Evan drew up his horse in front of his uncle’s house. His cousin Gilbert bounded down the stairs with the eager clumsiness of a puppy whose paws are getting in the way. Although unlike a puppy, Gilbert had no hope of outgrowing his condition.

“Cousin Evan,” Gilbert yelled. Although it sounded more like Couthin Eh-an. His boots crunched across the macadam of the drive.

Evan dismounted and moved forward to lead his horse by the reins towards the stables.

Gilbert hurtled himself against Evan’s chest for an enthusiastic hug.

Evan hugged his cousin nearly as enthusiastically, then patted Gilbert’s back. Although embracing at their ages was not a normal greeting, Evan didn’t mind. His cousin might be fifteen, but mentally he seemed half that age.

Gilbert sagged against him, his breathing ragged. Evan steadied the boy wondering how far he’d run through the house before coming outside.

Gilbert finally recovered and stepped back. “Did you get married?”

It took Evan a minute to sort through the thick words to understand the question, it was so unexpected. He chose his answer carefully. Gilbert would take anything he said literally.

He studied the boys widely-spaced and slightly-tilted eyes as he spoke. “I haven’t picked a woman I want to ask, yet.” Oddly enough the image of Lady Susanah’s shapely legs, exposed when she’d lifted her skirt to tear it, sprang to his mind. He dismissed the thought. A woman’s form—pleasing as it may be—was hardly a good basis for choosing a wife. “Why do you ask?”

“Papa says that is why you always go to London.”

Did his uncle expect him to marry? He’d rather thought not. Uncle Phillip didn’t want word of Gilbert’s condition spreading far and wide. He limited visits from family. Neither Evan nor his siblings had ever been invited to his uncle’s estate until he’d been summoned when he finished his studies at Oxford. Introducing a wife would just expand the people who knew. Without thinking, Evan slowed his steps to allow Gilbert to walk at his normal lumbering pace.

“You need to hurry and pick one so you can live here all the time,” Gilbert said as they approached the stables. He gave Evan a playful shove that didn’t carry much power. “Then your wife can help me find a wife when I go to London.”

Moreover, did his uncle expect Gilbert to marry? He studied his pudgy cousin who was lagging far behind other boys his age in height and maturity. In spite of his cousin’s condition, there was probably a woman who’d be willing to marry him. He would inherit his father’s barony and estates. Again Evan pictured Lady Susanah and her almost desperate hunt for a titled husband. Although his cousin’s future title probably wasn’t enough, but if he were to inherit a dukedom…she probably would have considered it.

Gilbert patted the horse and then hugged its neck. “I can’t ride anymore.”

Evan waited until Gilbert faced him before asking, “Why not?”

Gilbert shrugged. “I fell and had a fit. Papa says it isn’t safe.”

Evan had a moment of wondering which came first the fall or the fit. “Racing in a phaeton is far more jolly. We’ll do that.”

Gilbert grinned widely. In spite of his condition, Gilbert was the happiest person Evan knew. His goofy smile was an almost permanent fixture on his face.

A groom took the reins with an apology and promise to thoroughly rub down the horse. Usually, the staff was on notice when he returned, but his decision had been sudden. He’d fled London more than planned to leave. He had been disturbed by his thoughts about Lady Susanah. And well, getting away from Theresa and any possible recriminations had been a factor in his decisions too. She hadn’t been happy when he’d terminated their encounter before things had gone very far. She had been just too intent on removing his clothes and hers and asking him to tear her shift as if she planned to accuse him of rape. And there was that hell had no fury thing.

He rather wished he’d never bothered with the woman. As he thought back, his pursuit of her had been lackluster. Truth to be told, he suspected she’d pursued him more than he’d pursued her. But it was no matter. He was more than half inclined to move into his uncle’s house permanently—if his uncle was amenable.

Later that evening after dinner, Gilbert’s caretaker led the boy away to retire, leaving Evan and Uncle Phillip to their port. Evan broached the matter of his cousin’s question about getting married.

“What did you expect me to tell him?” Uncle Phillip asked. “He wonders why you aren’t here when I’ve told him you’ll be looking after him and the estate after I pass.”

Evan looked down into his glass. “Which won’t be for many years, yet. God willing.”

Uncle Phillip sighed.

An uneasiness settled under Evan’s breastbone as he tried to figure out what was troubling his uncle. Tentatively he asked, “Are you well?”

“Well enough for an old man.” Uncle Phillip gave a thin smile.

His uncle was in his sixties, but now that Evan had passed thirty that didn’t seem as old as it once would have. Evan wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard an implied criticism. Did his uncle want him to help with the estate more? “I have been thinking it is time that I took up residence here. If you would have me.”

“Of course I would have you. I’ve told you to treat our house as your home.”

While Evan split his time between his uncle’s estate, his father’s estate, and the rooms he rented in London, he didn’t really feel as if he had a home anymore. He watched his uncle, looking for clues as to what his uncle thought. But his mother’s brother just looked tired. But unasked questions wouldn’t answer themselves. “Gilbert told me he expects to marry when he is of age. Do you want me to discourage him?”

