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Anne's Perfect Husband
Gayle Wilson
Major Ian Sinclair knew firsthand that war made men do strange things. But to be named guardian of the daughter of the man responsible for ending his career–and very nearly his life?–was beyond the Pale. Yet now Anne Darlington was his responsibility, and he found himself longing for a future he'd thought he no longer believed in…Cloistered in a remote boarding school, Anne Darlington had grown up never knowing any other life. Until fate thrust her into the strong arms of Ian Sinclair, a tortured nobleman whose secret connection to her father threatened her unspoken dream that Ian would someday return her love…and become her perfect husband.



“You don’t need me to fight your battles,” he said
“Well, it would be nice to have someone fight them.” Anne was accustomed to having to stand on her own two feet. However, what she had just said was something she had recognized since Ian had come to Fenton School to collect her. It was nice to have someone on her side. And at her side.
“And that is the purpose of everything we’re in London to accomplish,” Ian said softly.
The marriage mart. Someone to fight my battles for me.
Anne had never thought of what they were undertaking in that light. Despite all her romantic fantasies, she had never really believed she would find a husband at any of the Season’s entertainments.
She had already found her champion and, ridiculously romantic or not, she knew she would never want any other…!

Praise for RITA Award winner Gayle Wilson
My Lady’s Dare
“…three-dimensional characters and intriguing
plot twists kept this reader glued to the pages.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Lady Sarah’s Son
“…a moving tale of love overcoming great obstacles,
of promises kept and trust restored.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Honor’s Bride
“A superbly crafted story…”
—Romantic Times Magazine
The Heart’s Wager
“This is the well-written, well-plotted, gripping book
that we’re always hoping for and don’t always find.
I give it my highest accolades.”
—Rendezvous
Anne’s Perfect Husband
Harlequin Historical #552
#551 THE HIGHLAND WIFE
Lyn Stone
#553 LONGSHADOW’S WOMAN
Bronwyn Williams
#554 LILY GETS HER MAN
Charlene Sands
Anne’s Perfect Husband
Gayle Wilson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Available from Harlequin Historicals and GAYLE WILSON
†The Heart’s Desire #211
†The Heart’s Wager #263
†The Gambler’s Heart #299
Raven’s Vow #349
His Secret Duchess #393
Honor’s Bride #432
Lady Sarah’s Son #483
My Lady’s Dare #516
*Anne’s Perfect Husband #552
Other works include:
Harlequin Intrigue
Echoes in the Dark #344
Only a Whisper #376
The Redemption of Deke Summers #414
Heart of the Night #442
**Ransom My Heart #461
**Whisper My Love #466
**Remember My Touch #469
Never Let Her Go #490
‡The Bride’s Protector #509
‡The Stranger She Knew #513
‡Her Baby, His Secret #517
Each Precious Hour #541
††Her Private Bodyguard #561
††Renegade Heart #578
††Midnight Remembered #591
*The Sinclair Brides
**Home to Texas series
†Hearts Trilogy series
‡Men of Mystery series
††More Men of Mystery series
For Alynn, whose beautiful name might be suitable
for a medieval heroine, but not, alas, for a Regency one.
Although its heroine is named Anne, this story
is still for you, along with my love and admiration.
Hope you enjoy!

Contents
Prologue (#uf1411d73-3913-5f56-9a85-dc7c1718d87a)
Chapter One (#u075a3358-3b3a-5f26-807d-e60fd4297618)
Chapter Two (#u97a7cce7-6eef-5c4c-8562-e76a34145461)
Chapter Three (#uf27d1ddf-bb6e-50a9-bffb-c2319f0952f4)
Chapter Four (#u15cdcaa9-89d6-5d4d-8858-2e8a6e0090f6)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
Sinclair Hall
England, December 1813
“Oh, there’s no mistake, Mr. Sinclair. We’ve examined the terms of the colonel’s will quite carefully, I can assure you. It’s very clear he intended to leave his daughter in your very capable hands.”
The well-shaped lips of Ian Sinclair, former major with His Majesty’s forces in Portugal, tightened to prevent another expression of disbelief. It was possible, he supposed, that George Darlington had named him as his daughter’s guardian. That was almost as easy to believe as the fact that Darlington had fathered a daughter.
“And the child?” Ian asked.
After all, she should be his first concern. The little girl had lost her father, the only parent she had ever known. Of course, knowing Darlington’s history, Ian wondered exactly how often the child could have even seen him, much less how well she had known him.
“She is in a very fine school in the north. The location is a bit remote, but I believe the family has ties to the region.”
“And relations there perhaps?” Ian asked, feeling the first dawn of hope since he had begun this interview with George Darlington’s solicitor, who had come from London to apprise Ian of the terms of his late client’s will.
“Not to my knowledge. Of course, you may know more of the family’s connections than we are privy to.”
“Actually, I knew very little about Colonel Darlington,” Ian said. “Other than his military endeavors, of course.”
“Comrades in arms,” the solicitor said heartily.
Ian thought how far from the reality of his and Darlington’s relationship that phrase fell, but he said nothing. Whatever the colonel’s failings as an officer, and in Ian’s opinion they were many, he would not speak ill of the dead.
Not even ill of a man who had, without warning, saddled him with a child Ian had never even met. A child whose very existence he had been unaware of until this afternoon.
“Well,” the solicitor said, his tone verging on euphoric, “I have taken up quite enough of your time. And I believe that all of the particulars have now been taken care of to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Ian wondered if the man were really that obtuse, or if he were simply relieved that he hadn’t been shown the door when he’d revealed the reason for his visit. In truth, he was probably glad to have this poor child off his hands and someone else’s responsibility.
“Here is the address of the school. I believe the girl’s fees are paid through the end of term.”
“Which should be soon,” Ian realized, reaching to take the neatly lettered paper from the lawyer’s hand. “IfI remember my own school days correctly. And I confess, those ended long enough ago that the details are beginning to blur. I do remember being at home for Christmas.”
The solicitor’s thin lips pursed briefly before he said, “No doubt your memory is excellent, Mr. Sinclair.”
Underlying that quite unexceptional statement had been some nuance of tone Ian couldn’t read. He studied the man’s rather pasty face, trying to decide what had bothered him about it.
“If there are no relations,” Ian asked, “then where has this child spent holidays during the years her father has been posted abroad?”
“As far as I’m aware, Mr. Sinclair, she has remained at school. There are always a few who do, you know. For one reason or another.”
That had been true enough of his own school, Ian remembered. He had a memory of two or three winter-pale faces pressed against the front windows, watching as their fellow students departed to be conveyed home through the snow-shrouded English landscape.
“I see,” Ian said, thinking also about the boisterous excitement of those long-ago Sinclair Christmases. And thinking, despite himself, of a lonely little girl who had perhaps never known a real country Yuletide. At least not in the last few war-torn years of her existence.
“Oh, don’t bother to see me out,” Darlington’s representative said cheerfully as Ian began to push himself out of his chair. “I understand that you’re still recovering from your wounds, and I certainly have no desire—”
The solicitor’s voice stopped in midsentence. That was undoubtedly the result of the same look Ian had once successfully employed to correct any breach of military discipline among his troops.
It involved a leveling at his intended victim of what he had always considered to be quite unremarkable hazel eyes. He was surprised to find the look apparently as effective as it had always been with his subordinates, despite the fact that he hadn’t had cause to use it in more than a year.
Totally ignoring the solicitor’s broken sentence, Ian said pleasantly, “I shall be delighted to see you out.”
The day had been both wet and bitterly cold, with the threat of snow hovering in the dark, overcast December sky since dawn. Weather such as this always made the lingering effects of his injuries more pronounced, but Ian ignored them as much as he possibly could. As did his staff and his family, of course.
That was a lesson both had learned early in his convalescence. He could hardly blame his visitor, however, for not being aware of his sensitivity to any reference to his health.
“Are you certain I can’t convince you to postpone your return?” Ian continued, leading the way toward the door. “I should hate to think of you benighted on the road.”
“No, indeed, Mr. Sinclair, although I thank you for your kind offer of hospitality.”
“Then I shall wish you Godspeed, Mr. Smythe. And a safe journey home.”
When they reached the hall, Ian watched as his butler helped his visitor into his greatcoat. Mr. Smythe then placed his tall beaver over sparse, iron-gray hair. He ducked his shoulder almost defensively when the wide front doors were opened, letting in the sharp, wet chill of the December wind.
“Not a fit day for man nor beast,” Williams said, closing the door very quickly behind his master’s departing guest.
“I tried to persuade him to stay the night, but he was eager to be off.”
“Perhaps he has holiday entertainments awaiting him in London,” the butler said. “Anxious to get back to his family, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Ian echoed, thinking that this would be the first Christmas he had spent at home without any member of his own family with whom to celebrate.
The youngest Sinclair brother was still with Wellington, fighting the French on the Iberian Peninsula. And having spent three years in those same circumstances, Ian knew exactly how Sebastian would keep Christmas.
There would be wine, if the Beau could possibly manage to procure it. And perhaps a couple of scrawny chickens, stewed until they were almost edible. After dinner, the officers would gather around the fireplace of whatever building Wellington had commandeered as his headquarters to sing carols. They would probably be forced to wear their woolen uniform capes against the damp that relentlessly seeped in through the stones and chilled to the bone.
Ian realized that in remembering those deprivations he was smiling. The warmth of the camaraderie those men shared would help them endure. And at least Sebastian wouldn’t be spending Christmas alone.
Nor would Val, of course. Ian’s smile widened, although he refused to allow himself to imagine exactly how his older brother would be engaged during this holiday season. Ensconced in the Sinclair hunting lodge, Dare and his countess seemed determined to stretch their honeymoon to the full year such milestones had once encompassed.
And Ian would be the last person to begrudge his brother that newfound happiness. Dare had more than earned it in his behind-the-scenes efforts to defeat that same enemy Ian and Sebastian had fought by more conventional means.
Still, he thought, limping back to the welcome blaze of the library fire, it would be a lonely Christmas here. And unbidden came the nearly forgotten image of those small, pale faces pressed longingly against the windows of Harrow so long ago. A damnably lonely Christmas.

Chapter One
“I beg your pardon,” Anne Darlington said, finally looking up from where she was kneeling on the stone floor, her hands full of the grimy edge of Sally Eddington’s woolen petticoat.
She was stitching up the hem of the offending garment so that it wouldn’t drag on the ground as the child walked. Her concentration on the task, which she was attempting to perform while six-year-old Sally was still wearing the petticoat, had prevented her from hearing the first part of the message the headmistress had sent.
“It’s your guardian,” Margaret Rhodes said importantly. “Come to take you home for Christmas.”
“How nice for you, Sally,” Anne said. She took one very large and hurried stitch and then looped the needle through and tied a quick knot. She broke the thread with her teeth before she added, “I didn’t know you were leaving today.”
