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Impulse
Candace Camp


“Angela, be serious. You could not possibly marry one of the grooms. That’s absurd. ”Angela Stanhope had been sure marriage to Cam was her destiny. Until they were caught in a compromising position – and her only means to save Cam was to agree to an unpalatable marriage to the elderly Lord Dunstan. Fifteen years later, after amassing a small fortune of his own, Cam returns to England with but one ambition. He has the power to ruin the Stanhope family if they refuse his demand that the now-widowed Angela Stanhope be his wife.Then the mysterious “accidents” begin. Are the Stanhopes trying to remove him from their lives? Or is it someone from Cam’s past, desperate enough to kill to prevent him from uncovering a shocking lie?










Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Candace Camp

‘Delightful … Camp is firmly at home here, enlivening the romantic quest between her engaging lovers with a set of believable and colourful secondaries.’

—Publishers Weekly on The Wedding Challenge

‘Camp delivers another beautifully written charmer.’

—Publishers Weekly on The Marriage Wager

‘A beautifully crafted, poignant love story’

—RT Book Reviews on The Wedding Challenge

‘The talented Camp has deftly mixed romance and intrigue to create another highly enjoyable Regency romance.’

—Booklist on An Independent Woman

‘A clever mystery adds intrigue to this lively and gently humorous tale, which simmers with well-handled sexual tension.’

—Library Journal on A Dangerous Man

‘A smart, fun-filled romp’

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous


Impulse

Candace Camp












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


Also available fromCandace Camp

The Courtship Dance

The Wedding Challenge

The Bridal Quest

The Marriage Wager

Promise Me Tomorrow

No Other Love

A Stolen Heart

A Dangerous Man

An Independent Woman

An Unexpected Pleasure

So Wild a Heart

The Hidden Heart

Winterset

Beyond Compare

Mesmerised

Impetuous

Indiscreet

Scandalous

Suddenly




About the Author


CANDACE CAMP is the bestselling author of over forty contemporary and historical novels. She grew up in Texas in a newspaper family, which explains her love of writing, but she earned her law degree and practised law before making the decision to write full-time. She has several writing awards, including the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award for Western Romances.




PROLOGUE


1872

HE WAS WAITING for her, as she had known he would be. Waiting in the same fever of impatience that had gripped her for the past hour while she sought her chance to escape from the house unnoticed.

He whirled around when she came in, his dark gaze shooting across the room to her. “Angela!”

He was young, just turned twenty, and he had the slim, lithe build of youth, all muscle and bone. His black hair, still damp from a ruthless dunking earlier under the pump, was pushed back and fell to the nape of his neck, curling over the collar of his rough shirt. Just looking at him made Angela’s heart squeeze in her chest.

They ran to each other, impelled by a hunger that had been building all day, until now they were almost consumed by it. His arms went around her, pulling her hard against him, and he pressed his lips on hers. Angela threw her arms around his neck.

They clung together, mouths and bodies molded as if they would get even closer if they could. He shoved back the hood of her cloak, revealing the glorious copper tangle of her hair. It had been up earlier, but it had, as usual, managed to escape from half its pins already. Now he completed its disarray by plunging his hands into its softness.

Need throbbed in him, a desperate, clawing thing that never went away, was only subdued now and then into a low ache. He pulled his mouth away and rained kisses over her face and neck. His hands, clumsy with desire, went to the ribbon that tied her cloak and tugged at it. It came loose, and her cloak slid off her shoulders to the floor. Beneath it she wore an evening dress of pale blue satin, cinched in tightly to reduce her waist to nothingness and pressing her breasts upward to swell above the low-cut neckline.

He sucked in his breath at the sight of her, passion rushing through him like wildfire. “Good God …” he breathed. “Your grandparents let you wear that in public?”

Angela giggled, enjoying the glitter in his eyes and the fact that she could arouse him to feel that way. “Oh, Cam, ‘tis no worse than what anyone else is wearing. It was one of Cee-Cee’s dresses. She wore it two years ago.”

“It did not look on her as it does on you,” he answered fervently.

“Anyway, Grandmama is hoping it will inspire Jeremy’s friend Lord Dunstan to offer for me. He’s terribly wealthy, you see, as well as coming from an ‘unexceptionable’ family.”

Cam’s upper lip curled in a sneer of contempt. “They are as good as selling you to the highest bidder.”

“The Stanhopes need an advantageous marriage,” she pointed out reasonably. “Anyway, what does it matter, since I have no intention of marrying any of the men they are pushing me at?” She linked her hands behind her back, emphasizing the thrust of her bosom. “I was happy to wear it because I knew you would be seeing it. Well … would it encourage you to bid high?”

His mouth widened sensually. “Aye. I would give all that I had to have you.” He reached out boldly and cupped her breasts.

“You have already given me what I want.” She gazed up at him with her clear blue eyes, as trusting as a child, but with all the desires of a woman. She had loved Cam Monroe for as long as she could remember, ever since he first came to work for her family in the stables, and it had seemed a miracle to her this summer when she returned from Miss Mapling’s School for Young Ladies that Cam at last saw her for a woman. It had been even more astonishing when he broke down two weeks ago and admitted that he loved her.

“The Earl would have my head for being with you like this,” Cam told her. “And rightly so. You’re no more than a babe. ‘Tis wrong of me to take advantage of you.”

But even as he said the words, he could not stop himself from bending and placing a tender kiss on the top of each quivering breast. Angela closed her eyes in pleasure and put her hands on his shoulders, caressing the powerful muscles that lay beneath his rough shirt.

“Hush!” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t say such things. ‘Tis not wrong! I love you.”

He let out a groan, lifting her up and burying his face between her breasts. “And I love you. Angel, oh, Angel. You truly are my angel, my beautiful red-haired angel. I think about you all the time. Sometimes I think I’ll never make it through the day, I want you so much. Today, when you went out riding with that insufferable toad Dunstan and I had to watch him flirting with you, eyeing you … I wanted to murder him.”

His mouth moved back up the smooth expanse of her throat, and he let her slide slowly down until her feet were once again on the floor. He kissed her lips, opening her mouth to his, and his tongue plunged inside, exploring, caressing, arousing. Angela trembled under the onset of pleasure.

“Angela!” Her grandfather’s voice roared through the stables.

They sprang apart and whirled around. Angela’s grandfather stood just inside the stable door, flanked by her brother Jeremy and Lord Dunstan, the very gentleman her grandfather and grandmother had been pursuing so assiduously.

The Earl rushed toward them, his white hair flying, his face mottled with fury. “Goddamn you, you young jackanapes! How dare you put your filthy hands on a Stanhope!”

He wielded his cane like a club, bringing it down with all his strength on Cam’s head. Luckily, Cam was young and quick enough to move, so that it did not strike him full on the head, but glanced off the side. Still, the force of it was enough to stun him and split his skin. He dropped dazedly to his knees, and blood welled up out of the cut beside his eye.

“Grandpapa!” Angela shrieked, and threw herself at her grandfather as he raised his arm to strike again. “Stop! No! Don’t hurt him!”

At all the commotion, Wicker, the head groom, came pounding down the stairs at the far end of the stables, where the grooms lived, and ran toward them, followed by two of the other grooms. “My lord, my lord, what is it? What’s the matter?”

The men stopped short at the sight of the scene before them. Wicker’s mouth dropped open, and one of the lads murmured, “Blimey!”

The Earl of Bridbury let loose a string of curses. Grabbing Angela’s arm, he thrust her at Jeremy. “Take your sister back to the house. I’ll deal with this young devil.”

Jeremy grasped his sister’s arm tightly, but she struggled, trying to wrench her arm away. “No! I won’t go! Let go of me! Cam!”

She turned toward Cam, who had lurched to his feet and stood facing her grandfather defiantly. At her cry, Cam started forward, but the Earl made a gesture with his cane, and Wicker and the other grooms seized Cam before he could reach Jeremy and Angela and dragged him back.

“Stop!” Angela shrieked. “No, don’t hurt him! Let go of me!” She twisted and fought to get away, but Jeremy wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her bodily from the floor, starting toward the door. She screamed, and her brother clamped his hand over her mouth.

“For God’s sake, Angie, will you stop it?” he exclaimed. “You’ll have everyone in the house out here to witness this. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“Angela!” Behind them, Cam lunged and struggled, fighting to get away from his captors, but the three grooms held on tightly.

Angela turned her head for one last glimpse of him. Then Dunstan opened the door for Jeremy, and he staggered outside with her. Dunstan followed them, closing the door after him and cutting off her view of Cam. Angela began to cry. Jeremy carried her determinedly toward the house, and as he walked, Angela’s struggles gradually subsided. She realized the futility of it; Jeremy was stronger than she, and she hadn’t a hope of getting away from him, not with the iron grip he had on her now. And having Lord Dunstan witness her vain struggles was humiliating. When they reached the door into the kitchens, Jeremy took his hand from her mouth and set her on her feet.

“I’m going to take you up to your room,” he told her. “We’ll go up the back staircase, so no one will see you, but if you start screaming, I shall have to put my hand over your mouth again. And you can’t get away. Here, Dunstan, take her other arm.”

“No!” Angela drew as far away from the other man as she could. “I won’t try to get away or scream. I promise.” It would be too awful to have this stranger holding her arm as if she were a prisoner.

“Good.” Jeremy opened the door and propelled her into the enormous kitchen, past the gazes of the interested servants and up the back staircase. “Honestly, Angela, whatever has gotten into you? Hanging about the stables with one of the grooms? Your reputation will be ruined if word of this gets out.”

“I don’t care! I love Cam, and I’m going to marry him!”

Jeremy’s mouth dropped open, and Dunstan let out a crack of laughter.

“Marry a stable boy?” he repeated caustically. “Oh, I say, that is rich.”

“Angela, be serious. You could not possibly marry one of the grooms. That’s absurd.”

“I love him.” Her voice gave a betraying quaver as she went on. “Do you think Grandpapa will hurt him? He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I’d say you have an odd idea of right and wrong, then, if you don’t think it wrong for one of the servants to be taking the sixteen-year-old daughter of the house out to the stables and making love to her!”

“He didn’t!” she cried fiercely. “I mean, we never …”

“Well, thank God for that, at least, though it would still mean your reputation if anyone found out.”

They reached her room, and Jeremy opened the door and pushed her inside. He reached around and took the key from the inside of the lock.

“I’m sorry,” he told Angela, looking shamefaced. “But I can’t let you get out and go running back down to the stables.”

Angela shot him a stony look. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of forgiveness. He tried another smile, then backed out of the room and closed the door. Angela heard the key turn in the lock. She turned, looking around her room. It had been her home for her entire life, but now it looked like a prison to her. She threw herself down on her bed and gave way to a storm of tears.

It was two hours before the key turned again in the lock of her door. Angela slid off the bed and faced the door, smoothing her skirts down around her. She had been waiting and dreading and wondering so much that it was a relief to finally face her grandfather. She waited tensely as the door swung inward and her grandfather came in, closing the door after him.