“I don’t know that he will live so long,” muttered Uncle Phillip.

A new concern swirled in Evan. “Is Gilbert unwell?”

Uncle Phillip waved a hand in a desultory manner. “He’s had more fits of late. He gets short of breath just walking any distance. The doctor says it is unusual for a child with his condition to have lived this long.”

“Doctors don’t know everything,” Evan blurted.

“No, they don’t.” His uncle rubbed his face. “Still, Gilbert likes you. You should move in posthaste. So he might enjoy you while he can.”

It was only later as Evan couldn’t sleep that his thoughts swirled from concern about Gilbert’s fate to wondering what Lady Susanah might be about. It occurred to him, his future might be far different than he had imagined if he wasn’t to be Gilbert’s guardian over the next decades.

* * *

Over the last few weeks, Susanah had wrangled introductions to men she’d known for years, had danced every dance, and had smiled until her cheeks ached. Instead of finding an interested, acceptable suitor, she found herself looking around for a head of unruly tobacco-colored hair and more than half afraid she’d find him.

It wasn’t like her to be unsettled by a man, any man. Gentlemen were a means to an end. The right one would take her out of her parents’ house, not spend her dowry too recklessly, and give her the reins to her own household. She’d prepared all her life to run a home. Her own home, not her father’s home, which would one day pass to her. Her mother would never turn over the reins to her so long as she lived.

While Mr. Cooper couldn’t give her a home or the title that her parents wanted, he could perhaps help her develop the skill she seemed to be lacking.

Passion.

Who better to ask for instruction in such a matter than a rake?

Looking over the company, she searched for some gentleman she had yet to consider for his potential. One who wasn’t twice her age and had his own house, and preferably didn’t stink. But the men near her in age seemed much more interested in the newest crop of debutantes than in her.

Then she saw him.

Her chest felt odd, and the back of her throat went dry. Now to talk to him without her mother seeing. But she’d planned for this moment. Since she hadn’t seen him before now, her scheme was well thought through. First, she steered her mother toward one of her favorite companions and made certain the conversation was going strong. Never once did she look in Mr. Cooper’s direction.

Then she coughed. Her mother cast her an inquiring look.

Susanah coughed again and choked out in a froggy voice she’d rehearsed alone in her bedchamber at night, “Excuse me.”

The hint of a frown line appeared between her mother’s brows.

Susanah gave another cough, put her hand to her chest, and said in a strained-sounding whisper, “I need a drink.”

Her mother started to move toward her. Her chest tightened.

Susanah put a hand on her arm. “Don’t want to interrupt.” Cough, cough. “I’ll just be a minute.” She thumped her chest with her palm. “Won’t miss dancing.”

She fished in her reticule until she found her handkerchief and scooted away from her mother toward the dining room where refreshments could be had. The house was busy and well-lit. Her mother need not fear her getting swept into a private corner and accosted. She made herself cough again as she found the correct note—one she’d written earlier and folded into her handkerchief. She unwrapped it. Just outside the door, she pressed the note with a coin into a servant’s hand. “Please see that Mr. Cooper receives this straight away,” she said and moved along without a glance over her shoulder.

It proved deuced difficult not to look back and see if Mr. Cooper was still present. Or his reaction when he received the note. But her mother couldn’t know, nor could her father who probably had found the card room by now. It was bad enough that she had to involve a servant, but she didn’t trust any of her friends to be discreet enough that her mother wouldn’t catch on. And the man wasn’t one of her family’s servants who would tell on her.

Her hands shook as she entered the dining room where white-gloved footmen poured wine or lemonade into glasses for guests. They would by no means be alone, but there were open spaces in the room where a semi-private conversation could be had in full view of witnesses. But she’d known that before she arrived. She had a familiarity with most of the great houses in London. That’s what came of having season after season.

She would give him ten minutes. That ought to be long enough to tell him what she wanted. Her stomach swirled and her palms grew damp. That was if her courage didn’t desert her.

* * *

Evan was no stranger to the occasional billet-doux, but as the footman discretely slipped the small folded paper into his hand, he felt nothing. No anticipation, no joy, no eagerness. He just as discreetly tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. If it was from Theresa, he didn’t want to know. If it was from some other woman he’d shared a bed with in the past—well he didn’t have any inclination to revisit old amours. Nor would he be in town long enough to conduct a dalliance. He only returned to London to wrap up his affairs and pack his things.

Nothing good came of allowing himself to be pursued. Besides the only woman he had in mind to chase was strictly off limits.

He’d come to the ball to say his goodbyes to a few people. Although catching a great many of his friends in one place instead of calling on them individually was proving more troublesome than he’d expected. Not because they weren’t present, but because most of them didn’t understand why he’d leave town now to take up a position as his uncle’s steward when he’d—in theory—been performing those duties already. It wasn’t a time that required a lot in the way of land management. It wasn’t harvest or time to collect rents. Was his uncle unwell? Or was there some reason his cousin wouldn’t be able to help his uncle manage the estate?