In all honesty she hadn’t even known Sally had a guardian. Anne distinctly remembered that the little girl had spent the previous holiday at school. There were only a handful of students who did that, and since Anne herself had always been one of them, she certainly knew who the others were. And most of their stories as well.
The loss of a mother, usually in childbirth with the next, too quickly conceived baby. A father’s remarriage, perhaps. Or his disinterest.
Anne supposed she herself might fall into that latter category, but her father’s disinterest was something she had stopped thinking about a long time ago. She was actually grateful for the upbringing he had provided her, even if it had never included his presence. And just this week Mrs. Kemp had offered her a teaching position here for the next school year.
Then she would never have to leave, Anne thought contentedly, automatically straightening Sally’s skirt and smoothing with her hands the carrot-colored frizz that surrounded the little girl’s freckled face.
“But I’m not,” Sally said, her eyes round at the thought.
“Not her, you big silly,” Margaret said. “It’s you he’s come for.”
Anne turned her head, looking full at Margaret for the first time. “For me?” she repeated in astonishment.
“And Mrs. Kemp says you mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Anne opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. After all, whatever was going on, it offered to be different from her normal afternoon routine of wiping noses and hearing lessons.
Either the girls were having a joke or there had been some mistake in who had been called for. In either case, going along would prove more entertaining than what she was presently doing. If it were a prank, then the others would enjoy a laugh at her expense, nothing she was averse to. And if it weren’t, the mistake would probably have been straightened out by the time she reached the headmistress’s office. Until then…
“Well, of course, I won’t keep him waiting,” Anne said cheerfully. “Come from London, I suppose.”
“I don’t know about that,” Margaret confided, “but he arrived in a bang-up rig with four of the primest bits of horseflesh I’ve ever seen.”
“If Mrs. Kemp hears you talking like that, my girl,” Anne warned, “you’ll be the banged-up rig.”
She lightened the rebuke with a smile and then ran down the wide hallway with the younger girl at her heels. Not setting a good example, Mrs. Kemp would have said, especially for someone about to become a teacher.
Since the headmistress wasn’t by to say it, however, Anne didn’t see any reason not to run off the excess energy the recent weather’s confinement had produced. She would be so glad when spring arrived and the woods and fields were again available for roaming.
She slowed to a sedate walk as she neared the open door of the school’s office. Working by feel, she tucked a few tendrils of hair back into the neat coil from which they had managed to escape and straightened the shoulders of her linsey-woolsey dress, brushing her hands over the bodice. Then she cast a quick glance behind her to evaluate Margaret’s appearance, knowing that in Mrs. Kemp’s opinion it, too, could usually be improved upon.
She was right. The younger girl’s flannel pinafore was unbuttoned. Anne turned and, still walking backwards, attempted a couple of quick adjustments to the ten-year-old’s attire.
Margaret’s widening eyes should have been a warning, but she didn’t notice them until it was too late. Anne backed into something quite solid and heard a soft gasp of response.
Someone, she realized belatedly when she whirled around. Someone very tall. And dressed in what even such a provincial as she knew to be the height of fashion, from his gleaming tasseled Hessians to the broad shoulders of an expertly cut coat of navy superfine. Considering the weather, there would no doubt be a multicaped greatcoat and a tall beaver hat residing safely in Mrs. Kemp’s office.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
He certainly appeared sturdy enough that she couldn’t possibly have done him damage, but that gasp had sounded pained. And there was something in the tightness of the lines around that beautifully shaped mouth that also spoke of discomfort.
It was not until the mouth tilted, destroying that ridiculous notion that Anne looked up and found his eyes. They were hazel, and they were smiling as openly as were his lips.
Smiling eyes. She had read the phrase once in a novel, that strictly forbidden pastime carefully concealed from Mrs. Kemp, of course. She had never quite known what it meant until today. Until now. And her heart began to beat a little irregularly.
“I believe I have managed to survive your charge,” he said. “It is customary to look in the direction you’re treading, however. Just to prevent bowling over the un-suspecting.”
Anne laughed. “Only think how boring it should be to always look where one is going. I confess that I much prefer to back my way through life.” She longed to add, “One meets such interesting people that way,” but she couldn’t decide if that would sound sophisticated or simply fast.
And while she was trying to resolve that dilemma, the hazel eyes left her face and settled, still smiling, on Margaret’s. Anne swallowed her disappointment and turned to look at her young friend as well. Margaret’s brown eyes were still stretched. Indeed, they had widened enough to be outright rude as she stared, openmouthed, at the visitor.
“Hello,” he said.
“’Lo,” Margaret mumbled.
The self-important air of confidence with which she had delivered her message had disappeared. Of course, Anne could hardly blame her for that. They were neither very often exposed to someone who was so obviously Top of the Trees.
“I’m not quite sure how this should be done,” the elegant gentleman was saying, “but I have satisfied Mrs. Kemp as to my identity and my legal position as your guardian. She has agreed that we may leave as soon as you’re ready. Since I gave you no warning, I should imagine it will take you some time to pack. I hope you will make as quick a work of that as you can, however, because the weather is worsening by the moment.”
Margaret said nothing, her eyes and mouth continuing to gape unbecomingly as he talked. When he had finished, and the silence yawned empty for a few seconds, she reluctantly pulled her gaze away from his face to look at Anne.
“It’s not me you want,” she said, pointing a trembling finger. “It’s her. That’s Anne Darlington.”
The hazel eyes followed the gesture, and as Anne’s met them, she realized they were no longer smiling. They had widened as much as Margaret’s, and even that was attractive, she decided.
“You’re Anne Darlington?” he asked, his shock evident.
No mistake about the name, then, Anne thought, trying to make sense of this.
“I am,” she said, inclining her head in agreement, hoping to add a touch of dignity to the confession.
“Colonel George Darlington’s daughter?”
“Did you know my father, sir?” she asked.
Again there was a small silence.
“I served with your father in Iberia, ma’am. May I offer my condolences on your recent loss.”
Anne had never in her life been called ma’am. It was rather shocking, but despite that, finally she was beginning to have a glimmer of understanding. Perhaps this man was indeed her guardian. Perhaps when she was much younger, her father had named a military friend to look after her if anything happened to him. And now that it had…
“Thank you,” she said softly.
She supposed she had grieved in the abstract for her father, but since she had not seen him in over seven years, and not very often before that, she had quickly recovered from the news of his death, about which she had been informed only two months ago.
“My name is Ian Sinclair, and your father’s will asked me to serve as your guardian.”
How strange, Anne thought. Not “your father asked me,” which is what she would have expected, but “your father’s will.”
“And you agreed?”
“Colonel Darlington was a…comrade in arms.”
Anne wondered about that brief hesitation, but then she knew less than nothing about military matters. Apparently her father had chosen from among his acquaintances a man he felt would be trustworthy to look after her.
She wondered how many years ago that decision had been made. And considering Mr. Sinclair’s confusion in thinking Margaret was his ward, she wondered if her father had even remembered how old she was. He had certainly never acknowledged birthdays. In actuality, he had seldom acknowledged her existence.
“As you can see, Mr. Sinclair, I am hardly in need of a guardian,” she said briskly. “I shall be twenty my next birthday, and Mrs. Kemp has very kindly offered me a teaching post here. My father was unaware of the offer, of course, which was made after his death.”
“Then you were in frequent correspondence with your father?”
The hazel eyes were focused intently on her face, and for some reason, Anne found herself compelled to tell him the truth.
“I was not,” she said succinctly.
“I see.”
Even living as she had among the female offspring of parents who obviously did not wish to be burdened with hiring governesses and tutors for them, Anne had finally been forced to admit her father’s total lack of interest in her was unusual. Most of her schoolmates got the occasional letter or present or visit. In all the years she had been at Fenton School, she couldn’t remember receiving any of those things.
“I’m very sorry you have made this journey for nothing,” Anne said. “Especially since, as you say, the weather is uncertain.”
The fine mouth tightened, and again Anne noticed the deeply graven lines that bracketed it. She wondered at his age, but there was something about his face that defied an attempt to judge it, despite the sweep of gray at the temples of his dark chestnut hair. His eyes, when they were smiling, made him seem quite young. Now, however…
“Actually, I have been dreading spending Christmas alone,” he said. And then he smiled at her again.
Anne had not been dreading the holidays. She enjoyed the quieter times they provided. There would be only a few girls left at the school, some of them, like Sally, quite small. Since Anne was the oldest student, and the one who had been here the longest, their Christmas entertainment had always fallen on her shoulders. And she welcomed the task.
There was something about the elegant gentleman’s declaration, however, that tugged at her heart quite as much as had Sally’s quiet sobbing during the first few nights she had spent here. And who are you, Anne Darlington, to be feeling sorry for the likes of him? she chided in self-derision.
“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to join me?” Ian Sinclair continued. “I can’t tell you how excited my servants are at the prospect of having a guest for the holidays. My existence of late has been far too sedate for their tastes, I’m afraid. They were counting on your arrival to give them an excuse for a full-blown, old-fashioned Yule celebration.”
My existence of late. Slowly Anne was beginning to put all the small, yet telling clues together. Ian Sinclair had confessed to knowing her father on the Peninsula. And if he had returned to England while the British forces were still engaged in the war for control of Spain, there could be only one reason. A reason that explained both the lines of suffering in his face and perhaps even that nearly inaudible gasp of reaction when she had careened into him.
If there was anything more likely than a sobbing child to stir a response in Anne Darlington’s heart, it was a creature in pain. If it were not for Mrs. Kemp’s strictures, during Anne’s years here the school would have become a refuge for every homeless cur or injured squirrel in the district.
In spite of the headmistress’s injunctions, it had secretly sheltered a variety of carefully hidden invalids. Unknowingly, and without any conscious intent on his part, Ian Sinclair had issued an invitation that would have been almost impossible for Anne to refuse.
“Then I should hate to disappoint them,” she said bravely, “especially in this joyful season.”
Not exactly what he had bargained for, Ian thought, as he waited in Mrs. Kemp’s office for his ward to pack.
And Anne herself had willingly provided him with the perfect excuse not to take this farce any further. For some reason, however, perhaps nothing more than what he had indicated to her about his staff’s excitement at the prospect of a Christmas visitor, he had insisted that she come back to Sinclair Hall with him. He could only imagine their reaction when he returned, not with the child they all expected, but with a young woman in tow.
“…shall miss her dearly, Mr. Sinclair. Not that I would begrudge Anne her chance,” Mrs. Kemp said, his name bringing Ian’s wandering attention back to the subject at hand. “She is a most intelligent and deserving young woman, with the kindest heart I have ever known. I am delighted she will be able to take her proper place in society. I was so afraid that her father had not realized the importance of seeing that Anne has her Season.”
The words were chilling. Ian had left home at dawn this morning, expecting to bring a little girl back with him for the holidays. Suddenly, without warning, he had been propelled instead into the role of introducing a young woman into society. And it was a role for which he could think of no one less suitable.
