The baron’s carriage raced down the drive, bouncing roughly over the bumps and stones in its path. The riotous motion sent its occupants jostling wildly throughout the vehicle’s interior, and it was all Clara could do to keep Baron Rutherford at arm’s length while struggling fiercely to maintain her equilibrium.

“Get your hands off me!” she spit, clawing at his face.

Clara fought him off with every ounce of strength she possessed, but he shoved her against the velvet upholstered seat, where her head collided with the lacquered wood panel above it. A brief explosion of stars illuminated the darkness behind her eyes, and her body involuntarily slumped from the blow. Rutherford used the opportunity to lunge forward and seize her white cap, yanking until it came free from its pins. The pain was white hot, shooting through her scalp and neck. He leaned close, trapping her to the seat with his weight. His face trembled with contempt.

“A servant. A servant! You jumped out a window on the eve of our wedding and have been toiling away in some lord’s estate as a servant? How dare you?” He eyed her in unconcealed resentment, and his face turned a deep, mottled red. “Then again, I will enjoy making you regret it.”

“You’ll never have the chance!” Clara snapped. “My parents will know of your cruelty for it’s no longer concealed between us. You showed your true tendencies in front of the Earl of Ashworth’s niece tonight!”

“That little whelp? Who would believe her? And what would it matter, anyway?” he sneered. “I’m still your father’s best offer for your hand, and his shot at respectability.”

Clara glared at him. “I will never marry you!”

“You have no choice,” said the baron, a smug look upon his face. “I’ve instructed my driver to head north to Gretna Green. In a few short days, we will be man and wife, regardless of your feelings on the matter.” He grinned in appreciation of her shocked reaction, then hooked his fingers around the edge of her apron, rending it with a violent jerk of his arm. She gasped, and he uttered a mirthless laugh as he tossed the ruined garment to the carriage floor.

Clara trembled, fighting off a tide of nausea. Even if she were to kick and scream through the entire service, chances were the marriage would still pass due to the baron’s credibility as a peer. The journey to Scotland, however, would take days, and one thing was certain—she would not go quietly. At some point, they would be forced to stop at an inn for food and rest, giving her an opportunity to attract attention.

Unless she was bound and gagged, concealed under a blanket, she thought darkly. Which was likely.

“What about Mrs. Levinthal?” she sputtered at him in desperation. “Wouldn’t she suit your needs as much as I ever could?”

Rutherford stared at her, surprised, then snorted in amusement. His gaze traveled down the length of her body and his mouth turned upwards into a wolfish smile.

“No. She would not.”

With a cry of revulsion, Clara resumed her efforts to free herself from his grasp. Mentally, she calculated the potential extent of her injuries if she were to fling herself from the moving carriage. She quickly decided that there was no injury that could be worse than living as the baron’s wife. If she could just make it to the door . . .

He withstood her exertions easily. Panicked, she felt her strength fading, when the vehicle pitched forward abruptly and jarred to a sudden stop. Lifting her head in bewilderment, she tried to gather her wits enough to dive for the door handle, but Rutherford recovered more quickly and subdued her with the pressure of his arm across her chest. He gripped his walking stick in a meaty fist and thumped it viciously against the roof.

“Barrett!” he shouted. “Why the devil have we stopped? Drive on!”

Clara could detect the sound of voices just moments before the door was torn open. She tipped her face into the welcome rush of cool fresh air, blinking to clear her eyes. The pressure of Rutherford’s arm was suddenly lifted when he was brutally yanked from his seat by none other than Lord Ashworth, the strong angles of his face dimly illuminated in the flame from the carriage lamps.

She stared at him weakly in disbelief.

He came for me.

She could hear Rutherford blustering, and the earl’s feral expression made Clara wonder if he would deal with the baron right then and there. Instead, Ashworth shoved him roughly into the restraining grip of Lord Evanston, and the next instant he was inside the carriage.

“Helen—”

The earl folded her into his arms and she melted against him, sobbing messily on his immaculate formal attire. She curled her fingers around the lapel of his tailcoat and nestled in against the warmth of his neck. Clara could feel his hands drifting over her back to pull her even closer.