He was by himself, which relieved her further. She had expected him to bring her grandmother and perhaps even her mother with him, to lend their tears and arguments to his, and she had dreaded the prospect of fighting them all. It was bad enough to have to face him. His face was somber and creased with worry. He looked at her for a long moment, letting her see the depth of his disappointment and disapproval. Angela straightened her back and waited him out. Her father had died young, and her grandfather had stood in the role of father, as well as grandfather, to her and Jeremy. She knew that she owed him loyalty, as well as love, and guilt burned in her at the thought of causing him disappointment, even pain. But she was determined to have the man she loved as well, and she knew she must stand fast if she hoped to grasp the happiness she wanted.

Finally, the Earl began, “He’s off the land. You won’t be seeing Cameron Monroe again.”

Fear rose up in her, choking off her breath. “What did you do? Did you hurt him?”

“No.” He shrugged. “No more than was necessary to send him packing. But I told him that if he ever shows his face on my land again, I’ll give orders to shoot him for trespassing.”

“Grandpapa! I’ll never forgive you if you’ve harmed him!”

“There’s no question here of what you will or will not forgive,” he replied harshly. “It’s you who should be worrying about earning my forgiveness. You’ve disgraced the family. It must be your mother’s blood in you—running off to tumble in the hay with a stable boy!”

“I am sorry that you feel that way,” Angela replied stiffly.

“How else should I feel? How else could I feel? You’ve betrayed us, thrown everything your grandmother and I have done for you right back in our faces. You’re an ungrateful, lecherous wretch of a girl!”

“Then I must suppose you will be happy to be rid of me,” Angela retorted, stiffening her spine against the hurt his words aroused in her.

“You tempt me.” He gazed at her with narrowed eyes. “But that young fool Dunstan is still willing to have you. You’ve fair dazzled him, though God knows he doesn’t seem the type to let a girl make him lose his good sense. After what you’ve done, I would not expect you to make a decent marriage, let alone one this good. You know it’s the connection Lady Margaret and I want—and ‘twill save your reputation, as well.”

Angela stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Finally she said, “You think—you actually think that I will agree to marry Lord Dunstan?”

“You will.”

“I won’t.” She looked back at him, her face as implacably set as his. “I love Cam. I’ll have no one else, least of all that cold fish Dunstan.”

The Earl made a disgusted noise and waved his hand, as if to push aside her sentiments. “Don’t give me any of that mawkish drivel about love. Love has nothing to do with marriage, not among our class. Perhaps it’s all right for farmers or merchants or mill workers. But a Stanhope marries for family considerations.”

“Sells themself for money, you mean,” Angela shot back. “Well, I refuse to do that. I am going to marry Cameron.”

“You don’t marry servants. I don’t know what maggot’s gotten into your head, but you’d best be rid of it quickly. You will marry Lord Dunstan.”

“You cannot force me to marry him—any more than you can stop me from marrying Cam,” Angela pointed out. “You may lock me up, but I can promise that someday, somehow, I will get out of here. Cam will find a way to get me out. We are going to be married, and we will go to America to live, where nobody cares about things like rank. There’s nothing you can do to stop our love.”

“I think spending a lifetime in prison might slow the young man down a little,” her grandfather said sardonically.

Angela’s heart skittered in her chest. She stared at her grandfather. “What are you talking about? Cam won’t be in prison.”

“He won’t if you agree to do your duty.”

She wet her lips nervously. “You mean … you mean marry Dunstan?”

“Yes.”

Angela set her chin defiantly. “I don’t believe you. Why would Cam go to prison if I don’t marry Dunstan?”

The old man reached into his jacket and withdrew a glittering object, which he held out to her. “You see this dagger? The one from the case in the gallery?”

Angela nodded numbly. She was quite familiar with it. It had lain in its case in the long gallery as long as she could remember. It was a family heirloom, so old that no one was even sure how the Stanhopes had acquired it. Both scabbard and dagger were of intricately chased gold. Jewels marched down the middle of the scabbard, and a large emerald was embedded in the hilt.

“‘Tis an expensive thing,” her grandfather went on. Angela eyed the dagger as if it were a snake. “Not just the jewels, but the antiquity of it makes it almost beyond price. If a disgruntled servant were to steal it, taking his revenge for being dismissed, it would go hard on him, I think.”

“That’s absurd! Cam would never steal anything.”

“I’ll tell you this, missy—if you don’t marry Lord Dunstan, that dagger will come up missing. And I’ll be happy to tell the sheriff where to look for it, since I had to throw an insolent servant off my land tonight. When he goes to the Monroes’ house, he will find that dagger amongst Cameron Monroe’s possessions. Now, you tell me how well your precious Cam will stay out of prison with that sort of evidence against him. If there’s anything more that’s needed, I imagine an eyewitness who saw him take the thing right out of the case will turn up.”

Angela stared at him in horror. She had no doubt that her grandfather could do exactly as he threatened. The Stanhopes were a well-known and powerful family. Perhaps the family fortunes might now be on the decline, but they still ranked high, and people around here regarded them with awe and respect. They were wealthy in land, if not always in ready cash, and they provided the livelihood for many a family around about, either in the tin mines or on the estate. No one would doubt her grandfather’s word, and there would be men loyal enough to the Earl to lie for him.

“If you do,” she said, trying to still the trembling in her voice, “I will go to the sheriff myself and tell him what you’ve done and why.”

“If you wish to bring disgrace to yourself and the family by flaunting your love affairs with grooms, then do so. But no official will take the word of a lovesick girl over mine. They will say you are all about in the head, that you have been seduced by the man’s charm. He will still go to jail.”

“How can you do this? How can you be so wicked? So cruel?”

“I will do anything to save the Stanhopes,” he returned flatly. “You know how our fortunes have been going. Bridbury Castle is in sad need of repair. The lands need money spent on them, as well. And the tin mines simply are not producing what they used to. Both you and Jeremy will have to marry well. Dunstan is perfect. He has wealth and power, and his family is excellent. And your reputation will be saved. He is the only outsider who knows what happened tonight, and if you are his wife, he will have as little reason to reveal it as any of us.”

“I can’t,” Angela moaned. “You cannot ask this of me. I cannot give up Cam. I love him.”

“If you love him,” the Earl told her harshly, “then you damn well will give him up. Because that is the only way you can save him. If you don’t marry Dunstan, your Cam will die in prison.”

“No.” Tears streamed down her face. “Please, please, don’t send him to prison.”

“Marry Dunstan.”

“All right!” she cried out. Sobs shook her frame. “All right. I will marry Lord Dunstan!”




CHAPTER ONE


1885

A CARRIAGE RATTLED around the turn below at a spanking pace. Angela, watching from her perch on the rock, shaded her eyes to see it better. It was a large, comfortable black coach, very much like her brother’s. However, Jeremy and Rosemary were still in London, surely. It was the height of the Season, and Jeremy rarely ruralized at Bridbury at any time, but especially not during the Season.

Still, Angela thought she could make out a gold smudge on the side, which at this distance might very well be the family crest. Anyway, it had to be traveling to the castle. What else was there out this way except Bridbury? And who else would be coming here in a carriage except her brother? Unless, of course, she thought with a groan, it was someone like Great-aunt Hepzibah, coming to spend a few weeks with Grandmama. Having endured such a visit from her grandmother’s other sister only two months earlier, Angela was not sure she could bear that.

She gathered up her drawing pencils and pad and scrambled off the rock, whistling to the dogs. Socrates, who had been roaming in search of some mischief to get into, came bounding back, ears flopping comically. Pearl, sound asleep stretched out on a flat rock in the sun, merely rolled an eye, unwilling to make the effort to move until she saw that her mistress was actually going somewhere.

“Come on, you lazy dog,” Angela told the toy spaniel. “It’s time to go home. Why aren’t you like Trey? See? He’s already up and ready to go.”

Trey wagged a tail in acknowledgment of her praise, and she bent to scratch first him and then Pearl behind the ears. At that moment, Socrates plowed into her, pitching her sideways, and thrust his head under her arm to be included in the petting.

“Socrates, you foolish dog,” she scolded affectionately. “If ever a dog was less deserving of a name …”

He answered by giving her cheek a swipe of his tongue before she could dodge away.

“Come on,” she said, standing up and picking up the pad and pencil box. “Let us see who our guest is.”

They started off down the side of the slope. It was shorter walking down to the castle this way than along the more winding route the road took, so she knew she would arrive not long after the carriage did. Socrates led the way, his plumed tail waving, ranging ahead of them, then dashing back every few seconds to make contact with them again. Angela kept her pace slow to accommodate Trey, who, though he got around well on only three legs, could not keep up a consistently fast pace. Pearl, in her usual companionable way, stayed at Angela’s other side, distracted only now and then by an errant scent.

When they reached Bridbury, Angela saw that it was indeed Jeremy’s coach pulled up in front of the door. The servants were still unloading trunks from atop it. She ran lightly up the steps and through the front door.

“Jeremy?”

She started toward the main staircase, then stopped as an old yellow dog, his coat liberally shot through with gray, came hobbling up to greet her. “Hello, old fellow,” she cooed, bending down to pet him. “I’m sorry we ran off without you today. It was just too long and difficult for you.”

The look in his old eyes was wise and dignified. Angela curled an arm around his neck and gave him a hug. Wellington was her oldest pet, almost fifteen years old now, and, if the truth be known, still her favorite deep in her heart. It always hurt her to leave him behind. However, it was just as painful, if not more so, to see him struggling to keep up and always falling behind, and if they went far, he simply could not make it.

At that moment, an orange cat came daintily down the banister of the stairs and made the short leap onto Angela’s shoulder. It draped itself with familiarity around her neck. Angela went up the stairs, her collection of animals following her, and along the hall to the drawing room her grandmother preferred. Along the way, another cat joined the group, this one a fat gray Persian with a face so flat that Jeremy said it looked as if it had walked into a door.

The two dowager Lady Bridburys, both her mother and grandmother, were in the drawing room, her mother half reclining on a fainting couch and her grandmother sitting ramrod-straight near the fire. The elder Lady Bridbury let out an inelegant snort at the sight of Angela surrounded by her animals.

“Honestly, Angela, people are going to start saying you’re odd if you persist in walking about with that entire menagerie.” She lifted her lorgnette and focused on Trey. “Especially when some of them are so … different.”

“No, they will simply say that they fit me perfectly. Everyone already thinks I’m odd, you know.” She crossed the room and gave the old lady a peck on the cheek in greeting, then turned toward her mother. “Hello, Mama. How are you this afternoon?”

“Not well,” her mother replied in a die-away voice. “But, then, I am rather accustomed to it. One learns to adjust.”

“I should think you would be accustomed to it,” Angela’s grandmother, Margaret, commented. “You are never well.”

Laura, the younger Lady Bridbury, assumed a faintly martyred look, her usual expression around her mother-in-law, and said proudly, “Yes, I do not enjoy good health. But, then, it was always so with the Babbages.”

“Pack of weaklings.” Margaret dismissed them contemptuously. “Thank God the Stanhopes don’t suffer from such nonsense. I did not have so much as a chill all winter.”

Laura gave her mother-in-law a rather pitying look. She had known the dowager countess for almost thirty-five years now, and she still was unable to understand why the woman took so much pride in her robust condition. In her own opinion, a woman ought to be suffering from something most of the time; otherwise, she would never get enough attention from the male members of her family.

