“Drat, double drat,” Grace murmured under her breath.

An English nobleman. A cavalry officer decorated for his actions in the war against Napoleon. A justice in the High Court, for heaven’s sake. How many marks against him did she need?

Grace gathered the shawl tighter around her and stopped at yet another set of stairs. She didn’t think she’d come by these before, but she couldn’t be certain. Dinner noises drifted up from the ground floor. Earlier, she’d heard people arriving in carriages. Family, friends, neighbors? It was none of her business.

She peered down a long gallery into what she was fairly sure must be the west wing. She decided to risk it. Stealing a glance over the railing, Grace clutched the book she’d found in her sitting room tighter against her chest and hurried down the hall. With any luck, she’d find that library before it grew dark.

One mark against him or a hundred, it didn’t seem to matter. Every word and every look they’d exchanged kept coming back to her, and Grace couldn’t calm the hummingbirds wreaking havoc in her belly.

“What’s wrong with you?” she muttered. “You’re not a child.”

Outside the carriage barn, she’d stood with Jo while the peer worked, unaware of his audience. Coat cast aside, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over muscular forearms, sweat glistening amid the smudges of dirt on his face. His dark, uncombed hair completed the look.

She couldn’t help but admire the muscles flexing under the shirt as he lifted equipment. Even now, the recollection of his long powerful legs and the trousers stretching over his strong buttocks made her go warm.

And later, talking to him, he drew her in. He made her feel his passion. She’d even agreed to go up in the air with him. She’d clearly lost her mind.

In her life she’d known soldiers and courtiers by the score. High-ranking politicians, men of wealth and position. No one had ever offered enough to tempt her into abandoning her father’s side. More times than she could count, she’d rejected men’s romantic enticements. The affaire de coeur was the premier pastime among courtiers, both male and female, though often the couer was left out of the affaire entirely. She’d even turned down a number of serious offers of marriage. Curious that now, at the mature age of twenty-eight, she was swooning over a complete stranger.

She knew the reason. Never—regardless of how dashing or handsome or powerful the suitor might be—never had she felt the spark that this man lit in her.

She’d heard other women speak of desire in the most intimate terms at court. The thrill that coursed through you at the mere sight of him. The tingling sensation that raced along the surface of your skin. The liquid heat that pooled deep in your belly when he whispered in your ear. The erotic imaginings that filled your mind at the most inopportune moments. As she walked along, she wondered what it would be like to make love to him. To run her hands over his muscled shoulders and back. To take his weight fully upon her.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Leaving Baronsford couldn’t happen quickly enough. Hugh Pennington was too dangerous for erotic thoughts.

Grace would beg or steal a horse if necessary to put this place behind her. She’d walk if she had to. She would make him keep his promise of taking her aloft. Napoleon used balloons to observe the battlefields. High above, she’d be able to see the best way to escape Baronsford.

Moving quickly along the gallery, Grace tried not to be distracted by the paintings mounted on the wall. Baronsford was as grand as many of the great European palaces she’d lived in. And as complicated to maneuver through. She tried not to dwell on the difference between families like the Penningtons, where the history of past generations defined their lives, versus someone like her. Her family history had been all but erased.

And it was the English that wanted her family erased.

Where was the dratted library?

At the end of the gallery, Grace followed a series of hallways that went up and down short sets of stairs and seemed to take her nowhere.

She was lost, but not just this evening. With her father gone, what path lay ahead of her? She had no one left. And if she ever succeeded in reaching Brussels, no one would be waiting for her.

Colonel Ware had served Napoleon and his family faithfully. He’d been of use to them for many years and in many capacities. Her father was a formidable cavalry officer when wartime required it. Since the emperor’s fall, he’d shown himself to be an astute negotiator between Joseph Bonaparte and President Madison.

But Grace served no purpose in their employ.

Passing open doors, she was beginning to think she might not be in the west wing, at all.