“Did he hurt you, my love?” His voice was a low growl deep in his throat, and she froze in incredulity at the endearment before shaking her head. Ashworth responded with an inarticulate murmur and an affectionate brush of his palm over her hair, revealing her pale neck and the new marks on her skin, left by the baron’s hands. His hand stilled immediately.

“I’ll send him to hell,” the earl ground out in a guttural voice.

Rutherford hadn’t hurt her, at least not in the way she feared most. But all it would take was a few words from the man to bring her life crashing down around her. She was about to be exposed for the fraud she truly was. Clara willed herself to maintain her already fragile composure. She could hear the men outside, including the baron’s wordy protestations. It was only a matter of seconds before the Earl of Ashworth, bent on defending her, would come to despise her instead.

“Here,” he whispered, his hands shaking with rage. “Let me help you from the carriage.”

“No, I’m . . .” Her face crumpled, and she dissolved into tears. “I’m sorry, William. Please, forgive me . . .”

His eyes, dark in the dismal interior of the vehicle, grew perplexed. “Forgive you? For what?”

Evanston’s voice called from outside. His solemn tone made Clara wince.

“Ashworth, you need to hear this.”

The earl stared at her, and the urge to bolt from the carriage became nearly overwhelming.

He reached out his once white-gloved hand, now stained from his horse’s reins, and she accepted the offered assistance to tremulously lower herself down to the ground. When she raised her eyes, she saw Matthew and Charles standing beside the viscount, the baron locked in the latter’s steely grip.

“You are about to owe me an apology, Ashworth,” sneered the baron.

Lord Ashworth released her hand to approach, narrowing his eyes with each step. “Oh? Well, you first,” he hissed, crumpling Rutherford’s shirt in his fist to rip him out of Evanston’s hold and throw him up against the exterior of his own carriage. “Tell me how you think it acceptable to enter my house under the guise of friendship, then proceed to kidnap and harm a most valued—”

“Servant?” Upon uttering the word, Rutherford erupted into unsettling laughter. “You have been gravely misled by this woman, my lord.”

The earl’s eyes darted over to her, and she gazed helplessly back.

“This housemaid,” said the baron derisively, “happens to be the daughter of one of Essex County’s wealthiest families, and my bride-to-be, Miss Clara Mayfield.”

Ashworth thought he felt his jaw drop, but couldn’t say for certain since his entire body seemed to have gone numb all at once. Of course, it made sense. Hadn’t she confessed to it herself after taking a blow to the head? And didn’t it explain so many things about her that simply didn’t add up otherwise?

Stunned, his eyes found her, standing near the carriage in her tattered black uniform. The earl took in her wild, dark hair and miserable countenance. Could it be? Could the woman he loved be that same wayward heiress of recent fame?

It seemed impossible, ludicrous even, that a lady of means would intentionally go into hiding as a domestic servant, working belowstairs to conceal herself. Even if she objected to her groom, which clearly she must, the dramatic flight from her marriage and the lengths she’d gone to in order to maintain anonymity were astounding.

His voice sounded rusty and unsure in the silence that had settled heavy among them.

“Clara Mayfield?”

It wasn’t so much a question, as a request for confirmation.

Her long lashes lifted as she raised her frightened eyes. They shimmered in the wavering light from the lanterns, before she lowered her gaze to the ground once more.

“Yes, my lord.”

His breath stopped in his chest.

My God.

Her admission elicited an answering smirk from the baron, who cast a vengeful glance at the earl before shaking off his hands. He tugged his jacket back into place, striding over to take Clara roughly by the arm.

“I require an apology for my mistreatment, my lord,” he said pompously. “And I expect to resume my departure with no further interference from you or your friends.” He pulled her close. “Miss Mayfield and I will be wed in Gretna Green before the week is out.”

Gretna Green? No . . .

The earl stood frozen, locked in internal conflict. He, the fifth Earl of Ashworth, was furious with her. She had used him, after all, and the rest of the servants too, to mask her presence inside his house. Tales of this scandal would likely not leave his family name untarnished. It would be well within his rights to simply turn his back and allow Rutherford to reclaim his betrothed. And yet . . .