However, Laura knew it was useless to try to make Lady Bridbury understand any point of view other than her own, so she turned back to her daughter. “Have you been out walking, my dear? You should wrap up. You might catch a chill. I know it is April, but the wind, you know, can be so dangerous. You should wear a muffler.”

Angela’s grandmother rolled her eyes, but Angela merely smiled at her mother and replied, “Doubtless you are right, Mama.”

She kissed her on the cheek as well, and nodded toward Miss Monkbury, her grandmother’s self-effacing companion, who sat away from the fire, knitting. Miss Monkbury gave an odd ducking nod in reply and continued to knit. Angela sat down between her mother and grandmother, saying, “Did Jeremy come home? I saw the carriage outside.”

“Yes. And he brought a decidedly peculiar young man with him,” Margaret answered. “An American.”

“An American? I wasn’t aware that Jeremy even knew anyone from America.”

“One doesn’t, normally,” Laura agreed.

“That is one of the things that is so odd about his coming here. A Mr. Pettigrew, Jeremy said he was. Jason Pettigrew. I ask you, what sort of name is that? Sounds like a commoner, but then, I suppose all Americans are, aren’t they? He looks like a solicitor, but when I told him so, he denied it.” Her frown seemed to indicate that she suspected he had lied to her.

“I found him rather shy,” Laura put in. It was rare that her opinion on any matter agreed with her mother-in-law, though she never disagreed directly. “Of course, he does speak in that American way, but other than that, he seemed quite gentlemanly.”

“Yes, but what is he doing here? That is the question, Laura,” Margaret put in impatiently. “Not whether he is polite.”

“But what is Jeremy doing here, either?” Angela asked. She, of course, lived at Bridbury year-round, and had for four years now, ever since the divorce and its attendant scandal. But Jeremy and his wife spent most of their time in London.

“That is what I asked him,” Margaret assured her. “But he would not tell me. He said he had to talk it over with you first.” She looked affronted.

“With me?” Angela was astonished. She loved her brother, and owed him a great deal for what he had done for her over the past few years. They had a pleasant relationship. But she could not imagine anything that he would want to discuss with her before he would discuss it with their grandmother. Angela was well aware that her position in the family was the least important of anyone’s, except perhaps Miss Monkbury’s.

“Yes. Apparently this Mr. Pettigrew is to be a part of the discussion, also. He and Jeremy retired to the library. I have rarely been quite so astonished. However, I find that the present generation is so often graceless.” She sighed.

Angela stared at her. “Mr. Pettigrew? But why?”

“I just told you, I haven’t the slightest notion,” her grandmother replied acidly. “I was not taken into your brother’s confidence. You had best go to the library and ask him yourself. However, do, please, go up to your room and change into something a trifle more presentable first.”

“Yes, Grandmama, of course.” It was useless to point out that if Jeremy was waiting for her, her grandmother might have told her so when she first came into the room. She stood up, saying, “If you will excuse me, Grandmama. Mama.”

“Of course, dear child,” her mother responded, sniffing her lavender-scented handkerchief, obviously suffering another of her weak spells. Her grandmother gave Angela a peremptory nod.

“And, Angela!” Margaret called out as she neared the door. “For goodness’ sake, leave those animals behind. You cannot meet this American person looking like a zookeeper.”

“Yes, Grandmama. Perhaps I should leave the dogs here.”

Her grandmother raised a single icy brow at this sally and waved her out of the room.

Angela walked down the long gallery that stretched across the front of the house and into the west wing, where the bedrooms lay. She found her maid, Kate, waiting for her in her room. Kate already had one of Angela’s better dresses, a dark green velvet, spread out on the bed, and a pair of slippers to match it waiting at the foot of the bed.

It did not surprise Angela that her personal maid was well aware that Angela was to join her brother and their surprise guest. In fact, she would not have been astonished if Kate knew why Jeremy had come to Bridbury. There was nothing as swift or as efficient as the servants’ grapevine.

Kate, a woman much the same age as Angela, with laughing brown eyes, a wealth of chestnut hair and a buxom figure, jumped up from the chair when Angela entered and hurried over to her, clicking her tongue admonishingly. “Where in the world have you been? You look like half the county is clinging to your skirts. Out drawing them pictures again, eh?”

“Yes, I have to confess that I was.” Angela glanced down at her skirts, a little surprised to find that several burrs and a few sticks, as well as dust and pieces of dried grass, were clinging to the hem of her dress. “I was hoping to find some flowers out already, but I could find nothing but lichen on the rocks.”

“Well, if it isn’t flowers, it’s birds, or some kind of berry bush or something.” Kate shook her head. “I’ll tell you the truth, my lady, I can’t fathom what you see in them little flowers, growing in cracks and such, looking more like a weed than anything else.”

“They intrigue me—so secret and hidden. It’s like finding a prize when you do spot something unique. And they’re lovely. Simple and delicate. Besides, it gives me something to do.”

“Well, selling your pictures to them journals and magazines and such, that makes sense, to make a little money.”

“Yes.” Angela loved the flowers and shrubs and birds, and loved just as much to draw her pencil sketches and watercolors of them, but it was nice to be able to sell a few from time to time to periodicals and books. It gave her pin money, which saved her from having to depend on Jeremy for absolutely everything. She had lost her inheritance, of course, when she left Dunstan; the dowry she had taken with her into the marriage had stayed with him. She did not regret losing it; she never would. But it was hard, having to live on another’s kindness, even her brother’s.

Kate had been undoing the row of tiny buttons down Angela’s back and helping her out of her dress as she talked. Now she held out the green dress for Angela, still chattering away merrily. Kate was allowed far more liberties than the typical maid. She had taken on the job of Angela’s personal maid when both of them were in their teens, and the two of them had been close from the start. Kate had gone with Angela when she married Lord Dunstan years ago, and their bond had been forged into hardened steel during the ordeal of those years. It had been Kate who helped Angela find the courage to leave Dunstan and then accompanied her when she stole out of the house in the dead of night. For that brave loyalty, Angela loved Kate almost like a sister. Since the divorce, her other friends, even close ones like her cousin Cee-Cee, had absented themselves from her life. Kate was now Angela’s only confidante, her most valued friend, and it was only at Kate’s insistence that she continued to serve as Angela’s personal maid. Angela had asked her to remain at Bridbury as her companion.

Kate had turned down the offer. “A companion, miss? Nay, that’s only for a gentlewoman. I couldn’t be content with that, now could I? I need something to do, and not stitching little embroidery, neither. ‘Sides, I like making my own money and not living off someone else’s charity. It’s like slavery, I think, like selling yourself, just for the sake of being able to be genteel-like. But I ain’t genteel, and never will be. I’d sooner sweat and have my independence.”

“Have you seen the Yank that’s with His Lordship?” Kate was asking now, as she knelt and began to unbutton Angela’s shoes.

“No, I haven’t. Have you?”

“Aye, I did. I carried some of his bags up. Just to see what he looked like, you know, and maybe get an idea who he was.” She giggled. “When I carried them into the room, he was already there and had taken off his shirt. He looked that surprised to see me. I knocked, and he said to come in, but I guess he was expecting one of the footmen. Ned and Samuel were carrying the trunks. His jaw dropped open, and he blushed bright red. Then he started scrambling to put his shirt back on. He’d dropped it on the floor, and he had to pick it up, but then he put his arm in the wrong sleeve, and he couldn’t get it on. He kept jerking it and twisting, that loose arm flapping around like some crazed bird. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. I guess I got a better look at him than I would ever have expected.”

Angela couldn’t help but smile. “Poor man. I am sure you did nothing to ease him.”

“Of course I did. I curtsied and asked if he wanted me to unpack his bags, trying to act like there was nothing wrong. But he kept apologizing to me.” She shook her head in amazement.

“Well, he is American. Perhaps he’s not used to castles and servants and such.”

“More like he’s not used to girls,” Kate retorted. “He’s got a prim-and-proper look to him, so stiff you think he might break if he tried to bend over. And plain dressed. Not badly dressed, just … so very severe. All the other girls think he’s dead handsome. I thought him only all right, if you like that sort of pasty look of a man who spends his life indoors. Me, I like a man with a little meat and muscle.” She grinned. “Gives you something to hold on to, you know.”

Angela shook her head in mock despair. Kate was an inveterate flirt, and Angela was sure that she had broken more than one poor man’s heart. But she liked to talk as if she were a wilder sort than she was, primarily, Angela thought, to entertain her.

“Did you find out why he’s here?” she asked as Kate finished with her shoes and rose to take a critical look at the overall effect.

“No. Dead mum about it, His Lordship’s man is, which I’m thinking means he doesn’t know. All I know is, Ned said later that he caught a glimpse into one of the bags, and it had a powerful lot of important-looking papers in it.”

“A solicitor, perhaps. Or a man of business. I wonder what he has to do with Jeremy,” Angela murmured. “Even more, what could it have to do with me? Well, I suppose the only way I shall find out is to go down there.”

But Kate would not let her leave until she had fussed with her hair a bit, pinning in the strands that had come loose during Angela’s walk. “There, now you look beautiful.”

Angela barely glanced at her image in the mirror. It had been many years since she fussed over her looks. All she cared about was appearing neat and ordinary. The latter was a difficult task for a woman with hair the color of burnished copper, she had found, but over the years she had made blending in an art form. She wore subdued colors and plain styles, and her hair was always done in a simple bun worn low upon her neck. She never wore any jewelry, except perhaps for a cameo brooch at her throat. Even her hands were without adornment, the nails clipped short and no rings upon her fingers.

She walked down to the library and knocked softly on the door. Jeremy answered, bidding her enter. When she stepped inside, Jeremy rose to his feet, as did the man who was sitting in the wingback chair across from him. Angela cast a quick, curious glance at the other man, noting that he was, as Kate had told her, not bad-looking, but perhaps a trifle rigid.

“Angela.” Jeremy smiled and went over to her to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “You look in health.”

“As do you. This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Not so pleasant for Grandmama, I believe.” He smiled. “I thought she might eat me for arriving unannounced.”

“Is Rosemary with you?” Angela asked as her brother led her toward the chairs.

“No. Couldn’t expect Rosemary to leave London during the Season.” He stopped in front of his guest. “Angela, I’d like you to meet Mr. Pettigrew.”

The man in question bowed stiffly to her, and they exchanged greetings. Almost immediately Pettigrew excused himself, saying that he was sure the Earl would wish to talk to his sister alone. Angela waited politely until the young man had left the room, then turned to her brother, eyebrows going up.

“Jeremy … what in the world is going on? What are you doing here in the middle of the Season? And who is that young man?”

“An American. An assistant to another American—whose name I don’t know,” he added darkly.

“But what has it to do with me? Grandmama said you wished to see me.”

“It has a great deal to do with you. Well, with all of us, but you are the one who—” He stopped and sighed. “I’m sorry. I am telling this all muddled. I have been in such a state recently … it’s a wonder I can make any sense at all. Here, sit down, and I shall start all over.”