After all, his contact with the ton had been severely limited by his military service and his prolonged convalescence. He had acquaintances within that elite circle, of course, but the implications of being called upon to provide a proper Season for George Darlington’s daughter went far beyond anything he had been thinking when he began this harebrained journey.
Sentimental idiot, Sebastian would have chided. And Dare would have been the first to warn that if he ended up in his grave as a result of driving halfway across the country in a snowstorm, then there would be no one around to see to Anne Darlington’s upbringing. Not, Ian admitted, that she needed much “seeing to.”
In actuality, she was already a woman grown. Most girls her age were married and producing the requisite heirs for their husbands. Just because this one had been hidden away behind the imposing doors of Fenton School for years didn’t mean that society wouldn’t consider her a woman.
“Her Season?” he repeated, his mind considering with near-horror what he knew about such things.
It was little enough. He had danced with his share of debutantes, of course. That was expected of every man about town, but he had never had the responsibility of bringing one out. And it seemed that Mrs. Kemp was now suggesting that he should.
“But of course,” Mrs. Kemp said. “Her mother’s family was quite respectable. Her grandfather was a viscount. And I believe the Darlington name to be equally honorable. Now, Anne’s father…” Mrs. Kemp paused delicately, one brow raised in question. “Was he a friend of yours, Mr. Sinclair?”
“An acquaintance,” Ian said carefully.
He had determined to keep his feelings about Darlington to himself. Airing them would serve no purpose but to rebound unfavorably on his daughter, who did not deserve that stain.
“Ah…” Mrs. Kemp said softly. “I did not think the two of you…” Again she paused, her eyes meeting Ian’s in perfect understanding. “He neglected Anne dreadfully. If it were not for the character of the girl herself, due to his financial neglect I should have been forced to send her away years ago.”
“I understood from the solicitors that her fees had been paid,” Ian said, feeling another surge of anger at Anne’s father.
“Her fees, but nothing else. That poor child has been dependent on our charity for the very clothes on her back.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Kemp, that what is owing to you will come first out of whatever estate Darlington has left. However, knowing his penchant for gambling and other…vices, I’m not sure of how much that consists. You will be repaid for your kindness, I assure you, even if it comes from my own pockets.”
“I don’t want the money, Mr. Sinclair. Especially not yours. I do, however, want Anne to have the chance at the happiness she more than deserves. She’s a good child, with a warm and generous spirit. I want someone to see to it that she is settled into a situation more appropriate to her birth than we can provide for her here. Will you promise me that you will do your very best to give her that chance?”
Ian had come north on a fool’s errand, drawn by sentiment and by the thought of giving a lonely child a festive Christmas. Now he was being asked to make a very different commitment. He might know little about providing a Season for a young woman, but he certainly knew the stated intent of such an endeavor.
Mrs. Kemp was asking him to find Anne Darlington a husband. As her guardian, Ian knew that, in reality, he could do no less for the girl and fulfill the obligations inherent in that post.
“You have my word,” he said softly.
“Such a chance, Anne. An unbelievable opportunity. You must promise me, my dear, that you will do everything you can to take advantage of it,” Mrs. Kemp said.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. I mean…it’s only a Christmas visit,” Anne said doubtfully, smiling at her headmistress, who had been the closest thing to a mother she had ever known. Her own had died when Anne was four, shortly before she had been sent to Fenton School.
“Perhaps that was Mr. Sinclair’s intention at first, but I believe I have made him see his responsibilities to you run much deeper than that. He is, after all, your guardian. It’s up to him to see you suitably settled.”
Anne shook her head, still not sure what Mrs. Kemp was talking about. “Suitably settled?” she repeated. “I thought we had agreed I should have a teaching post here next term.”
“Oh, my dear! That can hardly compare with what is now offered you. I find it hard to believe that your father had the foresight to choose so well. He did, however, and now you must do your part.”
“My part in what?”
“To find your place in the world you are entitled to by your birth. We both know that you can sometimes be rather headstrong, my dear. I’m simply saying that you must let yourself be guided by Mr. Sinclair, who has, I assure you, only your best interests at heart.”
“But Mrs. Kemp, you know I am very happy here. Of course, I shall be delighted to visit Mr. Sinclair’s home for Christmas. That seems to be what he wishes me to do, but to believe that I shall become a permanent resident there or dependent on his charity, is, I should think, something neither of us would wish for. Whatever life you and he believe I am somehow entitled to, I assure you this is the life I truly desire.”
“You can’t evaluate what you’ve never known. And you are about to enter a world about which you know nothing. It may seem very frightening to you at first, but…” The words faltered, and Mrs. Kemp’s eyes seemed troubled. She put her hand on Anne’s cheek, cupping it as if she were one of the younger girls in need of comfort. “Oh, my dear,” she said, her voice passionate, “this is such an opportunity. I am simply urging you to make the best of it, whatever happens.”
Which didn’t sound comforting at all, Anne thought. She caught Mrs. Kemp’s hand and folded the fingers down into the palm. She laid her cheek against the back of it a moment before she brought it to her mouth and pressed her lips against the raised blue veins that were visible under the thin skin.
“I shall,” she said, smiling at the old woman. “I promise you I shall, Mrs. Kemp. Headstrong or not, I shall endeavor to do whatever Mr. Sinclair thinks is best. I promise you.”
It was not until she was actually in the coach, her portmanteau secured on the top and her feet and legs covered by a thick fur rug, that Anne realized what had happened. Mewed up in an institution run by rules and discipline, she had fantasized about adventure often enough, especially during her adolescence. Nothing about her previous existence had prepared her, however, to undertake one.
Yet here she was, riding inside a carriage with a man she had only just met, heading to a destination about which she knew nothing at all. Mrs. Kemp’s assurance that she had seen the solicitor’s papers and her obvious excitement over the prospects offered by Mr. Sinclair’s interest had been reassuring enough while Anne had been in the safe and familiar confines of the school.
Now that she was truly alone with her “guardian,” however, the Gothic tales of abduction she had read with such shivering delight seemed all too real. And not a little frightening.
“Comfortable?” Mr. Sinclair asked prosaically, smiling at her from the opposite seat. The question certainly dampened that particular flight of fantasy.
“Of course,” she said truthfully.
The coach was not only elegantly appointed, but very well-sprung. And despite the cold outside, the interior was every bit as cozy as her room on the third floor of Fenton School. Perhaps even more so. However, that was a room which she missed more and more with each mile they traversed.
“Good,” he said.
He had removed his hat and set it on the seat beside him. After they had traveled a short distance in silence, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, tacitly giving Anne permission to study his features again in the less flattering light of day.
It was obvious she had been correct in her earlier surmise. Ian Sinclair had undoubtedly been invalided out of service and was not yet fully recovered. She could not help but notice his limp as they had walked to the coach.
Dark smudges lay like old bruises under the long lashes. His face was too thin, and beneath the natural darkness of his skin was a tinge of gray. His mouth was tight, as if set against a pain she could almost feel.
And yet, given all those, it was a face that was undeniably appealing. The nose was as finely shaped as his mouth, the brow high and noble, and the jaw strong. Whatever his age, and Anne was no nearer guessing that than she had been from the first, Ian Sinclair was a very handsome man. And he was her guardian.
She wondered if, at nineteen, such a guardianship were even legal. She had little knowledge of the law, of course, so she must trust that her father’s solicitor and Mrs. Kemp were more knowledgeable about such matters than she. Neither seemed to have expressed any reservations about the arrangement.
She turned her head, looking out at the passing landscape. The snow that had been threatening for days had finally begun to fall in earnest, and she wondered again that Mr. Sinclair had made this journey, given the uncertain state of his health.
She could not imagine what had prompted him to embark on this foolhardy venture for the sake of a girl he had never met. Duty, she supposed. And a sense of obligation to her father, who had been his friend.
He said they had been comrades in arms. She would have to ask him about her father’s service. Perhaps Mr. Sinclair could help her to finally understand the man who had fathered and then abandoned her. At the very least, he would be able to tell her more about her father than she knew now. She could not even remember what he looked like.
She knew she took after her mother. She couldn’t remember who had first told her that, but she had known it all her life. As she had grown into adulthood, the face in her mirror did indeed grow to match the one in the gold locket she still wore about her neck. It was the only thing she had of her mother’s.
She touched it now, wrapping gloved fingers around its small, familiar shape. At least something would be familiar when they reached their destination, she thought, her eyes deliberately focused on the landscape they crossed rather than on the handsome, pain-etched face of Ian Sinclair.

Chapter Two
“I’m afraid it’s no use, sir,” the coachman said. His voice sounded hollow and distant as it echoed from beneath the carriage. “It’s the axle. Damaged beyond our abilities to make repairs here, I can tell you. Someone must ride and get help.”
Ian’s lips tightened against the curses to which he longed to give utterance. He had learned long ago that cursing fate was an exercise in futility. And that painful lesson had been reiterated more times than he wished to remember during the past fourteen months.
“All right then,” he agreed. “I’m afraid that expedition will have to be up to the two of you,” Ian said, including the groom in his instructions. “Unharness the leaders and see if there’s a house nearby which looks decent enough to shelter Miss Darlington. If not, then ride on and bring back a conveyance of some kind from the nearest posting inn.”
“On this stretch of road the inns will probably be our best bet, sir,” the coachman said. He had crawled out from beneath the carriage and was beating muddy snow off his knees with his gloved hands. “I can’t remember passing any dwelling likely to offer a proper shelter for the young lady.”
“If the storm hits, I suppose any dwelling will be proper. Better than the coach at least.”
“I can ride,” Anne said.
Ian looked up to find her standing in the open door of the carriage, her breath creating a small white fog around her face. He thought about warning her that she would do better to stay inside and keep the cold out. No matter how well-constructed the vehicle might be, come nightfall it would be vastly uncomfortable, even with the rugs.
There were four horses. Ian briefly debated whether to send Anne off with the coachman. Given the rigors of the day, he was frustratingly sure of his own inability to stay astride for any distance at all. The cold and damp had already taken its toll, although he was loath to make that admission, even to himself.
Riding was another of the pleasures that had been taken from him when he had been wounded. And of course, it was one of the things he missed the most.
“I think we should do better to stay with the coach,” he said aloud, smiling at her as if this were simply a minor inconvenience. “It won’t take long for help to arrive, and the interior of the carriage offers protection from the cold which being on horseback won’t afford.”
“I assure you, Mr. Sinclair, the ride won’t make me ill. I believe I am made of sterner stuff than that,” Anne said, returning his smile.
Obviously she was, Ian thought. She hadn’t dissolved into a fit of vapors or made any complaint about the delay. For that he was eternally grateful. He had quite enough to deal with right now without adding hysteria to the mix. She would probably handle the ride with aplomb as well, despite the temperature.
That was not the reason he had opted to keep her with the coach. He was the problem. Not Anne.
