With long strides, Stephen crossed the corridor to his own rooms and snapped the door shut behind him.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep visiting Emily. She was driving him to distraction. Thank God, she had pushed him away. If not for her presence of mind, he would have taken her, no question. It was plain that sense and restraint were not possible in her presence.

Fuck. As of late, every action, every stray thought, had narrowed to one singular focus.

Emily.

With brisk movements, he stripped off his boots and removed his clothing, tossing them into a pile on the floor. Keating would be vexed to find Stephen’s clothes so abused, but he wasn’t in any humor to indulge his valet’s ill moods.

Slipping into bed, beneath the covers, he shivered as the cold sheets made contact with his naked skin. Perhaps the chill would cool his blood, but he very much doubted it. There was only one cure for what ailed him and she had a pair of brown eyes and a smile that could bring a man to his knees.

Damnation. What in the devil was wrong with him?

His focus should be on Miss Westgate, who would soon be his wife. Emily was a complication. A strong, beautiful, beguiling complication that was sure to be the end of him.

And yet, even with that knowledge seared into his mind, he craved her. Awake, alone in his bed, he could still hear her little moans of pleasure echoing in his head. He could still taste her on his tongue and smell her on his skin. There wasn’t enough soap in England to wash her away.

He shifted in the sheets, his cock as hard as granite, his thoughts swirling endlessly. Taking himself in hand, he conjured the image of Emily—her lips; open just slightly, her pert little breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts.

“Christ, Emily…” he moaned, stroking, stroking.

In half a dozen pumps, he was climaxing to the image of her. She was wide-eyed, biting her bottom lip and whimpering like a goddamn temptress.

When the vision of Emily had drained every last drop from him, he got up and moved to the washbasin. Taking a cloth, he cleaned himself up and threw himself back into bed.

Only then, did sleep finally claim him—and still, he found her in his dreams.

It was early the next morning when Keating roused him.

“My lord, it is nearly eight o’clock and you have an engagement at the museum in one hour. Your guests are down in the morning room. Miss Westgate, in particular, has been asking for you.”

With a groan, Stephen rolled onto his back and ventured to open his eyes. The sunlight streaming in through the windows was blinding and caused his eyes to water. “Has Miss Michaelson awoken yet?”

Keating stiffened. His disapproval of Emily’s presence was apparent, but like any good servant, he didn’t speak of it. “I am not aware of Miss Michaelson’s happenings, my lord.”

Stephen rubbed a hand over his face. “See that she is allowed outside twice a day, under the supervision of your most discreet footman. But she must speak to no one.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Please inform Mrs. Porter as well, lest she panic when she finds Miss Michaelson missing.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A quarter of an hour later, he was shaved, dressed and downstairs. When he strode into the morning room, his mother was working on her embroidery, studiously ignoring Miss Pearce who rattled on about a cough she had developed over the course of last evening. Miss Westgate played a cheerful melody on the pianoforte with Grant standing behind her, turning the music.

He kissed his mother on the top of the head and then addressed the party. Miss Westgate had stopped playing when he walked in. “Such a merry party this morning.” He turned to his friend. “Grant, you’re awake before noon. I’m both concerned and impressed.”

“I have a keen interest in antiquities and wouldn’t miss an outing to the Egyptian House for anything.”

“Hall,” Stephen corrected. “Egyptian Hall.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“No,” Stephen said, lowering his voice a degree. “And since when does anything but scribbling poetry interest you?”

Grant shrugged and smiled, his white teeth flashing. “Perhaps I’m attempting to expand my horizons.”

Stephen laughed. “I’ve known you far too long to believe that drivel.”

Poetry sustained Grant’s very existence. Only something significant could draw him from his writing den, at small coffee houses on Piccadilly where he wrote when the weather was agreeable.