He protested his uncle was well, his cousin was young, yet—too young to be of much help. Writing his friends of his change in circumstances would have been easier. Then he could have easily side-stepped the curiosity. Apparently, the people who knew his uncle supported him thought it was a token appointment to keep him from being destitute and thereby risking the family reputation.

In the middle of one particularly bothersome interrogation, he stopped it by pulling out the note and excusing himself to read it.

Oddly enough as he went to unfold the paper that was folded into a rectangle no bigger than a calling card he realized it was sealed. He stared at the perfectly round blob of wax trying to make out the stamp, but instead of seeing a crest or initials that might be found on a ring, he rather thought a button might have made the impression.

He popped it open and unfolded it. The writing was precise, the lines as even as if a ruler had been used to keep the words perfectly level. It couldn’t be a love note dashed off in haste. His stomach clenched as he read the words.

I need to speak with you. I am in the dining room at present.

While most billets-doux didn’t have signatures, there was usually an initial or reference to give a hint as to the identity. There was nothing. His first thought was that it was Theresa, but he’d had a couple of letters from her. They had been filled with overblown sentiment, the writing fast, wildly slanted, and the lines not so straight. But the very precision of the letters and brevity of the message scared him. Perhaps it was from her husband and he intended to challenge him. Although that didn’t make sense, either.

He scanned the room and his eyes lit on the man who had handed him the note. He crossed to him and asked, “Who asked you to give this to me?”

“A young lady, sir,” the footman said in a low tone. He cast anxious glances right and left.

“Which young lady?” demanded Evan.

The footman leaned toward his ear, cupped his hands around his mouth, and whispered, “Lady Susanah Poole, sir.”

Lady Susanah? Evan shook his head almost wondering if he’d heard correctly.

Unmarried ladies didn’t send letters to men. At least not to men to whom they weren’t related nor engaged. And Lady Susanah was a stickler for the rules. Perhaps there was some exemption for brief notes or imperious commands.

He was of half a mind to ignore the summons, but curiosity got the better of him. He made his way through the crowded ballroom to the less crowded dining room.

Lady Susanah was there clutching a nearly empty glass of lemonade. Her gaze darted to him as he entered the room. She took the last sip of the drink and handed the empty glass to a footman. Then she put her head down and walked toward him—and then as he gave a slight bow, she walked past him.

“My lady,”—he followed her out the into the entry hall—“Did you not ask to speak with me?”

“I have to get back,” she whispered. “My mother will come looking for me any second, and I can’t be seen with you.”

“Did you need help in staging another convenient excuse for a hasty exit?” He fell into step beside her as she climbed the stairs to the ballroom.

“No. I…where have you been?”

Surely, she hadn’t expected him to leap at her command. “I was in conversation.”

She cast him a sideways glance. “For the last three weeks?”

“For the last ten minutes,” he explained. Had she been looking for him? “Did you miss me?”

“I waited fifteen,” she said tightly. “Five more minutes than I intended.”

She’d missed him. She just wouldn’t say so. A jolt of heat ran through his veins.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “How may I be of service?”

“May I ask a favor of you?” Her gaze darted around as if worried about being overheard.

“You may certainly ask.” Whether or not he would grant it remained to be seen. But what on earth Lady Susanah might want him to do sparked his interest.

“I can’t ask you here.” Her voice was hushed, and she ended up biting on her lower lip, which had the stirring effect of making him want to touch it and sooth any hurt from it. “I shouldn’t be seen with you at all.”

Well, he was nothing if not obliging. From the landing, it was just a couple of steps to the servants’ stairs. He slung his arm around her waist and whisked her into the dark narrow staircase and pulled the door shut behind them. “No one will see us here, except possibly a servant.”

The moonlight filtering in from the skylight above didn’t provide much illumination, but Lady Susanah did seem a bit flustered if her gasp and sudden stiffening were indications enough.

“We shouldn’t be in here,” she whispered fiercely. She put a hand in the center of his chest, straightened her arm, then backed away so the tips of her fingers were not quite brushing his coat buttons.

Obviously, she knew a thing or two about fending off unwanted advances. Sadly, it seemed a kiss wasn’t what she had in mind. But then he would not expect her to be open to one upon their second conversation.

“We shouldn’t,” he agreed. “Yet, this is the most privacy I can offer, unless…” He tilted his head to the side watching her. He let the word dangle. With a married woman or widow, he might suggest looking for a bedchamber. But a seduction with a maiden was a dicier thing. One didn’t suggest anything more than a stolen kiss at this juncture. Really he shouldn’t be suggesting anything at all.

“I thought…” She looked down making it more difficult to read her expression. “I thought perhaps you could teach me about p-passion.”

“What?” So much for an interesting, long drawn out seduction. What the bloody hell was she thinking? “No!”