He knew he could trust her to John Coachman’s care, if he sent her off on the third horse. However, if there were no suitable houses on the road and they had to seek shelter at a posting inn, Ian also knew he would be endangering her reputation and possibly even her physical safety. He couldn’t ask or expect his servants to guarantee either of those. As Anne’s guardian, that was his duty. And the demands of duty were something with which Ian Sinclair was very familiar.
“I think we’ll do better to wait here. And better not to allow the cold into the carriage,” he added.
Her eyes met his, widened a little, as quick color stole into her cheeks. She had interpreted that last as a rebuke.
Perhaps it had been, Ian admitted. Or maybe it had simply been the result of the deep ache in his leg that grew more painful each minute he stood in the middle of this infuriatingly empty road trying to decide what the hell to do with his ward. A young woman who had been thrust into his life by the very man—
“Of course,” Anne said.
She stepped back inside, closing the carriage door after her. Closing it hard enough that the entire vehicle shook. Ian heard and ignored the groom’s quickly muffled snort of laughter. Reluctantly, his own lips aligned themselves into a less grim aspect, and he met the coachman’s sympathetic eyes with resignation in his.
“I can’t manage the ride,” he confessed, finding the admission difficult to voice. “And I think that since I am Miss Darlington’s guardian, she should stay here with me. But it’s going to get damned cold when darkness falls, John, and that’s going to happen soon,” he judged, looking up through the snow at the lowering clouds. “Be as quick as you can, man.”
He pulled a small sack of coins out of the pocket of his cloak and opening it, spilled the contents into the palm of his leather glove. “If this is not enough, promise them the moon, but get someone out here before nightfall.”
“We won’t fail you, Mr. Sinclair,” the groom said.
“I’m counting on that,” Ian said, slapping him on the shoulder and smiling.
Major Sinclair had known very well how to get the best from his troops. This situation was little different. Lives depended on these two men accomplishing the task they’d been given as quickly as possible.
“We’ll get someone, sir,” John said. “You stay inside the coach, Mr. Sinclair, and you’ll both be right as rain. We’ll be back before you’ll even know we’re gone. Surely there’ll be a house within a couple of miles. And if not, there’ll a be posting inn only a few farther.”
Ian nodded, wishing he were half as confident as the coachman sounded. Of course, being able to take action always made one more positive about the outcome of any venture. Ian had an intimate if enforced acquaintance with prolonged inaction, however, and he would have to deal with it, just as he had for more than a year.
“Off with you then,” he said. “And good luck.”
He turned and limped back to the closed door of the coach, his lips lifting, despite their predicament, at the remembrance of the bang with which it had been shut. He resisted the urge to knock, opening the door instead and using his cane and the strength of his right arm to pull himself up the steps.
Thankfully, instead of watching that awkward maneuver, Anne Darlington was rather patently engaged in looking out the window on the opposite side of the carriage. Since there was nothing there but snow-covered trees and shrubs, their shapes darkened by the early-descending twilight, her concentration on the scenery likely had less to do with its attractions than with her anger or embarrassment over his supposed rebuke.
“They’re off,” he said, settling himself with gratitude on the seat.
He stretched out his leg, stifling the small groan the resulting relief evoked. Despite the fact that Anne had opened the carriage door for those few minutes, the interior was still far warmer than the frigid air outside. And they were sheltered from the wind.
He turned his head, studying her profile. She still hadn’t looked at him, and right now he felt as if her displeasure were a blessing. It had given him a few seconds to recover from the cold and the climb up into the carriage, as well as a chance to compose his features.
Just as he thought that, Anne turned, her eyes examining his face. As he watched, they seemed to change, the spark of temper fading to be replaced by an expression of sympathy. He found that he much preferred her anger to her pity.
“I’m sorry I opened the door,” she said. “I didn’t think that we might be forced to spend some hours in the coach.”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that. There will surely be some house nearby that can offer us shelter.”
“And if there isn’t?”
“They’ll bring a carriage from the nearest inn. It shouldn’t take long. I think we shall manage to keep warm enough in the meantime,” he said.
“And you? Are you going to be…”
The soft words faded. Perhaps his frustration was visible in his eyes. Or perhaps she read there his reluctance to discuss his health. In any case, she held his gaze only a second or two, and then she turned hers once more to the window, pretending to contemplate the rapidly darkening woods.
After a moment spent regretting his surge of anger and her resulting withdrawal, he turned his attention to the window on the other side. And twilight faded into night, as Ian Sinclair awaited the rescue he had confidently promised his ward.
The temperature had fallen with each passing minute, and Ian’s anxiety had risen proportionally. When he finally heard the muffled sound of horses’ hooves approaching on the snow-covered roadway, his relief was almost physical.
At least until he realized that’s all he had heard. No carriage. No sounds at all that might be interpreted as emanating from a coach or even a wagon. In the darkness, he heard Anne, who had been dozing off and on, begin to stir. Ian reached out, touching the rug that rested over her knees.
“Shh,” he cautioned, his ears straining to follow the noises outside, which were coming nearer and nearer.
Ian couldn’t have said what had first kindled his uneasiness. Perhaps because there had been no hail or salutation from John or the groom as they approached. Whatever the reasons for his apprehension, as the hoof-beats neared, it had gradually increased. Ian fumbled in the side pocket of the carriage, which held the ever-present traveler’s pistol.
Although highwaymen abounded on English highways, or at least tales of them did, Ian doubted this weapon had ever before been removed from its pouch. He could only hope that John had been diligent in making sure it was loaded and ready.
Despite that worry, Ian felt a swell of confidence as his fingers closed around the shape of the pistol. He hurriedly unwrapped it from the oilskin in which it was kept, the weight of it reassuringly the same as the one he had carried on the Peninsula. And he had always been accounted a good shot.
There had still been no shout of greeting, although the horses were now very close. And no talking at all, Ian realized. He eased nearer the door, turning his body to face it and laying the pistol in his lap, his right hand resting over it, although the darkness would certainly conceal that it was there.
With his left hand, he reached out and found Anne’s arm. Without speaking, he applied pressure, trying to signal her to move over behind him on the seat he occupied. If he could position her there, with his body between whoever was outside and hers, he could offer her even more protection than the pistol alone would afford. After all, he would have only one shot.
His every sense was trained on what was going on beyond that closed door. With the fall of night, Ian had pulled the shades down over the windows, hoping to keep out some of the pervasive chill. That was a move he now regretted.
There was a soft jingle of harness, quickly muted, probably by a gloved hand. Ian pulled Anne’s arm again, more urgently this time, and finally she understood, slipping silently onto his seat and pressing close behind him. He took a breath in relief.
As he did, the door he was facing was jerked open and a torch was thrust into the carriage. It came so close to his face that Ian felt a searing heat, and the sudden flare of light blinded him. He recoiled automatically, to escape both its brightness and the flame, which seemed directed at his head.
He felt Anne’s intake of breath against his spine, and he steeled himself, expecting her scream to follow. Apparently she was, as she had claimed, made of sterner stuff. George Darlington might have been a coward, but his daughter was not.
“What have we ’ere?” the voice behind the torch asked. “Lookee, mate. It seems we’ve got ourselves a couple of passengers in this ’ere deserted coach.”
As the man talked, Ian’s eyes gradually adjusted to the light and his face came into focus. The sight was not reassuring. Despite his years with His Majesty’s army, never noted for attracting the cream of the underclass to fill its ranks, Ian doubted he had ever seen a more villainous visage.
It was obvious by the man’s comment that there were at least two of them. Ian’s gaze flicked to the darkness beyond the blaze of the torch. He could barely make out another figure behind the one who was doing the talking. He could tell little about the second rider, however, and he quickly brought his attention back to the nearer of the two.
“And one of them’s a woman,” the torch holder said.
There had been a subtle shift in tone with the last word. The possibility of violence had been there since the door had been flung open without warning. Now the threat seemed more purposeful and more clearly directed. And Ian’s blood ran cold, lifting the hair on the back of his neck.
None of that fear was allowed to show in his features. They were as imperturbable as he had always determined they would be when facing battle. Then he had made sure of his control in order to give his men confidence that he knew what he was doing. Now he tried to use that same control as a form of intimidation.
“We are awaiting our outriders,” he said calmly. “They should be arriving at any moment.”
“Outriders?” the torch holder questioned, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. “We didn’t pass no out-riders.”
“Perhaps you came upon the coach from the opposite direction,” Ian suggested logically.
The snow-laden wind whipped in through the open door. The flame of the torch reacted to its rush by leaning inward, as if reaching toward the occupants of the carriage. The acrid smoke from the pitch-soaked rag, which had been wrapped around a broken branch, tainted the air around them.
“Mayhap we can fix whatever’s gone wrong with your vehicle,” the torch holder said. “Why don’t the two of you step out, and we’ll take a look.”
Ian debated the suggestion, but he could see no advantage to them in being outside. As it stood now, these two would have to go through him—and the pistol—to get to Anne. He could be rid of at least one of them by using the gun. He’d have to take his chances that he could knock the second one out with his fists, but thankfully control wasn’t the only thing Ian had learned in his years with the army.
Of course, there might be more than the two he could see. Which could present a problem to his schemes, he thought, fighting the urge to grin at his presumption of planning any kind of extended defense, given his very limited resources.
However, they couldn’t both rush him through the narrow opening the door presented. The pistol would take care of the first, and his fists the second, he reiterated mentally, preparing himself for that sequence of events.
He only regretted that while he had had the chance he hadn’t thought to instruct Anne to get out through the opposite door as soon as they made their move. Maybe she would be wise enough, or frightened enough, to do that anyway.
“Thank you for your kind offer,” he said aloud, those decisions having been reached in a matter of seconds, “but I’m afraid it is quite beyond repair. I’ve sent for another coach.”
“From the inn?”
The man in back spoke for the first time, drawing Ian’s attention to him again. There had been some nuance of amusement in that question, and Ian hesitated, wondering what these two knew about the inn. Obviously, if they even knew its location, they knew more than he did.
“From a friend’s house,” Ian lied. “He lives only a short distance away.”
“And what be your friend’s name?” Torchbearer probed.
“I can’t see how that could possibly be of any concern to you,” Ian said, injecting into his tone the freezing censure he had heard often in the voice of his father, the late earl.
“Don’t want her ladyship to get cold, now do we?” The man’s eyes slid past Ian to examine the girl he sheltered behind him.
“Then I suggest you close the door and be on your way,” Ian said. “Our friends will be arriving at any time.”
“Nobody on the road,” the man denied. “Maybe you ain’t telling the truth about what’s going on. Maybe you be carrying this young lady off from the loving bosom of her family. Maybe a little rescuing is in order ’ere. And I’m just the man to be doing it,” the nearer of the two boasted.
He started forward and Ian raised the pistol, both gloved hands wrapped around it, holding it steady, his finger on the trigger. He pointed the weapon directly at the man’s midsection, and the sight of it stopped his motion. Ian was thankful to see that the barrel didn’t waver, despite the cold.