He, William Halstead, was painfully, exquisitely, and desperately in love with her. His reputation was already tarnished, but still he lived as honorably as he could, for his own sake and for his family. Even so, he hadn’t spared a second thought about whether or not he would come after this woman and her captor.

And hadn’t he also known what he would do when he found his housemaid—despite his elaborate farce of an attempt to find a respectable wife tonight—hadn’t he known?

Yes.

He would make her his countess, and set the ton aflame.

Clara stood motionless in the baron’s grip. The crystalline reflection of her tears caught the light as they fell from her eyes. No doubt she expected him to abandon her.

Ashworth’s fists clenched and resolve hardened the muscles of his jaw. He took a step closer to them, eyes blazing.

“You will receive no apology from me,” he said vehemently, pulling himself up to his full height to glare down at the baron. “And you should know that your claim on her is void. I insist you release her before I have you clapped in irons for kidnapping.”

Clara gazed up at him in shock, while on Rutherford’s face confusion gave way to hostility.

“How could my claim possibly be void? Her father has consented to the match—we are set to be wed . . .”

“Your betrothed has not consented, so far as I can tell,” replied the earl sarcastically.

His argument was dismissed with a wave of Rutherford’s hand. “A minor inconvenience, but nothing that will stop this marriage from going forth . . .”

Lord Ashworth stepped closer, leaning in to whisper fiercely, “I have had her in my bed. She is mine to marry now.”

The baron and Clara both gaped at him in shared outrage, while Matthew and Charles suddenly found themselves awkwardly preoccupied with the reflection in their boots. Conversely, Lord Evanston was assessing the earl with a mien of newfound respect.

Clara stepped forward, breaking free of Rutherford’s grasp.

“My lord! I—”

Ashworth skewered her with a ferocious look. “You be quiet. Stand there,” he commanded, jabbing a finger towards Matthew and Charles. He couldn’t risk having her jeopardize her own situation merely to avenge the notion of her virtue.

Clara flinched at his harsh tone but ultimately did as he said, moving over to the footmen who stepped in front of her protectively as if to shield her from any further unpleasantries.

Baron Rutherford was looking to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit. He shook his fist in Ashworth’s face, his entire body shaking with rage.

“Pistols,” he spat. “At dawn.”

Lord Ashworth eyed the baron skeptically. “I would win any duel between us, and you know it.” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “You would be a fool to pursue this, Rutherford. The great pains she took to escape you would only serve to bring you shame, even if she were still your fiancée, which she is not.”

“Would she not bring you humiliation, as well?” the baron demanded.

“Thankfully, I am beyond caring about that.”

The man’s face slowly turned purple. “I will have her examined by my personal physician! How do I know—”

“You will do no such thing,” the earl interrupted coldly. “Let us not forget I could still have you arrested for kidnapping.” He shook his head. “No,” he said decisively, “the better course of action would be for you to quickly marry the very willing Mrs. Levinthal, and sweep all this disagreeable business under the carpet. You will have your wealth and your property . . . the only thing you will not have is her,” he said, pointing to Clara, “for she is mine.”

A primal surge of dominance flowed through him upon speaking those words. Clara’s head whipped up at the shocking finality of his statement, and he wondered whether it had served to bring her a sense of relief, or stir her furious indignation instead. He couldn’t worry about that now. William absolutely needed to assert himself over this man who would claim Clara for his own. There could be no doubt as to who was in charge, who was in control, and who would be marrying her when all this was finished.

Ashworth kept the full force of his attention on Rutherford, who was unusually quiet as he mentally digested the earl’s words, weighing his options and the societal improprieties, and eventually . . .

Conceding defeat.

The baron’s face twisted in bitter resentment as he wordlessly strode to his vehicle.