They sat down in the leather wingback chairs, facing one another, and Jeremy, taking a deep breath, plunged into his story. “It started, oh, I’m not sure, a year or two ago. Someone bought a portion of my share of the tin mines. We needed to repair the house in the city, and somehow Rosemary and I seemed to have an inordinate amount of expenses as well, and, anyway, I sold a goodly block, I’d say about ten percent of the mine. Then, just this last year, I sold another portion of it, not that much. At the time, Niblett brought it to my attention that someone had bought others’ shares in the mine. You know, Aunt Constance had owned a part, and then it was split among her children when she died, and all of them sold their shares. There had been several sales like that. I thought it odd. Niblett didn’t want me to sell any more, but I couldn’t see any harm. It was not the same person who had bought the first amount I had sold, or so I thought, and the others had been sold to still other companies and people. So I sold another chunk, almost ten percent again. But three or four weeks ago, well, Niblett got this letter. It seems that a company in the United States claimed that it owned a—a majority of the mine. It turns out that Wainbridge—Grandfather’s friend, you remember him, don’t you?—had sold this company his fifteen percent. And Tremont—that’s the name of the American company—owned all the other bits and pieces that had been sold over the years, too, including both the ones I had sold.”

Angela gazed at him for a moment, assimilating the information. Finally she said, “You mean that this American company actually controls our mine now?”

Jeremy nodded, looking miserable. “I’m sorry, Angela. I don’t know how it happened. Even Niblett was surprised. He knew there had been some activity, but he did not know that it was all being bought by the same company.”

“Is it so very bad? I mean, I understand that you are getting less money than before, but that would have happened even if different people had bought from you.”

“Yes, but Tremont now has control over the decisions. I do not. It can do whatever it wants with the mine.”

“I see. So if they make poor decisions, you will suffer.”

“We will all suffer.”

Angela was well aware that this was true. She was completely dependent upon her brother, and her mother and grandmother largely were, also. Whatever wealth the Stanhopes had, had passed to Jeremy.

“Of course. But is it so bleak? We cannot assume they will make bad decisions, can we?”

“According to the letter, they intend to close the mine.”

Angela gaped at him. “What? You can’t be serious!”

He nodded vigorously. “I am. I couldn’t believe it, either, at first. But this week Mr. Pettigrew showed up in London. I’ve been meeting with him and Niblett and my solicitor. It is worse than bad. It’s. Oh, God, Angela, this American practically owns me!”

“Mr. Pettigrew?” Angela’s voice rang with disbelief. “But he seems so mild….”

“No, not him. Though he is not so mild when you are dealing with him in business. But I am talking about the company that bought the mine. It is owned by some American. I don’t know who. I haven’t met the man. Mr. Pettigrew is merely his representative, and he refuses to say who the principal is.”

“But, Jeremy, this doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone buy a mine only to close it down?”

“I don’t know! That’s what I argued. Pettigrew said that the mine simply was not producing enough. He showed me all these figures demonstrating how its production had gone down over recent years. Of course it has. That’s precisely why everyone was so willing to sell to Tremont. He went on and on about how we had been taking everything out of the mine and not putting anything back in. He talked about all the improvements that needed to be done to make the mine profitable again, though we had not used the profits to do so. We just took them out and spent them. You can’t imagine how lowering it was to have to sit there and hear him point out how foolish I had been, all in that quiet, prim way. Of course, Niblett had said the same thing to me time and again, but I had never done what he advised. You know me. I never have had a head for business. I assumed that Niblett was just complaining. And, besides, we were always desperate for money. You know how it’s been with us. Rosemary’s money wasn’t enough to save us, and after—” He stopped, red flaring up in his cheeks. “Well, that is, you know, we simply haven’t had the money.”

“I know.” Angela looked down at her hands in her lap. She knew what he had been thinking but had stopped himself from saying. Angela was the reason that they had not had the money. When she fled Dunstan, she had lost his money for the Stanhopes, and in that way she had failed her family, finally and enormously. It was to Jeremy’s credit that he had never thrown that up to her. He had never even tried to convince her to go back to Dunstan.

“Anyway, Pettigrew said that they had considered making those improvements, putting money into the mine so that the profits would be greater. But he said that they had decided that they did not have enough—connection was the word he used—to make that great an investment.”

“What did he mean?”

“I didn’t know. I asked him, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out a number of papers—notes and deeds. He had the deed to that piece of land that Grandfather sold to Squire Mayfield before he died, as well as the hunting cottage I sold two years ago. I sold it to an Englishman, but apparently he was merely a solicitor buying the cottage for someone else, an American. Last year Squire Mayfield sold his plot to the same man, as well.”

“The same one who owns the mine? But, Jeremy, who is this man? Why is he buying so much of our property?”

“Apparently he is obsessed with the English nobility. That’s the only thing I can think of. It is all so bizarre. He must be excessively wealthy, and I assume he is trying to—to buy his way into Society. I am not sure what his reasons are. Pettigrew would not explain it, really. He is quite polite, but you cannot pry anything out of him that he does not want to say. Believe me, I tried all the way up here from London. But he would just start talking about the scenery or asking questions about the estate.”

“But why did this man choose you to buy these things from? And how can closing down a mine and buying property in England make him a part of Society?”

“I can only assume that the Stanhopes must have been an obvious choice—titled and desperately in need of money. Besides, we have the other main requirement.”

He stopped and eyed his sister a little uneasily. Angela looked up at him. “What is that?”

“A female of marriageable age and condition in the family.”

Angela froze, staring at her brother mutely. She felt as if all the air had been knocked from her lungs.

When she said nothing, Jeremy went on hurriedly. “That is the plan, apparently. He wants to marry into the British nobility. I presume he must realize that no matter how much land he might buy or how much wealth he might have, he would never be accepted. So he wants to marry a daughter or sister of an earl or a viscount or.” He trailed off miserably, sneaking a glance at Angela’s stricken face. “I am sorry, Angie. You don’t know how sorry I am that he should have chosen to fix on this family.”

“Oh, he chose well, all right,” Angela said bitterly. “A family with a daughter so disgraced that they could not hope for any better marriage for her. One they would be happy to sacrifice for a little money.”

She jumped to her feet and began to pace agitatedly, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “I won’t do it, Jeremy! You cannot ask this of me. Our grandfather already sacrificed me once for money for the family. You cannot ask me to do it a second time!”

Jeremy rose and went to her, reaching out to touch her shoulders. She flinched away from him, and he sighed. “I wish there were some other way, Angela. I talked to Pettigrew until I was ready to drop. I pleaded and argued and pointed out the unfairness of it. He apologized and flushed and looked perfectly miserable, but he would not budge. He is not the one who makes the decisions. He is merely representing someone else.”

“Why should you have to beg and plead and argue?” Angela turned to face him, her eyes bright with anger and a touch of fear. “Just because he owns some land that was once ours does not mean he can bend us to his will. They’re closing the mine, anyway—Oh, wait. Of course. I see. That’s why he talked about shutting down the mine. He will close it only if I don’t marry him. Is that it?”

Jeremy nodded, unable to meet Angela’s eyes. “And if you marry him, he will make the improvements so that the mine will earn more money.”

“Ah, I see,” Angela’s voice was bitter. “Both the carrot and the stick. So if I don’t agree to marry this—this bully, the family will not only lose the money we are getting now, we will lose the added amount we would have gotten. Well, he has certainly contrived to put me into a thoroughly untenable position.”

Jeremy groaned, turning away and plunging his hands into his hair. “That isn’t even the worst of it. He bought up my notes, as well.”

“What notes?”

“Practically every one I have ever signed. Personal notes, all the encumbrances on the property—almost every cent I have borrowed in the past ten years. I owe it all to him now! If he chose to call it due, I would be ruined. I could not begin to pay it. He could take half our land. Oh, God, Angela, I don’t know what I am to do!”

“Jeremy!” Angela gazed at him, shaken. “What kind of man would do that? Arbitrarily choose a family, people he has never met, in an entirely different country, even, and inflict such damage on them? Bend them to his will by any means, fair or foul?”

“You, of all people, must know that there are such men,” Jeremy blurted out.

“Sweet heaven, you are right.” Angela passed a suddenly trembling hand over her face. “Doubtless Dunstan would have done the same if he had lacked position in Society.”

“No. I should not have said that.” Jeremy swung around to face her. “This man is not necessarily like Dunstan.”

“Someone who wields a club like that over your head? Someone that ruthless? That unfeeling? What else would he be like?”

“It does not mean that he would be the—the same sort of husband. That he would … would …”

“Beat me?” Angela supplied, when Jeremy could not get the words out. “Make my life unbearable? Of course he would. Do you think such a man would brook disagreement in a wife? Or refrain from taking it out on me when he is in a bad temper? Jeremy.” Angela felt panic rising up inside her. “You said when I ran to you that I would never have to marry again. You promised me!”

“Oh, God! Don’t, Angela. I won’t make you. I could not force you, anyway.”

“I am dependent upon you.”

“You think that I would turn you out if you refused to marry him? Is that the sort of man you think I am?”

“No.” Angela sighed. “I think you are a very good man. A kind one.”

It was that very fact that made her hate to refuse him. Jeremy had been kind and loyal to her. When she ran away from Dunstan, he had taken her in and given her his support and protection. She was certain that Dunstan had brought pressure to bear on Jeremy, but he had not crumpled. He had not given her up. He had stood by her through the horrid mess of the divorce, through the rumors and snide gossip, through the awful, damning testimony. He had passed through a crucible, too, during that time, suffering the snubs of some of his peers and the whispers of most of them. Yet he had supported her, both emotionally and financially. He still did. She lived in his house, on his land, ate food at his table. He even brought her the news and gossip from London periodically to enliven her days. He had allowed her to heal, and had never asked anything from her in return. Indeed, she did not know of any way she could have repaid him … until now.

If she married this man, this loathsome, coercive bastard of a man, then she would be giving back, in full measure, what Jeremy had done for her. He had saved her life, despite the loss of money and face he had endured. Now, she would be giving him the money he so desperately needed and saving his name from the stigma of bankruptcy—at the price of the rest of her life.

“I can’t. Oh, Jeremy, I cannot,” she moaned, hating herself for her cowardice even as she said it.

“I won’t ask you to marry him. I just want you to consider it. Please, could you not do that? Could you not meet him and see for yourself what he is like? You do not know that he is a man such as Dunstan. Not every man is that way, even one who is ruthless. This one is interested in a business arrangement. Perhaps that will be enough to satisfy him. He might be well pleased to be connected to the Stanhopes, and not ask anything further of you. Perhaps you could even live in separate houses. You could stay here, say, and he could live in London—or he might even go back to the United States.”

Angela’s hands twisted together. She felt as if she were being torn apart. How could she refuse Jeremy anything, after he had done so much for her? On the other hand, the mere thought of marrying again sent cold chills through her.

“I am sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I want to help you. Honestly, I do. But I am so scared…. I know you think me a terrible coward. No doubt I am. But, oh, Jeremy, is there no other way?”

“I don’t know of one,” he replied leadenly. “Do you think I would have come to you with this proposal if I knew another way? I realize what I am asking of you, how selfish I am.”