“We don’t need you here,” Ian said. “I suggest the two of you remount and go about your business.”
“No call for the popper,” the man said, taking a step backward, away from the muzzle of the pistol. Some of Ian’s tension eased at his retreat. “We was just trying to help.”
“We don’t need your help. Be on your way. Both of you.”
The man’s eyes locked on his, holding there for perhaps half a minute. He was obviously trying to gauge Ian’s strength of purpose. Or his courage.
Ian resisted the urge to let his finger tighten around the trigger. Unfamiliar with the mechanism, he had no way of judging at what point it would discharge. Actually, he acknowledged, he had no way of knowing it would discharge at all. He blocked that possibility from his mind and concentrated instead on convincing the villain before him of his willingness to shoot.
“They had a fire at the inn,” the man said unexpectedly. “Could be a long time ’afore your servants get back.”
“I told you they have gone to borrow a coach from a friend.”
There was a sound from the other one, a noise suspiciously like the snort of amusement that had come from the groom when Anne had slammed the door. And suddenly, with that sound, everything fell into place.
These two, typical of those who frequented the public rooms of the scattered country inns, had probably overheard John or the groom asking about a carriage for hire. Obviously that request had been denied due to the unsettling effects of the fire or perhaps even because it had been the livery stable itself which had burned.
In any case, these scavengers must have heard enough to figure out the location of the stranded travelers on whose behalf his servants were inquiring. Or they had heard enough to know in what direction to search for the disabled coach. Then they had hurried here on horseback, beating the rescue party.
It was quite possible that they loitered at the posting inns, hoping for just such a situation. Ian wondered how many other travelers had fallen prey to their schemes.
“We’ll be on our way then,” the man with the torch said. “Since you won’t be needing our services.”
His eyes again shifted to Anne. He smiled at her, revealing the blackened hole of a missing front tooth, before he stepped back, lowering the torch. He began walking toward the horses and his companion, the wavering light he carried revealing both as Ian watched from the still-opened door of the carriage.
Just before he reached his mount, the leader threw the torch into the side of the roadbed. The flaming arc it made through the night drew Ian’s eyes. Unconsciously they followed its flight and landing. The fire sputtered and sizzled a moment in the snow before it went out, plunging the area into darkness.
Ian’s gaze refocused quickly on the place where the two men had been standing just before the scene had faded into the surrounding black. As he waited for his vision to adjust, he strained to keep track, by sound alone, of what they were doing.
There was almost no noise, however. At least none he could follow. Gradually his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, other than what little moonlight found its way through the obscuring clouds. The horses were still there, exactly as they had been before the torch had been extinguished, but the two men had vanished as if they had never existed.
Ian turned on the seat, throwing his left arm in front of Anne and pulling her toward him. He shoved her behind his left shoulder. As he did, the two movements simultaneous, he brought the pistol around, pointing it at the rear door of the carriage.
He wasn’t disappointed. The door burst open and something came hurtling through it from the outer darkness. Ian delayed for half a second, unsure whether this was something the two had thrown into the carriage to make him fire. He was well aware that he had only one shot. And then, judging the bulk of the object to be man-sized, he knew he couldn’t take the chance that it was not one of the scavengers.
He squeezed the trigger, and the noise of the shot filled the coach, along with a smell as acrid as that from the make-shift torch. He had time to think that he couldn’t possibly have missed at that range before a body sprawled across his knees. He pushed the man to the floor with the hand that still held the empty pistol, just as another shape scrambled into the opening. It was the second man, who had a hand on either side of the frame of the door to pull himself in.
Ian reversed the pistol, holding it by the barrel and using the wooden stock to strike at the man climbing into the coach. The second highwayman put up his forearm, deflecting Ian’s blow, which had been aimed at his head.
Ian felt Anne begin to struggle beside him, but it took him too long to understand what was happening. The intruder wasn’t concerned with entering the coach. He had instead gripped Anne’s arm and was pulling her toward the open door.
Ian tried to get to his feet, hampered by the body on the floor and by his damaged leg, which had stiffened from the cold and an hours-long inactivity. Although he managed to lurch upward, the leg gave way, spilling him onto his knees on top of the body of the intruder, which had fallen between the two seats.
“Let me go,” Anne demanded, her small fists rising and falling as she flailed at the man who held her. Although she was struggling fiercely, she was being drawn inexorably to the door.
Ian reached for her and caught the sleeve of her coat between his fingers. Either they, too, were numb with the cold or his purchase had not been secure. The fabric was ripped from his hand as Anne was pulled forward and out of the coach.
He heard her outcry when she hit the ground. Whether it was an expression of pain or of fear, Ian couldn’t be certain, but the thought that the bastard might have hurt her infuriated him.
Discarding the useless pistol, Ian pushed himself upright. He lunged forward, stepping on the dead man. He stood poised a moment in the doorway of the coach, trying to decide which of the forms on the ground below, starkly highlighted against the white snow, was Anne’s. Then a foam of a pale petticoat amid the dark material of the girl’s skirt settled the question.
Knowing that his mobility was going to be limited no matter what he did, Ian simply dove out of the door on top of the man who was attempting to drag Anne to her feet and into the woods. A grunt of surprise and a whoosh of expelled breath as the man hit the ground indicated the accuracy of Ian’s landing. It also jarred every place in his body where a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself more than a year ago and especially those places where bits of metal still lodged deep in muscle and bone.
Now or never, Ian thought, ignoring the agony. He used the advantage of shock and his superior position to begin pounding the man’s head with his fists. The leather gloves he wore offered some protection, but his hands were so cold that each blow felt as if it might shatter his knuckles. He could only hope that the bones of the man writhing in the snow beneath him were experiencing that same punishment.
His opponent somehow managed to get his legs up. He fitted his knees under Ian’s stomach and threw him off. The blow to Ian’s midsection, which still harbored one of the fragments the surgeons had deemed too risky to remove, was nauseating.
Now he was no longer the one in the superior position. No longer the one raining blows on his opponent’s head. Ian put his arms and his hands up, protecting his face as well as he could, as he simply endured the onslaught of pain.
The other man fought with the brutal tenacity of a street brawler, which was undoubtedly where he had acquired his skills. Ian could smell him, a rank, fetid miasma of perspiration that surrounded him despite the bite of the cold, fresh air.
Finally Ian managed to jam his elbow into his opponent’s throat. The move was accomplished more by luck than design, but it distracted those punishing fists for a heartbeat, as the man raised both hands to grab at his injured windpipe.
Ian rolled to the side to free himself of his opponent’s hampering weight. The maneuver was at least partially successful. Then the ex-soldier attempted to take advantage of that success by putting his knee on the ground and pushing himself upright. Instead, his knee slid sideways in the snow, throwing him forward. His forehead met that of his opponent, who was at that instant attempting to sit up. The force of the hard contact between their skulls was enough to thin the air around Ian’s head, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.
He fought the surging blackness, using his hands to hold himself off the ground. Moving as uncertainly as a drunkard, he pushed his body up, swaying on his hands and knees over his equally stunned assailant. Then, with every ounce of strength he possessed, he pushed off the ground and staggered to his feet. He pulled draught after draught of icy air into his aching lungs.
However, the man on the ground also seemed to be recovering from the blow to his head. He, too, began to struggle to his feet. Unlike Ian, however, he didn’t make it. There was a crack of sound, like a rotten branch makes when it breaks under an accumulation of snow, and he fell back as if he’d been pole-axed.
Not sure what had happened, Ian lifted his head and found his ward standing like an avenging angel over the fallen man. She held a piece of deadfall, and it was obvious by her posture that she had swung it like a club against the villain’s head.
“I’m sorry that took so long,” she said apologetically, “but you were too close to allow me to strike before. I was afraid I would hit you instead of him.”
She was apologizing, Ian realized. Apologizing that she hadn’t defeated his opponent more quickly. He laughed, unsure whether that laughter was born of relief, admiration or sheer giddiness. The sharp sting that it caused in his cut lip, however, cleared his head, and he began to understand the debt he owed Anne Darlington. He couldn’t imagine another woman of his acquaintance having the courage to do what she had just done.
Anne’s eyes had fallen once more to the man on the ground, who appeared to be still unconscious. Apparently reassured, she looked up again at Ian, as she lowered the broken limb.
“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
Despite the darkness, Ian could see how pale she was, her fair skin drained of color. Tendrils of damp red hair hung about her face or were plastered to it by the snow. Her clothing was undoubtedly as wet as his own, Ian realized, feeling for the first time the cold moisture seeping through his sodden greatcoat and soaking the garments beneath it.
Unable to find breath with which to answer the question he should have been asking her, he nodded. He was beginning to believe he really was all right, despite the exertions of the fight. And then, with an unexpectedness that was shocking, his knees gave way. He fell on them to the ground, reaching out just in time to catch himself with his hand. Ian watched his glove sink into the slush and then begin to slide forward, leaving a shallow trough to mark its passage.
He was almost disinterested in the process, although on some level he knew that he was about to end up face-down in the snow. He wondered idly if he were dying. Suddenly a pair of strong young arms slipped around his midsection. Steadying him. Virtually holding him up. Still on his hands and knees, he turned his head and looked into Anne Darlington’s eyes.
“I’m all right,” he said, lying through his teeth.
He looked back down at the ground, watching blood drip onto the snow, staining its white with pink. He closed his eyes, not because the sight bothered him, but in order to will strength back into his body. Every inch of it ached, which was probably why he had no idea where that slow drip of blood was coming from.
“Let me help you up,” Anne offered.
He opened his eyes, turning his head again to face her. Obediently, he pushed against the ground, and with her aid managed to get to his knees. And knew with stunning clarity that he wasn’t going any farther. Not for a while.
“If I could rest a moment…” he suggested, still breathing through his mouth, trying to assess the severity of his injuries, all of which were making themselves heard in a disharmonious clamor of pain.
“Of course,” she said.
He swayed slightly, and felt her arms tighten comfortingly around him. She was very close, her body pressed against his. There was no false modesty in the way she held him. And no more embarrassment than Dare or his valet might have felt in offering him their help.
Ian closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean against her strength. He was infinitely grateful for it, as improper as what they were doing might seem to anyone else. They had been through a terrifying experience, and she was, after all, his ward.
She is also a woman. A very desirable woman.
The thought was shocking, given that until he had seen her brandishing that branch, he had been thinking of Anne only as George Darlington’s daughter. As a school-girl. She might be the former, but despite the circumstances in which he had discovered her, she was definitely not the latter. Unbelievably, his battered body was forcibly reminding him of that.
It had been a long time since Ian Sinclair had held, or been held, by a woman. And a very long time, therefore, since he had felt this rush of pure physical reaction. It unnerved him, not only because it was so unexpected, but because of its intensity.
And because, of course, that of all the women to whom he might legitimately have felt such an attraction, Anne Darlington was the most forbidden. She was his ward, given into his care by her father. Even if it had been without Ian’s consent.