Hugh had offered her the use of the libraries, and before dinner Jo explained the difference between the upper and lower libraries. The one upstairs was much smaller, but it was a favorite of their mother’s. Grace didn’t divulge to Jo what she’d learned from Anna about the countess’s folio of clippings about Viscount Greysteil.

It wasn’t frivolous passing of the time that Grace had in mind. A pre-battle strategy of her father’s was to learn all he could about his opponent. That was exactly what she planned to do. Courtesy demanded that she stop refusing and start joining them in the dining room for meals. But tomorrow Hugh would be coming along with them for their ride. With the brother and sister working together, Grace would be at a center of an inquisition.

And each question, regardless of who asked it, was becoming more of a challenge. Grace wished she knew more about losing one’s memory. She needed to decide to what extent she should play this dangerous game. Her identity. Her education. Her ability to play music, or speak languages, or remember the books she’d read. Consistency would be key to her survival, but she was becoming more panicky with each passing hour.

In the carriage barn, Hugh had asked if she recalled the ballad she’d been reciting. It was a blessing that he didn’t know the rest of it himself, since it was a tragic ballad she’d heard the Irish soldiers sing in camp.

She might have been exposed before she even came to her senses.

Today, Grace saw how easy it was to distract the viscount with a topic that interested him. Tonight, she needed to learn more about the man so she could ask more questions, engage him in conversations, and keep the focus of every discussion on him.

Deep in thought, Grace turned a corner and nearly bumped into a diminutive woman carrying a candle. It was the housekeeper.

“My apologies, mistress.”

“No, it was my fault, Mrs. Henson,” Grace replied. Jo had introduced them that morning. “I set out to find the upper library and have lost my way entirely.”

“It’s not difficult getting turned about in this wing. Follow me, I’ll be happy to show you.”

Grace followed the woman’s energetic steps, recalling Jo’s comments about the dedication of the housekeeper. She never stopped from dawn to dusk.

“Did you find the dinner tray sent to your room lacking, mistress?”

“No! On the contrary, it was delicious. Please pass on my compliments to the cook.”

“But you only tasted a wee bit of the soup.” Mrs. Henson’s pinched face turned slightly and she looked out the corner of her eye at Grace. “The rest was untouched.”

More proof that she was being closely watched.

“I found the soup heavenly. The taste of almonds and cream was exquisite,” she said. “I would have loved to finish everything that was sent up, but I’m still following Dr. Namby’s directions about the need to start slowly. To be honest, I’m a bit timid about eating too much at one time.”

“Bah!” Mrs. Henson waved a hand in the air. “For all his airs, our doctor is just a country sawbones. He did his job, and you’re best done with him. Now you leave us to put some meat back on your bones, mistress.”

“I’ll eat more tomorrow,” Grace offered. “I promise you.”

“I’ll tell the cook. She’ll be pleased.”

The housekeeper opened a door, and Grace found herself standing on the threshold of a large room immersed in the darkness.

“Since his lordship prefers the large library on the first floor, we don’t often air this one unless Lady Aytoun is visiting. But the fire is laid. I’ll light it for you.”

“Do you think the countess would mind me using this room?” Grace asked. “If it’s a problem, I can—”

“Don’t give it a second thought, mistress,” the housekeeper said, cutting off her protest. “Her ladyship won’t be minding, at all. In fact, I’m certain she’d be delighted to know someone else is using it. That’s her nature. Great-hearted and kind, that’s what she is.”

The mother’s nature definitely had been passed down to the next generation, Grace thought. Jo and Hugh had both been very kind.

“I’ll have the room ready for you in a jiffy.”

Mrs. Henson lit the fire and then scurried around the library, lighting candles and tying back curtains. The sky beyond the windows was an artist’s palette of sunset colors.

Each wall was covered with books from floor to ceiling. A writing desk sat near the window and comfortable chairs and settees were scattered in corners. The rug, though elegant, showed the comfortable wear of frequent use. A display of painted fans and porcelain figurines sat on the fireplace mantle, and a great clock ticked away in a corner beside another door.

