no place else to go.

While her grandsons were polite and cared for her well-being, they had their own lives and affairs, often leaving the dowager to spend her days without company. Although Hannah had only been there a short time, she’d gotten the impression that Lady Blackwold often ate her meals alone, as well, attended to by silent servants.

Hannah leaned forward and gave the dowager’s arm a squeeze. “I understand, but there is time, is there not? I am just turned twenty, after all. And you must be prepared if I am unable to prove who I am. You would not want Mr. Hodges to marry a nobody—a virtual stranger from a foreign country.”

“A colony—not so foreign,” the dowager answered with a sad smile. Her hands twisted together before she winced and placed them gently in her lap.

“A former colony and quite foreign in all the ways that matter, I assure you.”

Lady Blackwold smiled and patted Hannah’s knee. “You are a kind girl—when you wish to be. So, we will be patient and see what transpires. We are all going to London in a week. Just as soon as my son can spare Georgina.” A mischievous gleam lit her eyes. “And perhaps my Henry will find a titled heiress from the latest crop of girls at Almack’s.”

“Perhaps he will, and I wish him all the best if he does.”

The dowager laughed. “We shall see if you sing the same song when that happens, Miss Cowles. You would not be the first woman to discover too late that she now wants what another possesses.”

Rubbing the spot between her brows, Hannah took a deep breath. The heat from the fire had made her drowsy and eased some of the bruises and aches she still felt from the storm’s buffeting. She smiled tiredly at the dowager and changed the subject, encouraging her to talk about her own past when she went to London herself for her first Season.

The dowager reminisced happily enough for the next twenty minutes, while Hannah’s limbs grew heavier and heavier. Her chin drooped, and she jerked in her chair when one of the logs in the fire crumbled on the fireirons, sending up a shower of gold and red sparks just visible above the top edge of the embroidered fire screen.

If she was to stay awake any longer, she needed a breath of bracing fresh air.

“Will you excuse me for a moment, Lady Blackwold? It is so warm in here that I feel the need for a breath of air.”

“Certainly, my dear. You may go out on the terrace—you should be safe enough there, and I will be able to see you through the doors.” Leaning forward, she shrugged out of her warm, cashmere shawl and held it out. “Take my shawl. The wind from the sea never lets up, I’m afraid, so you will need it.”

“I have a shawl—”

“Pshaw,” the dowager said, interrupting her. “You will need more than that flimsy thing. It may be becoming, but that shawl is more appropriate for May than February.”

Hannah clamped her mouth shut and took the shawl, avoiding the obvious rejoinder that the dowager herself had given Mary the clothing Hannah was wearing this evening, so she could hardly complain that it was inappropriate for the season.

However, Hannah’s exasperation with Lady Blackwold was tempered by a strong urge to laugh. The dowager’s mood was nothing if not mercurial.

“I will only be outside for a minute,” Hannah replied. “Thank you for the shawl.”

The dowager waved her away and transferred her gaze to the crackling fire painting dancing patterns of light and dark on the embroidered fire screen.

Just as the dowager predicted, a chilly wind blew toward the house from the cliffs. Shivering, Hannah wrapped the extra shawl around her shoulders, grateful for the additional warmth. The soft folds retained the fragrance of violets that Lady Blackwold made liberal use of, and Hannah smiled as the scent tickled her nose.

She’d been extraordinarily fortunate to have escaped drowning and have the dowager’s carriage stop for her. She couldn’t imagine what might have happened to her if Beamish had simply driven past her, or if she’d taken just a few minutes longer to climb the cliff and had missed them altogether.

One of the wreckers had already been on the cliff—near enough to see her.

A sudden movement caught her attention. She peered into the darkness and pulled her shawls more tightly around her shoulders, suddenly feeling vulnerable in the darkness, even though she could clearly see the dowager sitting in her wing chair in front of the fire through the terrace doors.

Her mind whirled to the men who had been working on the beach all day, and from them to the wreckers.

No, they wouldn’t come this close to Blackrock Manor, would they? She tried to shake off the feeling, but she couldn’t. The golden glow from the room behind her illuminated her back, making her clearly visible to anyone who happened to be roaming through the winter garden.

“Is anyone there?” she called with a quick glance over her shoulder.

The dowager didn’t move. Hannah’s nervous voice hadn’t disturbed her, at least.

“Miss Cowles?” Blackwold stepped up the shallow steps onto the terrace. The darkness clung to him, smudging his dark hair and blending into the dark fabric of his evening jacket.

“Is that you, Lord Blackwold?” She smiled in relief and moved back into the pool of light by the doors, hoping he would join her so that she could see him more clearly.

“Yes. What are you doing out here? A bit cool, is it not?”

“I wanted a breath of fresh air. I hadn’t realized anyone else was out here.”

As she hoped, he strode forward, stopping a bare yard from her. The flickering light coming through the doors showed that his carefully brushed hair had escaped the imposed order and with wild abandon curled in shaggy tufts over his ears. One thick lock hung over his brow, nearly obscuring his left eye. She longed to reach out and push the hair back in place and run her hands through the soft, brown waves. Helpless to control it, she took a step closer and felt her smile widen tenderly, her breath catching oddly as her heart thudded within her chest.

The starched, white neckcloth had come undone and hung down on either side of his open collar, exposing the strong column of his throat. His jacket was completely unbuttoned and only the two lowest buttons on his waistcoat remained chastely closed. He was so rumpled… And so dear because of it.

She leaned closer, unable to resist drinking in the fresh scent of the sea air combined with the heady, warm fragrance of his skin and the bay scent of the hair tonic his valet had used to attempt to bring order to his hair.

His eyes, though lost in shadows, seemed to gaze first into hers before dropping to her mouth.

She caught her breath and pulled her lower lip between her teeth, staring at his bare neck and broad shoulders. She moved another inch, wanting to feel the warmth and strength of him.

Reaching out one hand, he brushed his warm fingertips over her cheek and flicked aside one of her curls. His gaze intensified, focused on her mouth before his lips curved into a grin.

He touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “Your nose is red, Miss Cowles. It’s cold out here.”

“Too cold,” she said abruptly, stepping back. What had she been thinking?

Hands holding the edges of her shawl tightly, she strode to the terrace door, threw it open, and stepped into the warmth without glancing back to see if Blackwold was following her. She rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand before she realized that she was most likely only making it a darker crimson.

He was laughing at her, she just knew it. And she was furious with herself for her previous, unaccountable desire to melt into his arms.

Red nose, indeed! Despite her irritation, though, she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing as she handed Lady Blackwold her borrowed cashmere shawl.

If Lady Blackwold had known what lay in Hannah’s heart, she’d throw her out of the manor forthwith.