And other than that consideration, Ian was the last man on earth who might make any claim on Anne Darlington. The least suitable man she would ever meet to offer her his heart or his hand.
Since he could not in honor ever do either of those things, he had no right to touch her, even in a situation that had begun as innocently as this one. And so, despite the lingering weakness, Ian put his arm over Anne’s slender shoulders, and again relying her strength, struggled to his feet.
As soon as he had, he stepped away from her embrace, creating the necessary distance between them. A distance he had never anticipated crossing.
“Thank you,” he said.
Nothing of what he had felt during those brief moments they had knelt together was revealed in his eyes or in his voice. And again, he had reason to be grateful for the control he had learned on the Peninsula, as well as for the lessons of duty and honor.
What had just happened would be forgotten, the memory of it destroyed by his determination to destroy it. And by his determination to carry out the responsibility he had been given.
The responsibility of finding Anne Darlington a husband. And that man could never, of course, be Ian Sinclair.

Chapter Three
“Amazing how quickly it can strike, even in the best of families,” a deep voice ventured lazily.
Ian had opened his eyes, and became aware of his surroundings for almost the first time in six fever-ridden days. Hearing that sarcastic comment from the man sitting beside his bed, he fought the urge to shut them again and pretend delirium.
“Insanity, I mean,” the Earl of Dare added, closing the leather-bound volume he had obviously been reading from as Ian slept.
Despite the way he felt, Ian’s mouth lifted into a reluctant smile, which was quickly answered by his brother’s.
“How do you feel?” Dare asked.
“Foolish,” Ian said, surprised to find how much effort was required to form that one-word answer.
“As you bloody well should. Whatever made you think you could go tearing off across the country—”
Ian raised his hand, its palm toward the earl, putting an end to that pointless castigation. After a moment, he let it fall to the counterpane, but his eyes held on Dare’s, which, below the outrage, were filled with concern.
“No lectures, I beg you,” Ian said.
“I’m to let you kill yourself at your leisure, I suppose.”
“Hardy a fitting argument coming from you.”
“The risks I took were always for a good cause,” Dare said. “This, however…” The earl shook his head, his expression rich with disgust.
“I trust you will at least admit I had no reason to expect a broken axle or an attack by highwaymen,” Ian said.
“It’s your sanity in undertaking the journey I question. As well as your sanity in undertaking this so-called guardianship.”
“I see Williams has been talking.”
“Everyone from the groom up has been talking, mostly about your gallant and heroic rescue of your new ward.”
The final word was full of sarcasm, and given what he had felt that night, Ian wasn’t sure it was misplaced. He ignored Dare’s tone, however, choosing to reply only to the rest of his brother’s statement.
“I fell out of the coach on top of the bastard. Hardly a gallant rescue.”
“Your admirers disagree. As I’m sure will your dear charge.”
“My dear charge, as you call her, knocked her attacker out with a well-aimed blow to the head. If anyone deserves accolades for that fiasco, it is she.”
“A well-aimed blow to the head? How charming,” the earl said sarcastically.
“She is charming. Have you met her?” Ian asked.
“Darlington’s brat.” Dare fairly spat the words. “For that coward to have foisted his daughter on you is beyond enough. He must be laughing his head off in Hell. What I can’t understand is why in the world you accepted the responsibility?”
“Those were the terms of his will. What would you have done?”
“I should have paid her fees for the next thirty years and left her in that school where Darlington had her safely hidden away.”
“She’s nineteen, Val. Nearly twenty. And she’s been in that school almost her entire life.”
“And what is that to you?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” Ian said, almost too tired to deal with his brother’s caustic tongue, even though he understood Dare had only his best interests at heart.
“You are too noble for your own good,” the earl said.
“Noble?” Ian repeated, surprised into laughter, which resulted in a prolonged fit of coughing.
After a moment, Dare got up from his chair and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table beside the bed. Then he sat down on the edge of the mattress and lifted his brother’s shoulders to place the rim of the tumbler against his lips. Ian drank the water gratefully and finally the coughing subsided, leaving only a burning ache in his chest to remind him of the danger of responding to his brother’s compliments in the manner he usually employed.
“You could have told the solicitor no,” Dare said, lowering him to rest again against the pillows.
“I thought she was a child. I was imagining a lonely little girl, forced to spend Christmas in a deserted boarding school.”
“And when you saw her?”
A more difficult question, Ian admitted. With a more complicated answer—especially after the events of that journey. He might admit the answer to his own conscience, but he would certainly not offer it for his brother’s consideration.
“Her headmistress suggested that it’s my responsibility to find her a suitable husband,” he said instead.
Dare’s lips pursed, and then he stood, putting the glass back on the table before he looked down on his brother again. “And how do you intend to go about that? Anyone who served with you knows what Darlington did. None of your friends will even be civil to the girl.”
“Including you?” Ian asked. “Rather Old Testament, Val.”
“Good God, you don’t anticipate that I should have to meet her, do you?”
“Like it or not, she is my ward,” Ian said simply. “You are my brother, and the head of this family. I don’t see how you should avoid meeting her.”
“I shall avoid it by the simple expedient of refusing to meet the daughter of the coward who almost cost my brother his life.”
“She doesn’t know any of that,” Ian said.
“And you don’t intend to tell her,” Dare guessed.
“Would you?”
The silence stretched a moment, and finally, Dare turned away from the bed and seated himself again in the chair. “Then what do you intend to do?” he asked. Both the sarcasm and the anger had been wiped from his voice.
“I intend to find her a suitable husband.”
“Does she have any assets that make her marriageable?”
Ian thought about the girl he had brought back from the north, picturing her in his mind’s eye. And as he did so, he attempted to divorce his unexpected and highly improper physical response from his judgment.
There was no doubt she was lovely and unspoiled. Unsophisticated as well, he acknowledged. And courageous beyond any woman he had ever known, with the possible exception of Dare’s Elizabeth. Having avoided London society for the last few years, Ian wasn’t sure, however, if any of those qualities, other than the first, would be considered an advantage there.
“Ian?” Dare prompted.
“Money, do you mean? Very little, I would imagine. The solicitor is still investigating the estate, but whatever Darlington had he usually gambled away.”
“Looks?”
“She’s…pleasant enough, I suppose,” Ian said carefully, remembering that pale face in the moonlight, framed by strands of bedraggled hair. He had thought her incredibly beautiful at that moment, but then she had just saved his life, so he supposed he could not be considered entirely unbiased. “I’m not sure what type of beauty is currently in vogue.”
“And what type does she possess?” Dare asked, his voice for the first time holding the familiar amusement with which he normally confronted the vagaries of life.
“She’s tall. And rather slender. Her hair is…auburn.” At the last second, Ian had avoided his original choice of words. As out of touch with the beau monde as he might be, even he knew that redheads had not managed to take the town by storm in his absence.
“Her eyes are fine. Very speaking,” he finished lamely, meeting the earl’s equally fine eyes, which were, without any doubt, also speaking. And Ian wasn’t entirely sure he liked what they were saying.
“Good luck,” Dare said.
“I shall need more than luck, Val. I shall need your help,” Ian said doggedly.
This was not a duty he had sought, nor one he wanted, but he could not fault the girl for her father’s sins. He knew the narrow world to which they both belonged would, however, if that story got out. It was a world whose membership was determined strictly by birth, which Anne Darlington did possess. And it seemed that might be the only attribute she could claim that would have any meaning there.
“My help to do what?” Dare asked, the amusement gone. “Surely you don’t mean my help to find her a husband?”
“To launch her into society, at least. I promised her headmistress she should have her chance.”
“You promised her headmistress,” his brother repeated disbelievingly.
“She should have her chance to make a proper marriage, one commensurate with her birth. And the only place that may be accomplished quickly, and at this late date, is in London.”
“The Season.”
“Of course,” Ian said.
“And what do you believe I can do for her there?”
Again there was silence in the room. By virtue of her own birth and title, Dare’s countess certainly belonged to the world of the haute monde. Normally it would have been under her auspices that any young woman sponsored by the Sinclair family should be brought out.
However, the Countess of Dare had forfeited her social standing in a cause as noble as the one her husband had undertaken. A cause which had cost Elizabeth her reputation. And the scandal that had erupted within the ton when Dare married her had not yet died down.
“If you are determined to embark on this venture, you may have the London house, of course,” Dare said, apparently answering his own question. “And whatever funds you have need of, if only to get her off your hands.”
“I don’t want your money,” Ian said, “but I’ll accept the offer of the town house. If you are serious.”
“I am never serious,” Dare denied, “but you are very welcome to the house. Remember, however, that by using it, you may face guilt by association. Association with Elizabeth and me,” he added, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
“I consider myself honored by that association.”
“They won’t,” Dare said bluntly.
“You have seldom cared what ‘they’ think. Why begin now?”
“Wait until next year,” the earl advised, ignoring the comment. “By then, the scandal will have died down. And perhaps…” He hesitated.
“And perhaps I won’t be such a crock,” Ian finished the unspoken thought, smiling up into his brother’s eyes, which had suddenly become far too serious to suit him.
“What can it hurt to wait?”
“Miss Darlington will be twenty by the time this Season begins. Her age will be a strike against her, of course, and if I wait another year…”
Again Dare’s lips pursed. “We could buy her a husband.”
Ian laughed, relieved to believe Dare’s good humor had been restored. “Except she has no fortune.”
“I’d be willing to dangle enough money to interest some worthy cit. Or even a needy younger son.”
“I think she should probably prefer to choose a husband for herself,” Ian said, remembering that flash of temper in Anne’s brown eyes. Speaking, indeed, he thought, amused by the memory.
Dare laughed. “Have you been talking to Elizabeth by any chance?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“My wife has some rather interesting notions about the marriage mart. You must ask her about them sometime,” Dare said, his smile lingering.
There was something in the earl’s eyes that created an unexpected frisson of envy in his younger brother, who had never before envied Dare any of the things he possessed by virtue of his earlier birth.
“I shall, if you wish,” Ian said. “Is Elizabeth with you?”
“I didn’t trust the roads.”
“I wish I had been as wise,” Ian said, and was glad when Dare was kind enough not to comment again on that ill-advised journey north.
“So you want to arrange a suitable marriage for Darlington’s brat and make it a love match,” the earl said. “Why don’t you arrange for the defeat of the French while you’re at it?”
Not a kindness, then, Ian thought, but simply an attack from the flank. “You think it’s an impossibility?”
“If her father’s actions become known. Especially since he named you as her guardian.”
“No official inquiry was ever held,” Ian said, trying to reassure himself that this would not become a cause célèbre. “An officer can’t be charged on the basis of how he should have behaved in an action. Only if he failed to obey a direct order, which was not the case. Besides, most of the men who knew about Darlington’s cowardice are either dead or are still fighting in Portugal. And perhaps the fact that I am now Anne’s guardian will quell any gossip that might reach London. At least until she has had an opportunity to make a suitable match.”