“Don’t say that. You are not selfish. It is I who am selfish—to refuse to help you, after everything you have done for me. I know that I am the reason we are in such dire straits. If I had not left Dunstan—”

He shook his head. “No. Do not blame yourself. Generations of Stanhopes have contributed their bit to this mess we find ourselves in—and I am one of their number. I have not put anything into the mines or the estates. I have not exercised proper restraint. No, I have done precisely what I wanted and spent however much I pleased. I was foolish in the extreme. Now I will simply have to pay the price.”

His resignation tore at Angela’s heart. She loved Jeremy dearly, and she owed him so much. Why did what he asked of her have to entail so much sacrifice? She could not—simply could not—marry again.

Angela spent the rest of the day in her room, lost in thought, but she could find no solution that did not sacrifice either herself or Jeremy. She thought of the unknown man who had forced this decision upon her, and she hated him with all her heart.

She expected her mother and grandmother to visit her, her grandmother to harangue her into accepting the marriage and her mother to sigh and wheedle and moan until Angela gave in. However, neither lady came to her room, which could only mean, Angela thought, that Jeremy had not revealed the dilemma to them. His kindness in not turning the Ladies Bridbury upon her to change her mind only made Angela feel lower and more guilty for not coming to his rescue.

The next morning, Jeremy came to her bedroom, looking nervous. He closed the door behind him and started to speak, then stopped to clear his throat and began again.

“Ah, Mr. Pettigrew wired London last night. It, uh, seems that his employer is in London. I assumed he was still in the United States, but, in fact, he was merely letting Mr. Pettigrew handle the … the … arrangements.”

“The dirty work,” Angela corrected.

“Yes, I suppose so. But that augurs well, I think.” Jeremy brightened. “Don’t you see? If he was truly ruthless, without feeling, he would not care how he appeared to us. I think his not wanting to negotiate himself shows that he wants to have an amicable relationship with us. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose. But we both know that it is he who pulls the strings. Poor Mr. Pettigrew is merely a puppet.”

“Well, it does not signify, anyway. The point is that Mr. Pettigrew informed his employer of our decision, and the man wired back. He caught a train last night to York and will hire a post chaise there for the rest of the journey. It seems that he is on his way to visit us.”

“What?” Fear clenched Angela’s stomach. She did not want to have to face this ruthless man.

“Mr. Pettigrew says that his employer, ah, wants to press his suit in person.”

“You mean he wants to badger and bully me into accepting!” Angela put a hand to her stomach, as if she could control the turmoil there. “Oh, Jeremy, I cannot! Please don’t ask me to face him.”

“I—Well, we must. There’s nothing else we can do. Don’t you see? Perhaps if you meet him, you will find out that he’s not so bad. You might even like him.”

“Jeremy!”

“All right, all right. Most likely you will not. But at least we would be able to plead our case in person to this man. We might be able to make him see how absurd the whole thing is, and he will drop the idea. Surely he cannot want a reluctant wife.”

“I cannot face him.”

“I will be there with you. It won’t be so bad.”

Angela suspected that it would be excruciating. However, Jeremy was right when he said that there was little else they could do. She refused to hide in her room like a scared rabbit the whole time he was here. She had had the courage to escape from Dunstan, and she had sworn that she would never again let a man terrorize her. That included, she thought, letting him make her a virtual prisoner in her room.

He did not arrive until that evening, after supper. Mr. Pettigrew had taken up a post outside the front door, pacing and smoking a small cigar. Angela sat with her grandmother and Jeremy in the formal drawing room, a large and elegantly furnished room chosen in the hopes that it would in some measure intimidate the man. Laura, Angela’s mother, had retired to her bedroom with a book after supper, saying that the waiting had wrecked her nerves.

Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, and Mr. Pettigrew came into the room. His face was a trifle flushed, and his usual impassivity was replaced by excitement.

“He has arrived at last.” He turned back toward the door. At that moment, a black-haired man strode through the doorway. He glanced about the room, his dark eyes moving from one person to another until they settled on Angela. Angela simply stood there, staring at him, her heart skipping a beat. She pressed her hand to her chest; suddenly it seemed terribly hard to breathe. It could not be….

“May I present to you my employer,” Pettigrew was saying proudly, “and the president of Tremont Incorporated, Mr. Cameron Monroe.”

Angela’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she slid quietly to the ground.




CHAPTER TWO


WHEN ANGELA OPENED her eyes, the first thing she saw was her maid’s face. Kate was kneeling on the floor beside the couch on which Angela lay, frowning down worriedly at her as she waved smelling salts beneath Angela’s nose. Angela coughed at the acrid scent and feebly pushed Kate’s arm away.

“There, now. She’s coming round,” Kate declared triumphantly.

For a moment, Angela could not remember what had happened or why she was lying on a sofa. She was aware only of a ferocious pain in her head and a certain queasiness in her stomach. She blinked and looked up from her maid’s face to the people behind Kate.

Jeremy and Mr. Pettigrew were standing back and to either side, flanking a frowning, dark stranger. Angela remembered now what had happened. “Cam …”

“Yes, my lady. I beg your pardon. I am usually not so fearsome as to drive young women to collapse.”

“I am not usually a young woman who collapses,” Angela retorted, pride compelling her to sit up.

She regretted it immediately, for her head swam, and Kate reached out to place a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Take it slow, my lady. No need to be getting up yet, now, is there?”

Kate then rounded on their visitor, setting her hands on her hips pugnaciously. “Cam Monroe, what do you mean coming in like this, never giving a soul a hint of it? I would have thought you’d have better sense. It’s no wonder Her Ladyship fainted.”

Jeremy colored and said in a quelling voice, “Kate. Mr. Monroe is our guest.”

On the other side of Monroe, Pettigrew gazed at her with a mixture of awe and amazement. Kate dipped a curtsy toward Jeremy, murmuring a faint “Sorry, sir,” but she did not apologize to Cam. She had grown up next door to him, and she had no fear of him.

“What the devil is going on?” the dowager countess snapped, banging her cane once on the floor for emphasis. “Angela, what’s the matter with you? And who is this man?”

Jeremy turned toward the old lady. “Angela was a trifle startled, Grandmama,” he assured her. “We have not seen Mr. Monroe in several years.”

“Monroe?” The countess frowned fiercely. “I don’t know any Monroes.”

“My mother and I used to live in the village, my lady,” Cam told her easily. “Grace Monroe.”

The old lady gazed at him blankly for a moment. Then her brow cleared. “The seamstress?” she asked, her voice vaulting upward. “You are the seamstress’s son?”

“Yes, my lady. I am.” He stared back at her stonily.

The countess’s eyebrows vaulted upward, and she turned a sharp gaze upon her grandson. “Jeremy?”

“Yes, Grandmama. Mr. Monroe is our guest.” He moved forward to her chair, dropping his voice a little. “I am sure you will welcome him. He has come here all the way from the United States. He is Mr. Pettigrew’s employer.”

She shot a dark look at Mr. Pettigrew. “I’ve yet to determine what this Pettigrew is doing here. What are you about, Jeremy?”

“‘Tis business, Grandmama. Perhaps you remember that Cameron Monroe moved to the United States several years ago. He is the head of a company that, ah, I have been dealing with.”

“What he is saying, Grandmama,” Angela said crisply, “is that Mr. Monroe is apparently quite wealthy now, so we must be pleasant to him. Isn’t that right, Jeremy?”

She cast a sardonic look up at her brother, then at Cam, who was still standing in front of the couch, gazing down at her. Cam raised a quizzical eyebrow at her words, but his expression was more amused than offended.

“Angela!” Jeremy whispered, sending Monroe an apologetic glance. “I must apologize for the women of the family. They are used to a solitary life here at Bridbury.”

“That’s right. We don’t get out much, so we don’t know how to act,” Angela went on with false sweetness. “I am afraid that I have never before been called upon to meet a suitor who holds a gun to my head as he asks for my hand.”

“What?” Lady Margaret’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“Angela.” Jeremy groaned.

Mr. Pettigrew blushed to his hairline and looked away. Only Cam remained seemingly unaffected, still gazing at Angela with that cool half smile on his lips.

“A trifle dramatic, don’t you think, Angela?”

“Perhaps. But the drama is not of my making.” She stood up. “Grandmama, if you will excuse me, I believe that I will go up to my room now. I am feeling a trifle under the weather. Kate?”

Her maid moved quickly to her side, and the two women walked out of the room together, leaving a dead silence behind them.

Angela strode faster and faster, until by the time they reached her bedroom, Kate was almost having to run to keep up with her. “My lady … wait. Slow down.”

Angela swept into her room, but even then she could not seem to stop. She marched across it to the window, then swung back and looked around, as if trying to find somewhere else to go.

“What is going on?” Kate asked with all the familiarity of a friend, as well as a lifelong servant. “Why is Cam Monroe here? And what is he doing dressed up as a gentleman?”

“He is the one,” Angela replied tersely. “The man I told you about, the American who is trying to marry into the nobility.”

“Cam?” Kate had heard all about the Earl’s request that Angela marry a rich American to save the family, but she had a little trouble connecting the fearsome American with her former neighbor and the Stanhopes’ stable boy.

“Apparently. That Pettigrew man said his employer had arrived, and the next thing I knew, there was Cam marching into the room. And I realized that he was the one behind it all. The man trying to force me to marry him.”

“‘Tis no wonder you fainted.”

“I thought for a moment that I had lost my mind. I couldn’t imagine—Cam! It’s been so long—I never thought I would see him again. It’s been years since I even thought about him.”

Her grandfather had made sure that she was married before she could change her mind, whisking her away to London and getting a special license so that she could marry Lord Dunstan without having to wait for the banns to be read. When she returned to Bridbury, newly married, she had gone to Cam, hoping to explain what she had done and to give him money so that he could, at least, get away to America and the new life they both had dreamed about. But he had been too wounded and furious to allow any explanation from her.

“Do you think I don’t know why you married him?” he had roared, his dark eyes spitting fire at her. “Because he is a lord, and one of the wealthiest in the land, as well! I was too stupid to realize that you were just toying with me, amusing yourself until your nobleman came up to scratch!”

“No! No, please, Cam, that’s not—”

“Damn you! I don’t want to hear it!” He had hurled the purse she had offered him down at her feet, and the bright gold coins had spilled out onto the floor of his cottage. “I don’t want your whore’s money, either. I shall make it to America on my own.”

Then he had wheeled and torn out of his house, ignoring her pleas. She had not seen him again.

She had thought about him enough, God knew. At first she had been able to think of little else—missing him, aching for him, crying for him, that pain so great that it for a while somewhat masked the pain of her marriage. What had a blow mattered, when inside she had felt as if she had already died?

Later, when the fresh pain of losing Cam sealed over, and the realization of the lifelong despair and pain that her marriage would be settled in upon her, she had often dreamed that somehow Cam would return and rescue her. That he would find out, all the way across the ocean, what was happening to her, and he would come back and sweep her away from Dunstan. But she had known, even as she hoped and prayed, that Cam would not come back. Even if he had known her fate, he would no longer have cared. He hated her.

Finally she had accepted that her dreams were nothing but that, and that no one could save her from her fate. And, gradually, she had ceased to feel at all, either loss or the memory of love, all emotions ground into sand under the millstone of her marriage.