Grace’s gaze was drawn to a child’s rocking chair sitting beside a matching adult rocker. A collection of wooden blocks had been stacked on a low stool nearby. A covered basket sat between the chairs, and she sensed that it likely contained more children’s toys.

This room wasn’t the typically grand library of a large castle intended to impress. It was a place of comfort. Grace understood why the countess used it when she was here.

The housekeeper ran a finger across a table, discreetly checking for dust. The result appeared to pass inspection.

“Very well, mistress. Might I send up a wee tray for you? A bite of hot supper to tide you over, perhaps?”

“No. Thank you.” Grace smiled. “But I do promise to eat better tomorrow. You’ll see.”

Satisfied, she started for the door. “You can use the bell, if you’ll be needing anything.”

“I do have a question, Mrs. Henson. Is there a child at Baronsford?” she asked, motioning toward the blocks and the small chair.

The housekeeper’s forehead furrowed. “Aye. Well, there used to be. But no more. A great tragedy for all of us.”

Before Grace could pursue the topic, the housekeeper bustled from the room.

* * *

Eight dined with them tonight. Their neighbor Squire Lennox, Walter and Violet Truscott, the vicar and his wife, and three members of the Melrose Village council. This was the way of dinners at Baronsford whenever Jo was here. She extended invitations to anyone and everyone who had a connection with the family. No one was slighted or forgotten, and no one was invited more than once in a fortnight. This suited Hugh perfectly. When his sister wasn’t here, he rarely had company in for dinner and even more rarely accepted invitations to dine out. Truscott and Violet, of course, were an exception.

Tonight’s dinner should have been no different from any other night, and yet it was very different. Their guests had exchanged pleasant conversation around the table. The women had retired to the drawing room for a short time. Discussions had focused on politics, the economy, and the most recent accident at the Leadhills mine. And all the while, Hugh’s thoughts had focused on Grace.

Sitting in his study after the guests had gone, he realized it was not just tonight. Not that he hadn’t paid attention to her before, but this afternoon her beauty had caught him off guard. To be sure, he enjoyed her wit and their conversation, but there was something else—the hint of her smile, the arch of her eyebrow, the graceful ease with which she moved. And her eyes, clear and blue as a sapphire sky. No wonder he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

And he’d offered to take her ballooning.

Hugh couldn’t help but wonder if she’d really join him on his next flight. Maybe she’d only said yes to be polite. Perhaps she never expected to be held to her promise. No one in his family, and no one close enough to be called a friend, had ever agreed to join him.

Finally giving up on his effort to do any work, Hugh took a candle and started off for the west wing. A good night’s sleep would help clear his mind.

There was no denying it, he was fascinated with her, drawn to her. The mystery of where she came from or what was to become of her was no longer the source of this attraction. They talked about ballooning, but his mind was now drawn to a different sport. One that involved a bed and skin and her long legs . . . and a few luxurious hours of giving and receiving pleasure.

He pulled at his cravat and felt the crotch area of his trousers grow tighter.

If they’d met under different circumstances, somewhere other than Baronsford, Grace was exactly the kind of woman he’d have enjoyed having an affair with.

Moments later, striding along the gallery in the west wing, Hugh paused before a portrait he’d gazed at a thousand times. Holding his candle high, he looked into the eyes of Amelia and his son.

As if someone had emptied a bucket of cold water on him, clarity returned. He was at Baronsford. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Guilt reinforced the thought.

No, he couldn’t go riding with them tomorrow. It was impossible. Even with Jo along, spending time with Grace would only inflame desire that he should not allow.

Turning away, he made his way to the end of the gallery and started down the winding hallways toward his room. He made up his mind. He’d let Jo know in the morning that he wasn’t joining them.

The sound of a crash coming from one of the rooms down the hallway stopped Hugh dead.