“Home, Barrett,” he growled, throwing one last hateful glance at Clara. The driver, caught gawking at the spectacle down below, earned a scowl from his master as he scrambled up onto the carriage. Rutherford’s walking stick could be heard striking the roof, muffled through the wood paneling. A short distance down the drive, he lowered his window and tossed out Clara’s apron and cap into the frigid night air, where they fluttered and flapped like the liberated ghosts of her former self.

It was only when the rumble of the carriage had faded into the distance that Lord Ashworth dropped his defenses, the unwelcome drama of the evening’s events finally taking its toll on him. He lowered his head for a moment and Evanston approached to place a strong hand on his shoulder.

“I must say, William, I was impressed,” he said emphatically. “Especially the part when you told him you had—”

“I thank you for your assistance, Evanston, but do please shut up,” answered the earl.

The viscount grinned and joined Ashworth as he approached Clara and the footmen. The earl could see that she was not dressed for the chill of this December evening, her torn dress doing little to protect her from the freezing cold, although whether she shivered from the night air or from distress, he could not say. He removed his formal black coat and draped it around her shoulders, keeping hold of the lapels as he bent closer to her.

“We need to talk.”

Her lovely dark gaze flitted over to meet his, but her lips remained tightly sealed.

Ashworth stepped back to address Matthew and Charles. “I want to thank you for your help, and for your sensitivity with regards to this delicate matter.” He looked meaningfully at both men. “I know of the talk that occurs belowstairs, but would ask that you say nothing of tonight other than to clarify that Helen is, in fact, Clara Mayfield. It is reasonable to expect that her fellow servants will expect some semblance of explanation, but all other details are private. Am I understood?”

Both men nodded and bowed.

“Matthew, you are charged with conveying Miss Mayfield back to the house and in through the servants’ entrance,” instructed the earl. “Lord Evanston and I will dismiss tonight’s guests, but until the house is clear, I want her to remain in my chambers.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the footman.

At this command, Clara’s chin rose. “Have I been traded from one tyrant to another?”

He gazed at her sharply before stepping closer. “Any perceived tyranny on my part, Miss Mayfield, is regrettably necessary and borne of your deceptions. I have had quite a mess to clean up tonight, thanks to you.”

Mollified by the flicker of shame that passed over her countenance, he walked swiftly to his horse and swung up into his saddle, unenthusiastically considering the task of explaining the situation to his sister as he dug his heels into his horse’s sides and set off for the house.

Clara paced the earl’s chambers, anxiously awaiting his return from the ball downstairs. If she’d known it would take him over two hours to join her, she would have requested a brief stop at her tiny attic room to retrieve fresh clothing. She had managed to smooth down her tousled mess of raven hair, but with buttons missing and torn seams, her black woolen dress was a shabby remnant of what it had once been . . . similar to her current reputation.

While it was true that much of its tarnish was due to her unconventional method of evading marriage to the baron, she couldn’t help but feel the stinging insult associated with the question of her virtue. Yes, she had been intimate with Lord Ashworth. But there was a vast difference between what they had done and what he had claimed they had done.

Despite the hurt and anger his words had stirred to life tonight, Clara was aware that those same words had also saved her from a forced elopement with Rutherford. Likewise, she knew that for Ashworth to admit having intimate relations with her constituted a risk to him as well. In fact, he had deftly cast aside how any question of her character might affect his family at all, which surprised her considering how much she knew it meant to him.

But she did have to wonder if his declaration of marriage would still have followed, had not the truth of her identity already come out.

The only thing you will not have is her, for she is mine.

Clara shivered, briskly rubbing her arms and coming nearer to the glowing fire. She wished she were still wrapped in his black tailed coat, but he had required it for his return to the party, even if only to send his guests home early. Guilt sliced through her at the thought of Eliza’s ball, carefully planned for her brother, now laid to waste. She earnestly hoped Eliza would still count her among her friends when all this was said and done, but as it was, she wasn’t even certain if she and the earl would be on speaking terms.

As much as it grated on her to be claimed by yet another man, she knew she still wasn’t even close to deserving him. Although she had to admit that the idea of being claimed by this man held a significant amount of appeal.

Did he truly want her for his wife? The butterflies in her stomach demanded to know.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps from the hallway. She instinctively wrapped her arms more tightly around her midsection, as if to ward off the confrontation that was inevitable.