“An improbability, then,” Dare amended. “Considering that she has no fortune and nothing to recommend her beyond red hair and, I believe the phrase was, speaking eyes.”
“I didn’t say she has nothing to recommend her.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve had enough of that sort thrown at my head through the years.”
“She isn’t ‘that sort,”’ Ian denied, with perhaps too much emotion.
He realized his mistake as soon as he saw his brother’s face. Dare knew him too well not to have noticed that unaccustomed vehemence. The earl’s head cocked slightly and one dark brow lifted in question.
“I see,” he said softly. A small twitch, quickly controlled, tugged at the corner of his lips. His tone, when he spoke again, was briskly impersonal, however. “If you are determined on this, then I shall have them make the town house ready. And you’ll need the name of a good dressmaker. I can recommend someone if you wish.”
“Of course I wish. I shall need all the help you and Elizabeth are willing to offer. And Val,” Ian added, “don’t be angry that I feel I must do this.”
“Angry with you?” Dare asked. “I am never angry with my brothers. That’s your office. But if you let anything happen to you, my noble pigheaded gallant, while you are trying to find the perfect husband for this bothersome girl, I promise you I shall strangle her and her headmistress. And then I shall seek Darlington out in Hell to have a go at him.”
“I believe you would at that,” Ian said, laughing again, despite his resolve not to let Dare provoke him.
The coughing the laughter produced this time was thankfully of shorter duration. And when it was over, he looked up to find Dare’s blue eyes focused on his face, their customary amusement again missing.
“I would go to Hell to prevent your suffering any more than you already have. And I swear, Ian, if you let this chit hurt you, she’ll be sorry Darlington ever produced her.”
“Hurt me?” Ian repeated in bewilderment. Dare could not possibly be aware of what he had felt as Anne had knelt beside him in the snow that night.
“Dealing with her has already put you in bed for a week.”
“You can hardly blame her for that.”
“No, nor for that harebrained journey north in the midst of a snowstorm. That was your fault.”
“It wasn’t snowing when we set out,” Ian said, smiling. “And John brought help as quickly as he could, despite the stable fire. Nothing that happened was her fault. It was simply a combination of unfortunate events.”
“And somehow I have a feeling you are about to embark upon another series of those.”
“I?” Ian asked in astonishment. “I assure you, Val, my life is most circumspect. By necessity, perhaps, but I’m beginning to consider the possibility that I am simply boring by nature.”
“Good,” Dare said. “Until your health is fully restored, I intend to see that you continue to be thoroughly bored. And boring. Now, go back to sleep,” he ordered, picking up his book.
And after four or five minutes of watching Dare studiously pretend to read the same page, Ian felt his eyelids begin to droop. He briefly fought their heaviness, and then finally succumbed to the lure of a world where there were no worries or concerns. Particularly no concerns about a lively redhead, whose assets in the husband hunt were as meager as Dare had suggested.
He would deal with that when he had to, Ian decided, just before he drifted back into the invalid’s world of exhausted sleep.
“Believe me, Mr. Sinclair, I truly wish I could disagree with the opinions of your surgeons. I’m afraid, sir, I must concur with what you were told on the Peninsula. Your lungs were irreparably damaged. They will always be prone to infections. That, in and of itself, however…”
“It is the ‘however’ that concerns you,” Ian Sinclair said.
While he was again being prodded and poked, this time by the man many considered to be the finest physician in England, he had determined that whatever the outcome, this would put an end to it. Whatever McKinley told him, he would accept. And he would live his life, whatever remained of it, exactly as he had lived it before—to the best of his ability.
“The largest piece of shrapnel within your chest is indeed, given its location, impossible to remove. The attempt would kill you outright. Frankly, I can’t understand why it didn’t kill you immediately when you were hit,” McKinley said. “However, if there is anything I have learned through the years, it is that the human body is a remarkable instrument, frequently quite capable of healing itself. If we doctors could let well enough alone,” the physician added, smiling.
Ian returned the smile, recognizing what the Scottish-trained doctor was trying to do. And it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the effort. It was simply that he preferred his truths unvarnished. Even if the varnishing was intended to make them more palatable.
“Are you suggesting that if we leave it where it is…” Ian began cautiously, knowing this was the only question that mattered. For reasons he chose not to examine right now, it seemed to matter more than it had when he had first been given this same diagnosis more than a year ago.
“It may stay in place for the next forty years, and if it does, you will die an old man, peacefully in your own bed. Or it may shift tomorrow and pierce your heart. In that case…”
He paused, and Ian finished it for him. “In that case, I won’t die an old man, peacefully or otherwise.”
McKinley let the silence build a moment, but he didn’t deny the truth of what his patient had said.
“I should advise you to avoid the kind of physical exertion you recently engaged in. That may not be the life you would have chosen for yourself, Mr. Sinclair, but it is life,” the doctor said. “And much preferable to the alternative, I should think.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Ian said, fighting the disappointment of a ridiculous hope he hadn’t even realized he had been harboring.
“I take it your brother doesn’t know.”
“I prefer that he never does. What good would it do?”
“He is very anxious about you. Since you have not told him the truth, he quite naturally feels that your convalescence has been unnecessarily slow.”
“And no doubt certain that your well-known skills could remedy the situation.”
“I would that they could, Mr. Sinclair,” McKinley said.
“So do I,” Ian admitted with a smile. “However, since they can’t…And not one of us is guaranteed even one more day, of course. That is a lesson I saw demonstrated quite effectively in Portugal. I have simply received notice to live each of mine as well as I can.”
“I have no doubt that you will. What do you wish me to tell the earl?”
“That he isn’t rid of me yet,” Ian said. “It is, after all, nothing less than the truth.”
“I’m sure he’ll be relieved,” McKinley said. And then, as his patient reached for the bell on the table beside the bed, “Don’t bother the servants. I can see myself back to the parlor. If you have need of my services in the future, do not hesitate to send for me.”
As the door closed behind the physician, the eyes of Ian Sinclair focused on the fine plaster ceiling above his head. The verdict had been nothing he hadn’t known, he told himself.
There were things in his life he regretted, but the actions that had led to his being wounded were not among them. And he would therefore deal with the consequences of them without complaint. It was better, however, that he deal with them alone. He had always known that. Better for him. And much better for his family.

Chapter Four
It had been a very lonely Christmas, Anne thought on the bleak, snowy morning following that equally bleak holiday. Whatever Ian Sinclair had intended when he had brought her to his home, she must believe it had not been this.
Of course, there had been a formal Yuletide dinner last night, which had included all the traditional dishes of the season and which she had eaten in solitary splendor in the dining room. The whole house was decorated quite beyond anything she was accustomed to at Fenton School.
What she was unaccustomed to, however, and the lack of which she had felt most severely, was companionship. She missed the girls. She missed taking care of the younger ones and she had worried about them. She also missed having someone to talk to and with whom to share games and cherished holiday pastimes.
If, as her guardian had indicated, his servants had been looking forward to providing a festive Yuletide celebration for his ward, Anne had not, during the long, lonely days she had spent in his home, been able to detect any sign of that intent. They had probably been disappointed that she was not the child they expected. And it was apparent they held her responsible for Mr. Sinclair’s illness. She didn’t blame them. She, too, considered his condition to be her fault.
The doctor, identifiable by his bag, had come and gone several times during the past eight days. From her bedroom window, worried and anxious about the cause of each visit, she had watched him arrive and depart. And her new guardian’s older brother, the Earl of Dare, had stayed for several days before finally departing this morning.
Neither of them had spoken to her, of course, although she was perhaps the person most in need of information. After all, no one doubted that Mr. Sinclair had been made ill as a direct result of his rescue of her. A rescue that must surely satisfy every longing for adventure she had ever felt.
A longing she would never feel again, Anne vowed. She saw, thankfully only in memory now, the face of the man with the torch, missing tooth revealed by that ghastly, leering smile, and she shivered. And if it hadn’t been for Ian…
For Mr. Sinclair, she corrected. It would not do to presume, even in her thoughts, which had centered, almost exclusively, throughout these long days and nights, around her guardian. And some of those thoughts—
There was a discreet knock on the door, and Anne scrambled off the high bed across which she had been sprawled in unladylike abandon. She straightened her dress and then her hair, tucking in tendrils before she hurried across the room. She even bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to give them some color.
It was not until she was halfway to the door that she realized this visitor could not possibly be her guardian. And she couldn’t imagine for whomever else in this household she might be concerned about her looks. The acknowledgment that she would wish to appear attractive before Ian Sinclair was a clear affirmation that she had spent too much time daydreaming about him in the last few days, she told herself sternly.
She opened the door and was confronted by the disapproving features of Mrs. Martin, the Sinclair family housekeeper. Unfamiliar with the protocol governing the servants in such a large house, Anne wasn’t sure if she should invite the woman in or converse with her standing in the hall.
“Mr. Sinclair wishes to see you, miss. Mind you now, no matter what he says, I won’t have you tiring him out,” the housekeeper warned. “Ten minutes and no more. You understand?”
“Has he been so very ill?” Anne asked, the fear she had lived with through these lonely days rising to block her throat.
“Mr. Sinclair allows no discussion of his health. Those of us who wish to keep our positions in his household learned that long ago. Something for you to remember,” Mrs. Martin added.
The housekeeper turned and bustled forward with an important jingle of keys, passing door after door along the long hallway. Anne followed, wondering exactly what her warning had been meant to convey. That if Anne mentioned Mr. Sinclair’s health, she would be sent back to Fenton School?
An idle threat, considering that during the past week she had pined for its safe familiarity. She regretted the thought as soon as it formed. Whatever Mrs. Martin meant, Mr. Sinclair had risked his life to save hers. And at last, it seemed she would have the opportunity to tell him how grateful she was.
Finally the housekeeper stopped before one of the doors. She leaned her ear against it for a moment before she straightened and knocked.
“Come in,” someone instructed.
Anne couldn’t tell if it had been her guardian’s voice, but she wasn’t given much time to wonder. Mrs. Martin opened the door and indicated with her hand that Anne should step inside.
Only when she had did Anne realize that the housekeeper wasn’t coming in with her. She started to protest, just as the housekeeper stepped away from the door she had opened and started down the hall. Anne drew a fortifying breath and then looked back toward the room she had just entered.
Ian Sinclair was seated in a comfortable chair before the cheerful fire. He was fully dressed, as elegant as the first time she had seen him. Expecting an invalid, perhaps even a dying one, Anne could not have been more surprised had she entered the room and found one of the men who had attacked them that night holding court.
“I understand you have been ill,” she said, walking forward.
There was a small, uncomfortable silence.
“And I wonder who told you that?” her guardian asked.
He sounded as if he really wanted to know. Remembering Mrs. Martin’s warning, Anne understood why. And despite the servants’ coldness, she had no wish to get any of them into trouble.