After a quick breakfast, they piled into a carriage and made the ten-minute drive to the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly Street. Mr. Bullock met them in the great room and was kind enough to give them a personal tour of his many exhibits. The most remarkable, by Stephen’s estimation, were Captain Cook’s collection of curiosities from his travels in the South Seas. Strange wooden figures, rich woven fabrics and intricate headdresses fashioned entirely of feathers and beads.

When Bullock ducked out to tend to some business, their party paired up—Stephen with Miss Pearce, Grant with Miss Westgate and continued to tour the musty rooms. They gawked at exotic animals that were stuffed and arranged in natural-looking poses.

“Oh, my heaven,” Miss Westgate squeaked, her arm threaded through Grant’s. “These creatures are frightfully large, are they not, Mr. Grant?”

Stephen fell in step beside Miss Pearce, who was mercifully more subdued than she had been last evening. “You are enjoying your visit, I hope.”

Miss Pearce gripped her reticule with both hands. “Sadly, no. I have had a troubling cough since last evening and I fear it may be serious.”

He had not heard her cough once last evening at the theater.

“You look quite fit to my eye. But Dr. Abel comes this afternoon to check on my father and I am happy to ask him to look in on you as well.”

“That is very kind of you.” She smiled faintly and glanced back at Miss Westgate briefly. “Miss Westgate confided in me this morning. I understand congratulations are in order.” Though her words were civil, she did not sound cheered by the news.

“Indeed, she has accepted my proposal. I am the happiest of men,” he said without a hint of the joy or happiness of which he spoke.

“I should like to think—” She halted and seemed to collect herself. “It would give me great comfort to know that she is loved and cared for. I do not believe I could separate myself from her without that assurance from you.”

“Your dedication is a credit to you,” he said. “Of course she will only receive my utmost respect from me, Miss Pearce. You have my assurance.”

She nodded once and looked away quickly, as though she were hiding her face from him. This development had clearly upset her a great deal. Of course it would. Miss Pearce would now be without a situation. But he had a feeling it was more than that. Her affection for Miss Westgate ran far deeper than that of a mere companion.

Stephen clasped his hands behind his back. “If I may be so bold as to ask, what is your connection to Miss Westgate?”

“Judge Addams is my mother’s cousin. He took me in at her behest when it became clear I was not meant to marry.” She smiled faintly. “At five and twenty, it seems I am something of a lost cause. But pray, do not pity me. I find I am not inclined to marry. I haven’t the temperament for it.”

Miss Pearce was plain, but comely—in a stern, disapproving sort of way. He imagined men found her intimidating.

“What sort of man is Judge Addams?”

“He is old and set in his ways and very attached to Miss Westgate. He relies on her company a great deal.”

He nodded, taking it all in. “Their connection is strong.”

“Indeed, I fear for anyone who might cause Miss Westgate harm. She has a fierce adversary in her guardian.”

Yes, he was counting on that strong bond. If it came to defending his legitimacy against the Duke of Arlington’s scheming, then Stephen would need a powerful ally.

Once their visit to the Egyptian Hall was concluded, the party stopped at a chocolate house for refreshment.

“I found the exotic animals quite fascinating,” Miss Westgate said to the group, removing her gloves and placing them in her lap. “The elephant, in particular, was shocking. Frighteningly large. I feared it might come alive and stomp us all to death.”

“I confess, I’ve only seen such creatures in books,” Grant answered. “They are said to be quite intelligent.”

“Dear heaven,” Miss Westgate said, pressing two fingertips to her temple. “My head is aching.”

Stephen had noticed a fine sheen of sweat had formed just at her hairline. And her already pale skin looked all the more pallid.

Miss Pearce reached out and took Miss Westgate’s hand. “Perhaps you are parched, my dear. Did you take tea before we departed Durham House ?”

She smiled at Miss Pearce, squeezing her hand. “You are quite right, my darling. I’ve been remiss in taking refreshment. Perhaps I shall have tea instead of chocolate. That is, if we don’t perish from thirst while we wait to be served.” She said the last loudly, drawing the attention of everyone around them.