The doorknob turned and the door flew open to reveal the earl, looming large, his gaze angry and hurt beneath the dark sweep of his brow. Fear fluttered in her heart like a frantic bird, but she only watched him from her place by the fire, waiting to see what he would say.

After a moment, he shut the door tightly behind him, then turned to pierce her with another black look.

“You lied,” he said accusingly.

She nearly choked in offense. “As did you!”

“You know very well why I had to lie,” he countered furiously, stalking towards her. “Any lie I told tonight was only necessary because of you and your . . . pretending!”

“I never wanted this!” she cried. Hot tears of humiliation flooded her eyes and she swiped at them impatiently. “To be dishonest with my family, with your staff, with you.” Clara held his eyes, silently beseeching for understanding. “You have to know . . . it killed me every single day. Especially when I . . . when you . . .”

Her composure dissolved. The fear, anguish, and heartache that had been held in check for too long came rushing out, and all she could do was cover her face with her hands to conceal the rising tide of her misery.

“No, stop—”

Ashworth’s voice was hoarse, almost annoyed, as he came forward, his arms encircling her, his lips falling against her hair, her forehead, lightly against her cheek to send shivers of desire chasing over her skin. When his lips fell on hers there was a desperation to his kiss, the salty wetness from her tears mingling with the oaken brandied flavor on his tongue. She clung to him dizzily while he ravished her mouth, and only when she was completely breathless did he pull away.

“You should have told me,” he admonished angrily against her temple. “Why did you not tell me?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t,” she choked. “You might have sent me back to him. It’s what any other man in your position would have done—”

“And what if the baron had found you walking in the village?” he said, cutting her off sharply. “Or if Rosa had not been there tonight? I mean, my God, you’d have disappeared without a trace and I cannot abide the thought—”

His fingers delved into her hair as he kissed her again, punishingly, and she allowed him to do as he wished, unwilling to resist him anyway. Soon though, his kiss softened as the force of his rage eased. The earl took her mouth slowly, stroking her with his tongue, the kiss transforming into a sensual exploration that caused her body to awaken in that now familiar need for more.

Ashworth pushed her away, his chest heaving. His eyes were brighter than she’d ever seen them, and the sight caused her stomach to do an odd little somersault. The muscle in his jaw jumped, showing his obvious struggle to master both his emotions and his desire. She took a chance and reached up to stroke the hard edge of his jawline with her fingertips.

“You didn’t have to lie for me, my lord,” she whispered.

Ashworth stared at her, incredulous. “I didn’t lie for you. I lied for me. Can’t you see that the very thought of losing you tears me apart?” He sighed in exasperation and raked a hand through his hair. “The only alternative was to allow that bastard to run off with you to Gretna Green!”

She shook her head, shivering in remembrance of how close Rutherford had come to doing that very thing. “This was not the first time he had treated me in such a way. The thought of spending my life with a man like him . . .” She swallowed hard. “It would have killed me. I had to escape, regardless of my father’s wishes.”

He tipped his head. “Which were?”

“My father wished to rid himself of our nouveau riche reputation. The clearest path to respectability was for my older sister to marry a man of the peerage.” Clara took a breath before admitting the next part. “Lucy chose to marry beneath her station and thus failed him in that regard. I even helped her to elope,” she added, laughing shakily beneath her breath. “But then my marriage became the last chance to repair the family name. I had accepted my part to play, but it was only when the baron cornered me at the end of the season that I knew I was in trouble.”

The earl appeared puzzled. “So . . . you’re telling me you were unable to secure a suitor during the season?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied sheepishly.

He stared at her, astonished. “Has every man in London gone mad?”

Clara felt her flush deepen, this time with an unexpected infusion of pleasure. Still, she hesitated before asking her next question.

“Do you think if you had seen me there, that you might have approached me? Regardless of my family’s circumstances?”

“Might have approached?” He scoffed, his gaze turning sultry. “I would have gladly written myself in for every dance on your card.”