“So he got rich in America,” Kate mused, following her own thoughts. “He always was a smart one—and hardworking. If anyone could do it, I guess he could.” She paused, then continued, “And now he’s wanting to marry you again. He must never have forgotten you.”

Angela let out an inelegant snort. “Don’t wax romantic on me, Kate. I can usually count on your good sense.”

Kate allowed a little smile. “Hard head is more like it, my lady. But even I can see that if a man’s still wanting to marry you after, what, thirteen years …?”

“I don’t think it is romance that is on his mind. I think it’s revenge. It was my family that hurt him thirteen years ago, and now he has come back to extract his vengeance on us. He has already taken over control of our mines and acquired much of our land, not to mention buying up practically all Jeremy’s debts. The Stanhope family virtually belongs to him. And I, the one who hurt him the most, well, he can bring me permanently under his thumb by marrying me. What exquisite revenge—to have all of us subject to him, applying to him for whatever we might need, currying his favor, obeying him. I cast him off, and he wants to repay me for that. What better way than to make me do what I did not thirteen years ago—marry him! He will have the rest of my life to make me suffer, too, for now even Jeremy would not dare take me in against his wishes. Cam owns Jeremy.”

“Oh, no, my lady! Cam would not treat you ill,” Kate protested. “He is a good man.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “How can you know that? He seemed so, I know, years ago. Gentle and good and—” Her voice caught for an instant, then she went on. “But how can you know what is really inside a man’s heart? And after so many years, with all the bitterness he felt about my marriage, with whatever he has had to do to make all the money he has, well, he is bound to have changed. He is obviously a very different man now. The Cam I knew would not have set out to wreck a family, as he has done with us. He would not have tried to force a woman to marry him.”

Kate shrugged. “Still … it does not mean he is a devil like Lord Dunstan. My pa, he was a strict one, and I’ve seen him madder than fire, but he never raised a hand against Ma. You know your brother is not like that. Why, even his old lordship wouldn’t have struck his wife.”

Angela cast her a speaking look. “Strike Grandmama? He would not have dared.” She sighed. “I know. You are right. Not all men are like Dunstan. Maybe Cam would not actually hurt me. He was never rough … before. But, oh, Kate, I could not. I could not marry him.”

She tightened her hands into fists, her stomach beginning to roil with the old, familiar fear. “To be under a man’s complete power again. Just to know that he could—” She broke off and turned away, crossing her arms over her chest and tucking her fists beneath her arms. “To have him in my bed.” Her voice came out a horrified whisper. “I cannot.”

Her maid gazed at her with profound sympathy, wishing, not for the first time, that she could somehow wipe Angela’s prior marriage from her mind. But even that would not be enough, she suspected. The lady’s scars were burned into her soul, as well.

“You need not, my lady,” she reassured her softly. “Your brother cannot make you. He would not, even if he could.”

“I know he could not force me. But I am dependent on him. He has done so much for me. I feel terribly guilty not to, when it would help him so much. I don’t know what he will do if Cam calls in those notes or closes down the mine. Or both. Jeremy will be destroyed.”

“Then you must convince Cam not to do it.”

“I? You jest. Cam hates me.”

“Hates you? A man who is asking for your hand in marriage?”

“I told you, that is only for revenge. It does not mean he has any feeling for me. I am sure he only wants to make me suffer for how I hurt him.”

“He may say that is what it’s for. He may even believe it. But deep inside, I don’t think so. I cannot believe a man would want to tie himself to a woman for the rest of his life—for any reason—knowing that he despised her. If you went to him, explained to him—”

“Never!” Angela looked even more horrified. “Tell Cam about Dunstan and our marriage?”

“No. I did not mean you had to explain everything. Just tell him you cannot marry again, for … for personal reasons. Explain how you feel about marrying. Remind him that it isn’t Jeremy’s fault and ask him not to punish Jeremy and your family.”

“I don’t think Cam is overflowing with sympathy for my family.”

“He will listen to you. It at least warrants a try, don’t you think?”

“Yes. I suppose you are right. It is just—oh, Kate, it scares me. I don’t want to have to talk to him. Just seeing him tonight made me feel so strange. It was him, my Cam, and yet he seemed so different. And I am different, not the same person I was back then. I was foolish and naive and … and … so emotional.”

Kate smiled sadly. “Yes. I remember how you were. Always full of spirit.”

Angela frowned, uneasy. It made her feel unsettled even to remember those feelings, let alone to think of talking to Cam. However, she knew she could not hide from everything. She had spent many years forcing herself to do things that frightened her. Unconsciously, she stiffened her spine. “You are right. I will talk to Cam.”

Angela was sorry to find out that the occasion to talk to Cam alone presented itself to her the very next morning. She went down to breakfast early, as she was accustomed to doing. Generally she did so alone, since Jeremy kept town hours even when at Bridbury, and her mother and grandmother were wont to breakfast in their rooms. This morning, however, as she stepped into the dining room, she found Cam Monroe and Mr. Pettigrew already seated at the table.

“Miss Stanhope.” Mr. Pettigrew jumped to his feet. “That is, my lady. Forgive me, I am quite useless with these titles.”

Cam, whose back had been to her, turned at his employee’s words and also rose to his feet. He looked at her without expression and gave her a small bow. “My lady.”

Angela, who had stopped dead when she saw them, realized that she could not turn now and flee, as had been her first thought. She forced a small smile onto her face. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

The footman came forward to pour a cup of coffee for her at her usual place. Unfortunately, this place was beside Cam’s chair. The thought of sitting next to him made Angela’s lungs feel as if all the air were being crushed from them. But it would be rudely obvious if she was to change places after the servant had already placed her there. So she walked stiffly over to her chair and sat down, avoiding Cam’s eyes. She wished she could avoid his very presence, as well, but that was impossible. He filled up too much space and was entirely too close to her. She was aware of the heat of his skin, of his size, his breath, the faint lingering scent of his shaving soap.

She took a sip of her coffee, hoping that the trembling in her hands did not betray her too much, and glanced surreptitiously down at the men’s plates. Their plates were full; they had obviously just sat down, and they would just as obviously be here awhile. Angela considered getting herself only toast, so that she could eat quickly and leave. After all, the way her stomach felt right now, she could not eat anything, anyway.

However, when she got up and went to the breakfront, she found herself filling her plate like a trencherman, just to delay her return to the table. But when she sat down again, she could eat little, and merely toyed with it.

There was a gaping silence. Finally, Mr. Pettigrew cleared his throat and began, “I find the weather here more pleasant than I had expected. Is it always like this?”

“Usually it rains more this time of year,” Angela replied.

“I see.”

Again quiet lay upon them like a weight. Pettigrew tried again. “My compliments to your cook, Mi—I mean, my lady. The food is excellent.”

“Thank you. I will be sure to let Mrs. Fletcher know.”

Mr. Pettigrew seemed to have run out of conversational topics, for the silence stretched again. This time it was Angela who was pushed by the awkward atmosphere into attempting to make conversation. “How is your mother, Cam? Does she enjoy living in America?”

“She died a year and a half ago.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

The last exchange seemed to end all hopes of polite conversation. Pettigrew ate swiftly and silently, and after a few moments, he rose to his feet, saying, “Excuse me, sir, ma’am, uh, my lady. I, ah, I am afraid I must excuse myself from the table. It was most delicious, but I have quite a bit of work to do.”

“Of course.” Angela smiled at him graciously, and Cameron gave him a short nod. Pettigrew left the room, and the servant cleared his plates. At a gesture from Cam, he, too, exited, leaving Cam and Angela alone together.

Angela pushed her eggs around, keeping her eyes on her plate, but she kept glancing at Cam out of the corner of her eye. He looked different—older, larger, harder—and yet so much the same that it made her heart skip a little in her chest. Over the years, she had forgotten exactly how thick and long his lashes grew, how fiercely dark his eyes were, and how angular his face was.

“Have I changed so much?” Cam asked finally.

Angela colored, aware of how she had been studying him. “I—I am sorry for staring. No. You have changed but little.” She turned back to her food. She did not expect him to say the same thing about her; she knew if he did, it would not be the truth. She saw herself in the mirror every day, and she knew that though her hair was the same texture and her eyes the same color, though her body was only a little less slender and more rounded, no one could think she looked the same as she had at sixteen. The spark that had once lit her face was gone, and her drabness was only emphasized by the plain, dark gowns she wore and the severe knot into which she wound her hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin, albeit still soft and white, no longer held a glow.

“I cannot say the same about you,” Cam told her bluntly.

Angela gave him a cool, measured look. “How kind of you to say so.”

“I did not mean,” Cam said stiffly, “that you are not still beautiful.”

“I am well aware what you meant. I have not aged well, shall we say? It does not matter to me.”

“I meant,” Cam went on stubbornly, “that you did not used to be so quiet. You were never timid.”

“Timid? You make me sound like a mouse.” Angela straightened her shoulders and fixed him with a firm, clear gaze. Once, she had looked at people in that way with ease; in recent years, she had learned to do it again. She could force herself to regard a man with no fear, though inside her stomach might coil. “I am hardly that, Mr. Monroe.”

“Mr. Monroe?” He looked at her quizzically. “I hardly think I am that unfamiliar to you.”

His words reminded her forcibly of exactly how close they had been years ago, and color flooded her face. She tilted up her chin, as if he had insulted her.

“I am sorry,” he told her quickly. “I did not mean—Well, I did not intend that as it sounded. I was talking about the fact that you had called me Cam since you were eight years old.”

“We are hardly in the same positions, however. You are a grown man, and one, moreover, who holds the future of Bridbury in his hands. I can hardly address you as a child does a groom.”

“I am still Cam.”

“All right, then. Cam.” She looked away as she said it, unable any longer to meet his gaze.

There was a moment’s silence while he studied her. Finally he said, “I think ‘tis time we talked. No more intermediaries. What do you say?”

“All right.” She turned back to face him. “However, I am afraid that we have little to say. My answer to you is the same as it was the other day. I will not marry you.”

“Indeed? I had thought you were a woman of greater common sense.”

“Common sense? Is that what you call giving in to coercion? I know some who would call it cowardice.”

“‘Tis common sense to marry where there is money. Look at it logically. You are facing living in genteel poverty. If you marry me, you shall be living in luxury. You married for money before. Why balk at it now?”

Angela blanched. His casually cruel words were like a slap in the face. She stood up abruptly, pushing back her chair. Her hands tightened into fists. “I did not marry Dunstan for money. However, I know that you will think what you will, no matter what I say. You always have. I thought I had good reasons for marrying him, but despite that, I regretted it bitterly.”

“So I have heard.” He looked at her levelly.

“I will not make that mistake again. I will not sacrifice myself, even for Jeremy.”

“Would marrying me be such a sacrifice?” His face tightened, and he rose to face her. “Once you were willing enough to come to my bed.”

Angela gasped. “How dare you! I never—”

“No. But can you say that you stayed away of your own volition?” His voice was as hard as steel.

Angela could say nothing. He spoke no less than the truth. She had been like wax in his hands back then; he could have done anything with her that he wanted, and she would never have said him nay. When Cam kissed her, her body had thrummed with desire. Her skin had been like flame to his touch. Even now, remembering that time, she could almost feel a stirring of warmth.