“After several years of looking after the younger girls, my powers of deduction are well-honed,” she said. “You disappeared the night we arrived, and I haven’t seen you since. In that time, both a physician and your brother have come to the house, the former on several occasions and the latter for a visit of some days. It seemed rather obvious.”
“I’m sure none of your charges were ever able to put anything over on you,” Mr. Sinclair said, laughing.
And then his laughter became hard coughing. Lucy Bates had died last year of such a cough. Of course, Lucy had never been very strong to begin with, Anne reminded herself, remembering the fragile little girl, whose arms and legs had been more like sticks than like the sturdy, rounded limbs of most of her girls.
And just because something terrible had happened to Lucy Bates didn’t mean anything terrible would happen to Mr. Sinclair. She could not, however, control the surge of anxiety as she listened to the deep congestion the cough revealed.
“Are you all right?” she asked finally as it faded.
“Of course,” he said.
His hand was pressed against the center of his chest. However, since Mr. Sinclair preferred it, Anne gave in to the pretense that what had just happened had not happened and that he had not really been very ill at all.
“I have wanted to thank you since that night,” she began, determined to say all the things she should have said then and had not had the chance to say since.
“I truly wish you would not.”
“I owe you my life, Mr. Sinclair. Or at least…”
She almost said my virtue, but then thought that the expression of that reality might be improper. Although she had had a sheltered upbringing, there had been no doubt in her mind about the kind of danger she had faced.
“You owe me nothing of the kind,” he said into her pause. “Quite the reverse, I believe. If you hadn’t taken a hand, the outcome might have been very different. You had an uncomfortable journey and a dangerous encounter with a couple of rogues you should never have been exposed to. On top of that you have spent a lonely holiday in a house full of strangers. I can only promise you that was not my intent and apologize profusely.”
“I am not to express my gratitude for your rescue, and yet you may apologize for a series of things that were not your fault and were undoubtedly beyond your control?”
“As your guardian, I should never have put you in the position of having to be rescued, either from rogues or a broken axle or a snowstorm.”
“And if you had not, I should probably never in my life have seen the outside of Fenton School,” she retorted.
“I take it, then,” he said, smiling at her, genuinely relieved, she realized, “that your experiences have not all been unpleasant.”
The memory of her arms wrapped around his body while they knelt together in the snow brushed through her mind. She supposed that was not the kind of experience Mr. Sinclair meant.
“Indeed they have not. Your home is very lovely.”
“And the servants have seen to your needs?”
Except for the need of company, she thought, but she didn’t say that, either. If he could be gracious, despite his illness, then surely she could manage not to mention that she had indeed been both bored and lonely in his home.
“Yes, thank you. I have been very well looked after.”
“And yesterday was Christmas Day,” he said, his voice regretful. “I’m afraid I didn’t even have an opportunity to shop for a present, but I do have a surprise for you which I hope will help in some way to make up for that lack.”
“A surprise?” she echoed hesitantly. Surprise?
“As you know, most young women your age have already been introduced into society. Since your father was away with the army, I understand you have not yet been formally brought out.”
“Brought out?” Anne repeated, bewildered by the introduction of this topic. Surely, he didn’t mean…
“In London,” Mr. Sinclair clarified.
Anne swallowed, allowing the images that the very name of the capital evoked to fill her head. Provincial she might be, but even the girls at Fenton School knew about the famed London Season. Several of them had been quite confident of the opportunities that would be afforded them by that experience. And confident that it was in their near future, as soon as their schooling was complete.
Anne had listened to their talk with idle interest, knowing her father would never go to the trouble or expense of arranging for her own coming out. And as far as she was aware, she had no relatives who might be called upon to shoulder that burden.
She had put the possibility from her mind years ago, quite content with the direction of her life. And when Mrs. Kemp had talked about the wonderful opportunities that were opening up for her, this was one which had never even occurred to her.
“The Season starts in a few months,” Ian continued. “I’m afraid there is a great deal of preparation required if we are to be ready in time.”
The Season. The words seemed to reverberate inside Anne’s head, almost blocking the rest of his words.
“Mr. Sinclair, I assure you that I have no desire to be brought out. I am quite content—”
“I believe it would have been your father’s wish, Miss Darlington. After all, it is only what is expected for a young woman of your class. I know it is Mrs. Kemp’s wish. She was quite clear on that score. And I have promised her that as your guardian, I should see to it that you were given this advantage.”
Anne drew breath, preparing to again refuse, before she remembered her own promise to the headmistress. Headstrong or not, I shall endeavor to do whatever Mr. Sinclair thinks is best. She, too, had given her word.
And after all, she would spend the rest of her life at Fenton School. Although she was truly not interested in being presented to society, she was also not sure she was ready to return forever to the only world she had really ever known.
Actually, Anne admitted, she was suddenly reluctant to leave Sinclair Hall, despite the loneliness of the days she had spent here. After all, now that Mr. Sinclair was recovered—
“My brother, who has excellent taste,” her guardian continued, interrupting that foolish notion, “has recommended a modiste. On his advice I have sent for her to come here and make the preliminary measurements for your gowns. Of course, we shall be in London in time for the fittings.”
“In London for the Season,” Anne said faintly, feeling more and more as if she had wandered into some bizarre dream. “We are going to London?”
“Within the month,” he said, smiling at her again, “if you are willing to trust me to convey you safely there, considering your first unfortunate journey under my guardianship. I promise to take better care of you in the future.”
She truly doubted anyone could have taken better care of her that terrible night than he had. And he had done so at a cost to himself that he would not even acknowledge. Or allow her to.
“I would trust you with my life, Mr. Sinclair,” she said.
And watched his eyes change again, the gentle teasing fading from them as they held a long heartbeat on hers. For the first time since she had entered the room, self-absorbed with what she wanted to say, she allowed herself to study his face.
If one looked past the rather obvious effects of the fight, which included a fading bruise around his right eye, and an almost healed gash along his left cheekbone, the marks of his recent illness were there as well. And according to Mrs. Martin, that was never to be a topic for conversation. In truth, Anne could not but admire him for that.
“Thank you,” he said with the smile she had learned to value for its kindness, even in the brief time she had known him. “I am delighted by your trust, Anne. May I call you Anne?”
She had never been called anything else, not even by the youngest girls in the school. Given the difference in their ages and his position in her life, it seemed natural somehow that he should call her by her Christian name.
“Of course,” she said. “But…should I continue to call you Mr. Sinclair?” And realized belatedly, again by watching his eyes change, that she had made a mistake. “I suppose anything else would be improper. I didn’t mean to be forward,” she said, stumbling for an explanation. “Perhaps—” She stopped, cutting the words off because it seemed this, too, might give offense.
“Perhaps what?”
“I’m sure that…That is…”
“My name is Ian,” he said.
“Then…Uncle Ian?” she suggested hesitantly.
His eyes widened slightly, just as they had when Margaret’s trembling finger had identified Anne as his ward.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice suddenly full of an amusement she didn’t understand, “I really don’t believe I should be able to endure it if you do.”
“I beg your pardon,” Anne said, bewildered and embarrassed.
“Forgive me, Anne. You may call me Ian, or even Mr. Sinclair, if you are more comfortable with that. But when I think of my brother’s reaction to your calling me Uncle Ian…Truthfully, I beg you, that I am not willing to endure. Not even for my ward.”
“Too ornate,” the Countess of Dare said, her blue eyes lifting from the drawing in the fashion book she and the dressmaker were perusing, their fair heads very close together. “Something more classic, I think, given her height and coloring.”
Anne was still standing where they had placed her, on a stool in the middle of her bedroom, dressed only in her chemise and petticoat. She had been humiliated by the rather threadbare appearance of those garments, especially when confronted with the cool, blond elegance of the Countess of Dare.
Neither she nor the modiste had commented on the patches and darns, however, seeming to be far more concerned with thumbing through the pictures in the books the woman had brought from London. Pictures which Anne had not yet been allowed to see. It seemed she was merely a bystander to this process.
“This perhaps,” the dressmaker suggested, and the eyes of both women surveyed Anne’s form again, moving from head to toe.
“Only if the color is changed. And I don’t like the trim,” Elizabeth Sinclair said. “Braided ribbon is not exactly au courant.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the dressmaker. “In green?”
“Of a certain shade. We shall probably have to shop for it in London. There is nothing in the samples you’ve brought that is quite right for her,” the countess said, her eyes falling to the swatches of fabric scattered about the floor and draped over the room’s furnishings.
“I have others. Your brother-in-law’s message was not suggestive of the scope of what he wants.”
“What does he want?” Anne asked, hoping to at least be informed as to the occasion on which the dress they were discussing should be worn.
“A wardrobe,” Elizabeth explained, smiling at her.
“Without any cheeseparing,” the modiste said, her pleasure obvious.
“A wardrobe?” Anne repeated. Which seemed to imply… “I am to have several dresses?”
“Dozens,” the countess agreed. Her eyes met Anne’s again before they fell to the pattern book as she turned the page. “Your father was very fortunate in his choice of guardian.”
“I understand they were great friends,” Anne said.
When Elizabeth Sinclair’s eyes came up this time, there was something in their blue depths Anne didn’t understand. Some emotion there that she couldn’t quite read. Almost as quickly as it had formed, however, it was controlled.
“Indeed?” the countess said. “I didn’t know.”
Anne didn’t either, of course. She had simply made that assumption, based on the fact that her father had chosen Ian Sinclair to be her guardian. And she couldn’t imagine any reason for that other than friendship.
However, whenever she had attempted during the past week to introduce any topic that might lead to a recounting of the days they had served together, she had sensed a reluctance on her guardian’s part. She had finally been forced to conclude that he was as reticent to discuss his military career as his health. And probably for the same reasons.
“This?” Elizabeth questioned the dressmaker.
Again both pairs of eyes focused on Anne, whose arms were beginning to grow gooseflesh from being bare so long. She didn’t complain, however. She stood where they had placed her, the light from the windows of her bedroom illuminating her every feature, good and bad she supposed, and wondered what she had glimpsed so briefly in the eyes of Ian Sinclair’s sister-in-law.
“What do you think?” Ian asked, watching from his chair by the fire as Elizabeth pulled on her gloves.
“I think you are going to need a great deal of help.”
“Besides that,” he responded with a smile.
“She’s completely unspoiled. And quite lovely, of course, but…Frankly, Ian, she hasn’t much training in the deportment that will be expected of a debutante.”
“If you mean blushing and simpering, then I’m not sure I would view skill in those behaviors as an advantage.”
The tone of his reply was sharper than he had intended, but the implied criticism bothered him. While he had been confined to his room by the maddeningly lingering effects of his illness, he had had almost too much time to examine his feelings for Anne.
Although it was true that he had, of necessity, been celibate since he’d been wounded, he didn’t believe that completely explained the strength of his attraction. Nor did his admiration of her courage or of the way her eyes met his with an honesty and openness that was unheard of in a woman of his class.
“She does have a tendency to speak her mind,” Elizabeth said, softening her reproach this time with a smile.

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