A swell of emotion caused her throat to tighten, and she stepped forward to gently slide her fingers across his lapel. “I was in Mayfair, for the last ball of the season.”

Ashworth’s eyes widened. “The one that I—”

She nodded.

He tore from her grasp and stalked away to brace both hands against the mantelpiece as if seeking the strength to stand.

“To think all of this misery could have been avoided if only I’d have taken a chance—”

“You took a chance tonight,” she reminded him quietly.

He raised his head abruptly and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Did you know this whole time that I’d intended to be there?”

Clara bit her lip, knowing he might not like the truth. Finally, she nodded. “It was the reason I chose to come here for work. I believed if the Earl of Ashworth was so resistant to mingling with the ton, that there would be a certain amount of safety for a woman who was looking to hide.”

“You may have hidden yourself away from Rutherford for a time,” he said in a low voice, turning to face her. “But you were not successful in hiding yourself from me. You were all I could think about, day and night.” Stepping forward, he slipped one hand possessively around the curve of her waist, while the other traced a lock of her hair, wild and loose across her shoulders. “God, it was such torture.”

She leaned in against his caress and her pulse started to accelerate. “Yes. It was.”

Ashworth’s mouth met hers in one swift motion, hot and slick and full of need. She squirmed against him in delight, her head falling to the side as he lightly kissed his way down the length of her neck.

She nearly jumped when his head suddenly jerked back, his eyes black with fury as they fixated on her throat. Ever so gently, his fingers brushed the recent bruises left there by the baron. For a moment she was afraid he might step back, might stop, but he shocked her by sweeping the wet warmth of his open mouth against those tender places, traversing the barrier between pleasure and pain. She gripped him tighter, her fingers wrapping in the silky layers of his hair.

Despite his obvious need, or perhaps because of it, Ashworth gently eased her away with a fiery glance that betrayed the underlying current of his thoughts. He took a moment to collect himself before continuing. “Miss Mayfield, there is still a matter that we need to discuss—”

“No, that will not do, my lord,” she said, clenching his coat in her fists to pull him back down. “I need to hear you say my name . . .” she whispered against his lips.

Months of frustration and longing surged forth and whatever needed to be discussed was momentarily forgotten again as she reminded him of his own words—a dark demand made in secrecy while hidden away together in her tiny room.

“Clara—”

Their lips tangled in another kiss, and she wrapped her arms securely around his neck to stretch the length of her body against his. Ashworth made a low sound in his throat and swiftly scooped her into his arms to toss her on top of the bed. Within seconds, he had joined her.

He tugged his jacket from his broad shoulders, then tore off his waistcoat and shirt. He reached for her, but Clara pushed him back, rolling over so she could kneel before him. Her eyes widened as she drank in the sight of his bare torso . . . the beautifully defined chest and the fine golden hair that covered it . . . the way his lean hips disappeared into the band of his breeches . . . how those breeches fit him so snugly . . .

An impatient, aching feeling grew hot, low inside her belly. Clara exhaled into the sensation and placed her palms flat on his abdomen. His skin was hot beneath her fingers as she roamed up his chest, relishing the feel of his muscles flexing, the sound of his groan. She leaned in to nip at his collarbone, feathering kisses up to his throat where she lingered, tasting him, loving how he responded to her touch. A new sense of power came over her. Fascinated, her fingers drifted down in exploration, sliding over the thick hardness beneath his breeches, yearning to feel all of him.

His entire body jerked at the contact.

Oh my . . .

Her hand was quickly snatched away in his strong grasp.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Not yet.”

“But—”

Ashworth silenced her with a dizzying kiss, taking advantage of her helplessness to flip her onto her back and unbutton her uniform. Her ragged black dress landed on the floor, with her corset, chemise, and drawers following soon after. Clara felt shy and not a little bit wicked lying on Lord Ashworth’s bed in nothing more than her stockings, and she shivered as he rolled those down her legs, his touch like fire against the delicate skin. She stared up at him, feeling exposed and wonderfully vulnerable, and his breath faltered as his eyes traveled the length of her.