“No,” she admitted in a low voice. “To my shame, I cannot say that it was my virtue that kept me from your bed.”

“Nor from any other man’s, apparently.”

Angela stiffened as if a red-hot poker had been laid against her skin. She struggled to keep her voice neutral. “You have heard, then, of the allegations of my divorce.”

“Yes. I read a report about the proceedings. I read on what grounds your husband sued for divorcement, and I read the testimony of the three men.”

Angela hated the surge of anger and hurt that poured through her, hated most of all that it should hurt for Cam to think her promiscuous. But she had endured worse things without showing the pain. She had borne the testimony of Dunstan’s friends, knowing that with it she got what she wanted, freedom from him. And now, in the same way, she would use it again to help herself.

She shrugged elaborately. “I should wonder, then, that you would want to marry a woman such as I am. Hardly the unblemished wife most men seek.”

“I am not looking for a virgin. There are an ample number of them around. I could have found many in the United States.”

“You do not care if your wife is unfaithful to you?”

“I know you married a man you did not love. ‘Tis not unusual to seek passion outside a loveless marriage. I also know that it would not happen in this marriage.”

“You are very sure of yourself.” Angela’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

Her tone cut him to the quick, and he moved forward so that he stood only inches from her, his coal-black eyes boring down into hers. He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “I am sure of one thing. You were a very passionate woman, and you responded to me. I don’t think you can have changed that much over the last few years.”

Suddenly, before she realized what was happening, Cam pulled her up against him, and his other arm went around her, holding her to him. He bent and took her mouth with his. His lips were warm and firm, moving insistently against hers. It had been many years, but his kiss sparked a memory of that earlier passion. For just an instant Angela was the girl she had been, felt again the desire and the eagerness, and she swayed against him. Then the much more familiar coldness rushed through her, driving out the momentary response, and she stiffened, pulling away from him.

He let her go easily, but the faint smile on his face let her know he thought he had proved his point.

“That is what you have returned for?” she asked. “You are forcing me to marry you because of lust?”

“Hardly. I could have sex with any number of women. At far less cost than what I have given for that mine and the land. Mr. Pettigrew is beginning to question my business judgment.”

“I question your sanity. Why are you so eager to marry me, a woman you have not seen in thirteen years?”

“It is part of a vow I made when I left this place. When your grandfather tossed me off the estate and you married a nobleman, a man of wealth, I vowed that someday I would have that wealth. I would move among your people as an equal. My children would have noble blood in their veins. I swore that I would return here, and I would own the Stanhopes. And I would have you.”

She stared at him. “That is at the bottom of this? The angry words of a twenty-year-old lad?”

“It was more than that. It was a vow, a promise to myself. It is what drove me, the reward I would have. I would live in this house, own this land, and you would be my wife. It would be bad luck, I think, to deviate from that plan now.”

“But surely you cannot claim to love me still, after all these years!”

His lip curled. “Hardly.” He moved away from her, saying, “I rid myself of the curse of loving you long ago. I am not seeking your love. Only the fact of marrying you.”

“But why?” Angela cried, exasperated. “What satisfaction does it give you now? What pleasure?”

“The pleasure of having proved myself to those who despised me. Of having won over my enemies. Of having conquered, finally, that old son of a bitch.”

“My grandfather?”

“Yes. That night, with every blow he dealt me, all the time telling me how you were playing with me, using me, how no Stanhope could truly love a mere stable boy, that was what I kept thinking. That I would prove him wrong. That I would marry you, that I would have more money than the Stanhopes ever dreamed of having, that I would make that blue-blooded bastard sorry.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, he died before I could do it, so I had to use Jeremy as a substitute.”

“A little unfair to Jeremy, don’t you think?” Angela snapped. She looked at him, thinking about his words. After a moment, she went on, “What did you mean, ‘with every blow’? Did he—did Grandpapa hit you? He told me he did not.”

Cam let out a snort of disbelief. “And you believed him? Of course he beat me. What did you think happened after you left the stables? The other grooms held me, and the old Earl laid into me with his cane. The Earl of Bridbury could hardly let a groom go with a tongue-lashing after he had dared to touch a Stanhope. When the grooms threw me down on my mother’s doorstep, I had three broken ribs and a concussion. That is why I did not sneak into the castle and try to get you out that night, for I was still foolish enough that I thought you would want to leave with me.”

Angela’s stomach twisted as she thought of what he had endured. She swallowed. “I—I am sorry. I did not know.”

“It was hardly unexpected. I knew what would happen if we were caught. I took the risk. At the time, I thought it was worth it.”

Angela turned and walked away. It was strange how, after all this time and all the other things that had happened to her, his bitter words had the power to hurt her. She had thought herself numb to pain, as well as to joy, for years now. She was not sure she liked finding out that she was not.

She turned around resolutely. “I did not deal with you unfaithfully.” When his eyebrow rose sardonically, she raised her hand, saying, “No, there is no need to protest. I realize that you do not believe me. You did not even then, when you still loved me. I did what I thought was necessary, and it … pained me to hurt you. I wanted that least of all. My family wronged you. Because of me, you were dealt with cruelly. It would have been far better if we had never … felt what we did. But all that is in the past, and we cannot do anything to change it. You must see that. No matter what you force me to do now or how badly you ruin Jeremy, you cannot make the whole thing come out any better. You cannot change my grandfather’s words or wipe out his blows. The only thing you will accomplish is to tie yourself to a woman who does not wish to marry you, and that hardly seems the way to lead a happy life. Why don’t you find someone you love, someone who will love you back? Then you could have a good life.”

He grimaced. “Thank you for your concern, my lady, but I have no interest in this sugarcoated future you envision for me. You see, I did get something of value from my dealings with the Stanhopes. I learned exactly how useless ‘love’ is. We were in love, and it did not help us. It did not stop your grandfather from separating us. It did not heal me. It did not keep you from marrying someone else. And, much as you seem to revere the idea of it, I do not see that it has kept you from winding up out here, a recluse, an outcast from your own people, divorced, shamed…. What do I need with this ‘love’ of yours?”

Angela’s cheeks flamed with color at his description of her life. “You think so highly of me, I can readily understand why you wish to marry me. Good God, Cam, don’t be such a fool! Marrying me is no way to move in the best circles. I am divorced and messily so. My reputation is thoroughly and permanently blackened. If you want position and heirs, not love, then find some other poor girl of good family. There are more families than the Stanhopes who are of good lineage and who would be happy to sell their daughter for a little cash. Let her give you noble children and entrée into Society. It would be far easier for both of you. But, for pity’s sake, leave me and mine alone!”

He regarded her silently for a long moment. Finally, he said, as if the words had been wrenched from him, “Would that I could! I wish to heaven some other family, some other little chit, could soothe the thing that has been burning in me for thirteen years. But they will not. No matter how difficult, how contrary, you are, no matter what your reputation has been, you are the only one who will satisfy me. You are the one I will have.”

He gave her a brisk nod, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Angela where she was, gaping after him.




CHAPTER THREE


JASON PETTIGREW reluctantly drew his gaze from the much more interesting sight of the maid Kate polishing the brass sconces in the hall, which he could see through the open door of the study, and turned to look at his employer, who was pacing back and forth across the room, his brow furrowed.

“She is the most exasperating female,” Monroe was saying, his mouth set in a grim expression. “Not at all the way she was when I knew her.”

“I’m sure not, sir,” Pettigrew agreed, firmly thrusting aside the memory of the neat turn of Kate’s ankles as she stood on the stool, stretching up to reach the sconce, and the jiggle of her bosom beneath the maid’s uniform as she rubbed at the metal.

Cam paused, thinking about Angela as she had been thirteen years earlier—sparkling and full of life, her eyes lighting up whenever she saw him, that irrepressible smile bursting across her face. He could still remember how eagerly he had awaited each sight of her, how his heart had pounded in his chest whenever she came near. And it had not been only her beauty, but her spirit and sweetness, as well. But then, he reminded himself harshly, he had not really known her at all. What he remembered of her had been merely his illusion, the fiction that he had attached to her beauty.

“No doubt I am a fool even to try to marry her.”

Pettigrew looked up warily at Monroe’s words. They were the first thing his employer had said about this whole matter that made any sense to him. “Perhaps,” he began tentatively, “we should return to London, then.”

Cam flashed him a look that sent the faint hope of leaving out of his head. “No doubt. But I’m not going to. Damn it! She is going to be my wife.”

Pettigrew shifted uneasily in his chair. He had worked for Cameron Monroe for almost seven years, and in all that time, he had never seen him like this. God knew, he could be a hard man, and he was driven by demons that Jason did not understand, but Monroe was always practical, patient and, above all, calm and self-possessed, even to the point of coldness. He had never acted irrationally or in the heat of the moment … until now.

What he was doing made no sense to Jason. It was hardly as if there were not plenty of young women back in the U.S. who would be more than happy to be Mrs. Cameron Monroe. He was one of the wealthiest men in the country, and he was still young, no more than thirty-three or thirty-four, as well as quite handsome. There had been any number of hopeful mothers throwing their daughters in his path the past few years. And if he was so set on marrying into the English nobility—another thing Jason Pettigrew found difficult to understand—it was well-known that there were plenty of impoverished nobles in Britain who would be more than willing to make a financially advantageous marriage for one of their daughters.

However, Cam was dead set on this one family and this one woman, who, having been involved in a scandalous divorce, was not even socially acceptable. It was not as if she were beautiful, either. Pettigrew would admit that she was pretty … in a very subdued way. Her blue eyes were fine and intelligent, her oval face was almost perfectly modeled, and her hair was an intriguing reddish color. But her features were devoid of animation, and she wore her hair screwed tightly into a bun. Her clothes were dark and drab, successfully hiding whatever sort of figure she had. Jason did not think he had once seen her smile or heard her laugh since he came to Bridbury. Certainly she exhibited none of the feminine graces or flirtatious airs that were likely to lure a man.

Yet Monroe was determined to have her, even to the point of using all the force of his power and wealth to coerce her into marrying him. Certainly Pettigrew was not fool enough to try to dissuade Cam Monroe from a course he was set upon.

“I thought she would be reasonable,” Monroe went on. “Pragmatic. God knows she went to Dunstan willingly enough, and she had no feeling for him.”

Despite what had happened, Cam was certain on that particular point. Whatever she had lied about when he was in love with her, he had felt the passion in her for him. He had also seen her with Lord Dunstan once or twice that weekend, and she had been completely uninterested in him. No, marriage to Dunstan had been for family reasons, for money. Cam had been certain she would be guided by the same motives here. Had Dunstan soured her so on the state of marriage? Or was it that she had discovered she could never be content with just one man? Cam quickly shut that thought out of his mind; he did not like to think of Angela’s promiscuity. The idea of her being with even one other man had tormented his nights when he first went to America. The thought that she had in reality had at least three other lovers, maybe more, had gnawed at him from the first moment that he read the lawyer’s report.

“Do you think the allegations at the divorce trial were true?” he asked abruptly, startling Pettigrew, whose thoughts had not followed the same trail.