Grant signaled to the waitress. When she came over, Grant turned to the ladies. “What will you have?”

Both ladies ordered chocolate, while Grant and Stephen ordered dark Turkish coffee. They drank and chatted as they recounted the day’s events, namely Miss Westgate’s unaccountable fear of mounted and preserved animals.

Miss Westgate straightened in her chair. “Oh, look, the Duke of Arlington is here. Is that his sister with him?”

Stephen turned and caught sight of the Duke and Lady Evelyn, sitting at a table not ten feet away. The duke’s wife was with them, along with another man. He wore a kilt and sat awkwardly, ill at ease with his surroundings. The goddamned blacksmith.

Fuck. Of course.

“I believe you know the family quite well, Lord Devon.” There was a hopeful lilt in Miss Westgate’s voice. “Will you not introduce us?”

Stephen considered making some excuse, but before he could consider his words, both Evelyn and the Duke glanced over at their table. Their eyes flickered in acknowledgment, and of a sudden, it was too late to avert his eyes and ignore their presence.

He turned back to his party. “Shall we?”

The rose in unison, and as they moved to the door, Stephen paused at the Duke’s table.

“Your Grace,” he greeted stiffly, then turned and nodded politely to Evelyn. Her eyes met his and her features softened. “Lady Evelyn. I trust you are well.”

She nodded quickly, her gaze falling to the floor. Did she feel guilty for throwing him over?

Christ, this was agony. He had never wanted to set eyes on her again, and yet here they were, face-to-face.

The Duke stood, as did the rest of the party. “Lord Devon,” he drawled. “I had not expected to see you in Town.”

“I could say the same,” Stephen said.

“I have business matters here that require my attention.” He turned to Evelyn. “You are acquainted with my sister, Lady Evelyn, and her husband, Mr. Alec McAllister.”

“Indeed.” He bowed again, his back rigid. When he glanced up, he met Evelyn’s uneasy gaze. Standing there, looking at her, it was apparent that any warmth or affection he had once nurtured in his breast for her was now gone entirely. “It is good to see you looking so well, ma’am. Allow me to offer my well wishes on your recent marriage.”

It was odd—wishing his former fiancé well on her marriage to another man. Four months ago, he would not have believed he would be standing here so calm and unmoved by her presence.

“Thank you, Lord Devon,” she said, her grip tightening on her husband’s arm.

The Scot, for his part, looked more annoyed than threatened by Stephen’s presence. A small mercy, perhaps. He was in no humor to deal with jealous husbands.

Stephen introduced Miss Pearce and Miss Westgate, but Grant required no such introduction, as all of the men present—with the exception of the Scot—were members of Whites.

Lord Arlington’s gaze narrowed on him. “I was sorry to see the reports circulating about your family,” he said, his tone low.

“Your concern is heartening,” Stephen replied flatly. “But it’s nothing more than gossip. It shall be forgotten the moment a more tantalizing story comes along.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” The Duke’s lips twitched in amusement. “Such reports can be quite difficult to shake—particularly those rooted in truth.”

Stephen drew back, his hands balled into fists. He had never wanted to punch a man so badly in his life. His knuckles itched to connect with that sly, condescending smile.

He remembered the Duke’s words the day Stephen had asked for his sister’s hand.

If I find you’ve deceived my sister in any way, I will destroy you and everyone you love.

Stephen had not deceived her—she had known everything, including her brother’s suspicions about Stephen’s legitimacy. But doubtless, he assumed Stephen had tricked her into eloping and the Duke was not a man who disregarded a perceived slight. All of England knew him as a brutal, severe sort of man—and he certainly did not disappoint.

Stephen leaned in and spoke in a low tone, for the Duke’s ears only, “No doubt I have you to thank for enlightening the populace.”

The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “When I make a vow, Lord Devon, I keep it.” He touched the rim of his hat. “Good day to you.”