“I have pictured you in my bed more times than I care to count,” he said. “But, Helen, my God—”

“Clara,” she corrected with a soft laugh.

The earl lowered down to crush his lips against hers, the rasp of his chest hair tickling deliciously against her breasts. She bit back a moan.

“That habit, my love, will take a while to break.” He smiled inquiringly. “And what, may I ask, prompted you to use the name Helen, anyway?”

Clara wriggled beneath him, savoring the feel of his weight pressing her into the mattress.

“It was during my first interview, in your study, when you asked my name . . .”

Ashworth moved down to draw her nipple into his mouth, and this time she couldn’t stop herself from moaning, arching towards his mouth as he alternated between sly circles of his tongue and a devilish suction that caused her toes to curl. Still, she struggled to continue despite his efforts at distraction.

“I panicked and saw your copy of The Iliad . . .”

He raised his head, realization dawning behind his eyes. “Helen of Troy,” he whispered. “The most desired woman in history . . .”

One hand traveled lower still and she cried out as his hand slid between her thighs to discover the warmth hidden there, unfamiliar pleasure blooming under his clever touch.

She writhed upwards. “William . . .”

With a muted groan, his fingers continued to circle, the pace quickening. Clara could not keep up with it all—the sensations were new and entirely overwhelming. But they suddenly coalesced into one glorious focal point at the very center of her being, and she felt herself climbing, ascending to some nameless, unexplored height. But before she could reach there, he removed his hand, laughing a little at her cry of frustration.

Clara lifted her head, her heart racing, a shiver chasing over her skin as a cool draught drifted through the closed windowpanes.

With tantalizing slowness, William moved further down her body, his lips gliding along her stomach, the curve of her hip, the sensitive skin of her thigh.

Surely, he won’t . . .

Her brows furrowed a split second before his lips moved over the place his hand had occupied a moment before, his tongue tracing wicked patterns into her sensitive flesh. She buried her fingers in his hair, unsure whether she meant to stop him or urge him on, before collapsing back onto the mattress, the soft sweeps of his tongue causing every thought in her head to take flight like a flock of startled birds. She cried out, heedless of who might hear her. Never in her life had she felt a sensation so powerful. The delicious tension grew rapidly, reaching unsustainable levels until she found herself catapulted into the sky in a dazzling burst of release, shattered into a million burning pieces.

When she finally recovered some semblance of awareness, the earl shifted upwards to place a kiss against her forehead. Feeling a little self-conscious from the intimacy of the encounter, she felt her flushed cheeks turn warmer and turned her head to the side. He slid two fingers around her jaw to bring her back to face him, shaking his head.

“No. Don’t ever feel uncomfortable,” he murmured, his voice roughened in arousal. He rose up to his knees. “You have no idea what that does to me. How many months I have imagined it . . . you, in my bed, finding your pleasure . . .”

Any thought of her own insecurities was instantly erased when he stripped off his breeches, revealing a new expanse of hard muscle and golden skin that took her breath away. He lowered his body back down to settle beside hers, the thick length of his arousal pressing against her thigh, and he gazed down at her with eyes that were dark and full of need.

“I wish there were some way to avoid causing you pain . . .”

His hand slipped between her legs again, this time finding her most vulnerable place, and he teased her with a fingertip before slowly sliding it into her body. Her eyes widened in surprise and with a soft moan, she arched into the caress. She wasn’t sure what he’d been talking about. This didn’t hurt at all . . . it felt incredible.

“Oh, yes—” she sighed.

She could hear his breathing becoming more erratic as his desire heightened, and his slow exploration increased in its fervor. Clara’s body responded eagerly, but she needed to feel his body too . . . wanted to become intimately acquainted with every part of him. She shifted her hand down to slide possessively over his manhood and he froze, his breathing halting at first, before releasing in staggered gasps. After a moment she also began exploring, moving her hand up and down the length, in awe at the satiny feel of his skin.

“Christ,” he choked.

His gaze was molten as he watched her stroke him, until finally he tore her hand away in impatience and levered himself over to settle his hips between her thighs. He guided himself to her entrance with a last murmured apology, and she held her breath, the pain coming now as he sank into her, inch by glorious inch. He groaned loudly, and Clara reveled at the intimacy of the invasion even as she felt her body tightening against the stinging pressure.

“Forgive me, my love—” he managed, straining to hold still for her, giving her time to adjust.

But she couldn’t bear for him to stop now. Gasping, she dug her fingers into his back and tipped her hips upwards, bringing him even further inside of her.

“No,” she whispered. “William. Don’t stop.”

The earl’s lips brushed against her hair as he lowered his head to find a rhythm that suited them both. Over and over he plunged, satiating the craving he had built within her, filling her in every way. She took him gladly, exulting in the feel of being claimed, the pain forgotten as her body steadily drove towards that shattering feeling of release once again.

She cried out his name as it crashed over her in a dizzying wave, and it seemed to drive him over the edge as well. He seized her hips in a punishing grip as he thrust slowly and more deeply. His lips found hers in a rough kiss, then he groaned against her mouth while his body tensed with the force of his release, the muscles in his back shaking from the intensity of the moment.

William finally collapsed on the bed beside her, utterly exhausted and in a daze. Clara rolled over to meet him, draping her leg over his as they struggled to catch their breath. Unable to resist, she tangled her fingers in the wild disarray of his golden hair, and his eyes fell closed at her touch. Her head dropped to rest upon his chest, and they lay like that for a while, enjoying the closeness between them, which had, until tonight, been so very forbidden. His husky laugh disrupted the silence.

“So, about that thing I wanted to discuss—”

“Oh yes, that,” she replied sheepishly. “I suppose I interrupted you.”

He arched a brow. “You did a fair sight more than interrupt me,” he said, smiling faintly, “But this is important. I have a proposal.”

Clara evaluated him in wry contemplation. “Does it involve moving me to the Dower House?”

His eyes flew open in astonishment, then he turned his head to the side in an effort to conceal a sudden grin.

“Rosa . . .” he said with an exasperated sigh.

Ashworth shook his head and propped himself up on an elbow to take both of her hands in his own.

“I’m sure by now you understand my motivation for wanting to send you away. Rest assured, I want something different entirely now.” His expression grew serious. “First, your parents must know you are safe. I will write to them on the morrow, and we will leave for Essex shortly after.”

Hope swelled within her chest and Clara nodded her head happily. The thought of returning home with the earl, strong and protective by her side, was an unexpected and wonderful conclusion to the wretched turn her life had taken once the season had ended.

“Second, I want you to know that tonight, when I’d realized you’d been taken, I set out immediately. My intent, once you had been recovered, was to make you my wife, Helen. Social status be damned.”

Her mouth fell open. “William—”

He silenced her with a gentle squeeze of his hands.

“I realized very quickly once I’d lost you, that there was nothing I wouldn’t give to have you back.” His gaze softened. “You’re the first dream I’ve had after a seemingly unending chain of nightmares, Clara. I’d give my entire world to be with you.”

Clara felt tears sting her eyes, and she lifted their clasped hands to her lips. “That works out perfectly, then. Because there is no other man this runaway bride would marry.”

His expression changed instantly and happiness flooded his face before her eyes. All the worry and care fell away, leaving him completely unguarded.

“Is that a yes? Tell me it’s a yes,” he demanded.

She laughed. “Yes, William! Of course, it’s a yes.”

Levering himself upwards, he leaned over her to kiss her soundly, thoroughly, lingering until her body flushed pink. When he withdrew, a sudden thought struck her and she couldn’t contain her mirth, giggles falling from her lips though she tried to stifle them. A lopsided grin broke out on his face at her laughter.

“And what, pray tell, is so amusing?”

Clara gazed up at him, her eyes dancing.

“J’aime le façon dont vous souriez,” she whispered softly.

I love the way you smile.

He stared at her in astonishment. In a flash, he pinned her beneath him on the bed, and she shrieked in mock fright.

“You knew what I was saying!” His eyes darkened. “Why, you little minx . . . I’ll make you pay for that.”

And much to her delight, he did.