“What? Oh, well, uh, she did not deny them.” Pettigrew was well aware that he was treading on very delicate ground. No man, least of all one as proud as Cameron Monroe, would like to think that he was going to marry a hussy. He thought hastily. “On the other hand, she certainly does not look like the sort of woman who would … ah …”

“No,” Cam agreed quickly. “She looks—well, except for sometimes when she seems to forget herself and gets angry and her eyes flash—she looks almost mousy. But Angela never had an ounce of fear in her.” He smiled faintly. “I remember how she used to ride, even when she was little, how she’d throw her heart over the fences.”

Pettigrew looked at his employer narrowly. He heard the tinge of affection in Cam’s voice, and not for the first time, he wondered what had linked Monroe with this woman in the past. He knew no more than anyone else in the United States did what Cameron Monroe’s history had been before he came to America. He had heard stories, of course, about his grit and determination, about his courage in the oil fields of Pennsylvania and his shrewd business sense. But about the time before he had arrived in New York, at the age of twenty, Pettigrew knew nothing.

“You, ah, taught her to ride?” he asked colorlessly.

Cam shook his head. “No. That was old Wicker’s job, and he was quite jealous of it. He taught all the Stanhopes to ride. I came to work in the stables when I was eleven. I used to watch her riding about the ring on her little pony, Wicker holding the leading rein. She always wanted him to let her go. She was only seven. Later, when she was older, I would ride out with her to make sure she came to no harm—as if anyone around here would have touched a hair on her head. They all loved her.”

Jason was growing more and more interested. He was beginning to suspect that his employer had been one of those many people who loved her. Had he loved her all these years? But then, Jason reminded himself, the means that Monroe had chosen to persuade Angela Stanhope to marry him would hardly qualify as loverlike. No, only anger and bitterness could have engendered his harsh methods.

“Perhaps, sir,” he suggested cautiously, “you might want to woo the lady in question.”

“Woo her?” Cam’s eyebrows vaulted upward.

“Yes. Women seem to like that. Perhaps she does not like to feel as if you were, ah, purchasing her, no matter how pragmatic she may be in marrying for money. Or it is possible that she might resent the manner in which you forced her hand.”

Cam cast him an amused glance. “Are you trying to say, in your diplomatic way, that the lady despises me because I am forcing her into marriage? I am well aware of that. I am not asking for her affection.” His face turned grim. “But, damn it to hell, why is she not giving in despite her dislike?”

“You do not care if your wife dislikes you?” Pettigrew asked neutrally.

Monroe frowned at him. “I should think you, of all people, are well aware that this is no love match.”

Pettigrew refrained from pointing out that, at this moment, it was no match at all. Angela Stanhope might be willing to risk Monroe’s bad temper, but Jason was not. “Yes, sir. It is just that it seems a mite uncomfortable, sir. There is a vast difference between an indifferent marriage and one in which there is open animosity.”

Monroe gave him a level look. “I believe I will be able to handle it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Monroe turned away from him and walked to the window. He stood silently for a few minutes, gazing out at the gardens. When he turned back, his face was set and impassive. “We will have to apply more pressure.”

Jason hesitated. “You mean, tell the Earl about the … the information we have?”

“Yes.” Cam paused, watching his assistant. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Jason glanced away, then brought his gaze back to meet Cam’s squarely. “I am not accustomed to blackmail, sir.”

“Don’t worry. You will not have to do it. I shall speak to Bridbury myself.”

“He—he seems a nice enough man,” Jason went on.

“And you would hate to ruin his reputation, is that it?” Cam smiled faintly as Jason nodded, a little sheepishly. “Well, you need not be ashamed of feeling that way, man. There’s nothing wrong with having scruples. Don’t worry, ‘tis an empty threat. I would not use it against him, either. It is useless to me except in the possibility of using it. The actuality serves me nothing. But I hope it will concern them enough that they will agree to my terms.”

“Yes, sir.” Pettigrew still looked slightly troubled. “But, sir … well, is it worth it?”

“Oh, yes. To me it is. It is very much worth it.”

Angela decided that the best way to avoid Cam was to take a long walk with her dogs. Accordingly, she put on a pair of stout boots and headed out the front door, Wellington and Pearl close on her heels. But before she could reach the front door, Cam stepped out of the library.

“Angela.”

She came to a halt, mentally cursing her bad luck, and slowly turned around. He came toward her. The two dogs turned and watched him, Pearl with interest and Wellington with some distrust. As he came closer, Cam looked down at the dogs, and a small smile touched his lips.

“Well, hello, old fella,” he said quietly, extending a hand toward Wellington. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d still be here.”

Wellington came forward slowly, sniffing at the outstretched hand. His tail began to wag and he put his head under Cam’s hand, giving it an inviting bump. Cam chuckled and began to stroke him.

“Traitor,” Angela murmured.

“Well, I am the one who gave him to you,” Cam pointed out. “You have a good memory,” he told the dog, scratching in just the right spot behind Wellington’s ears.

Even Angela had to smile a little at the memory. She and Cam had been riding, only a few weeks before Cam had admitted his love for her. They had come upon the miller’s son and a few of his cronies down by the pond. The boys had been throwing a puppy into the pond, a rock tied to his neck to pull him down. “That’s true,” she said softly. “I’ll never forget the way you jumped into the pond to save him.”

He cast her an amused glance. “Nor will I forget the way you boxed the miller’s boy’s ears.”

Angela shrugged. “Well, he deserved it. He was a heartless little criminal. As I remember, you sent him on his way with a few choice words in his ear.”

She did not add, though she remembered it quite well, that she had given her heart utterly into his keeping at that moment, when he had walked toward her from the pond, dripping wet, holding that squirming little puppy against his chest. Angela cleared her throat and looked away.

“Well, Wellington has managed to stay alive quite well ever since then. Now, if you will excuse me, we were just on our way out.”

“Perhaps I could walk with you. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” she replied shortly, turning her gaze away from his. “And I prefer to be alone, thank you.” She started for the door, snapping her fingers for the dogs to follow. Cam made no move to follow her, merely stood watching her until she and her companions were out the door.

Angela managed to stay well out of Cam’s way the remainder of the day, not returning from her walk until it was almost time for dinner. She wished she could have skipped that, too, but nothing less than illness was an acceptable reason to her grandmother for not dressing formally and coming down for the evening meal.

It was not a comfortable dinner party. The eldest Lady Bridbury was haughty and frigidly polite, obviously displeased at being forced to break bread with a former groom. Jeremy looked quite pale and contributed little to the conversation, while Cam was about as voluble and expressive as a rock. It was left to Angela and Mr. Pettigrew to utter a few inanities about the weather and the landscape. Angela’s mother contributed by describing the latest condition of her health. Angela was relieved when the elder Lady Bridbury rose, indicating that the ladies could retire. She spent only a few minutes with her mother and grandmother in the drawing room, listening to her grandmother complaining bitterly about what the world had come to, what with grooms eating with earls, before she pleaded a headache and retreated to her room.

It was some time later, when Kate had helped her change into her nightclothes and had herself retired, and Angela was sitting up reading in the hopes that it would help her to fall asleep more easily, that there was a light tap at her door and Jeremy stuck his head in the door.

He gave her a small, set smile. “Hallo. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” Angela laid her book aside and motioned him toward the other chair. Though she and Jeremy were very fond of one another, they had never been the sort for cozy late-night chats. She remembered the way he had seemed through the evening meal. “Is something wrong?”

Again he gave her a forced smile. “Wrong? No, I just wanted to talk to you.” He paused, scrutinizing his hands for a moment, as if they contained the secrets of the universe. “Well, actually.” He sighed. “Yes. There is something wrong. I—Cam talked to me again this afternoon about the possibility of your marrying him.”

Angela grimaced. “I told him very plainly this morning that I would not. I cannot think what he hopes to accomplish by badgering you about it.”

“Uh, well, I believe he feels that I could, ah, persuade you to accept his proposal.”

Angela gave him a flat look. “Is that why you came here tonight? To try again to convince me to marry him?”

Her brother’s stricken look was all the answer she needed.

“Jeremy! I told you. I thought you understood.”

“I do! Really, I do. It is not that I don’t realize how you feel or that I don’t think you are right. I do. It is outrageous to ask you to marry him in order to save us. To save me.” He jumped to his feet and walked across the room and back, jingling his watch chain nervously. Finally he stopped in front of her and said in a tight, quiet voice, “It is simply that my need is so pressing, I had to try again. Angela, please, reconsider. It is wrong of me, I know, but I am begging you.”

Sympathy and frustration swelled painfully in Angela’s chest. “Oh, Jeremy, if it were anything else … but I cannot marry again.”

“I—I am sure Cam would not be a husband like Dunstan was. He—he seems a decent sort, even if he is, well, what he is. But, you know, if we lived in another place, like the United States, say, his rank would not even matter.”

“It is not his rank! You know that.”

“Of course. I mean, I understand perfectly that even if he were a duke, you would not wish to marry again. The thing is, you see, I—I’m in a rather desperate situation.”

“I know!” Angela clasped her hands tightly together in her lap, fighting against the tears that sprang into her eyes. She could not bear Jeremy’s obvious agony, yet she was horribly certain that she would always regret it if she gave in and did what he wanted. “I want to help. I wish I were brave enough to do it for you. But when I think of marrying again, of being subject to my husband’s moods and whims. And, Jeremy … it would be worse, I fear, because Cam already hates me. He thinks I was lying to him, back then, when Grandpapa caught us. He thinks that I never really cared for him, that I was only toying with him. He thinks that I married Dunstan because Dunstan was rich.”

“Tell him the truth, then.”

“I have tried! He will not listen to me. He doesn’t believe me. He just wants his revenge.”

“Yes, and he will have it, one way or another,” Jeremy agreed bitterly. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes, and said, “Angela, I am begging you. It isn’t just the money, though God knows that is bad enough. It—There is more. If you do not marry him, he has threatened to reveal … Well, he knows something about me, and if he tells everyone, I will be ruined. Not just me, either. Rosemary will be destroyed. The children, too. The whole family will be tainted by the scandal.”

Guilt gnawed at Angela. She knew that whatever scandal might come would be that much worse because of the scandal her own divorce had caused four years ago. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears welling from her eyes and beginning to course down her cheeks. “I am so sorry.”

“He will tell everyone,” her brother went on grimly, “what his investigators discovered about me. You see, he had men poking into everything, looking everywhere, finding all the family’s weak spots. I was the weakest.” Jeremy closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “They—they followed me to a club I sometimes frequent and … and they followed some of my friends from the club, also. They tracked me down to a flat where, uh, someone I know lives, and they questioned all the people who live around there. Oh, God, Angela, he knows that I have desires that are … not normal. Lascivious, sinful. Illegal. Ever since Eton, I—Well, there was a boy in the upper form, and we—”

He broke off, and Angela stared at him. “I don’t understand. Jeremy, what are you talking about?”

“I loved him!” he cried out fiercely. “He was a boy, but I loved him. I let him—We lay together. We had carnal knowledge of each other.”

Angela gaped. “Of a man?”

“Yes. I tried to stop. I really did. After school, I tried to keep away. Then, when I met Rosemary, I thought it was actually over. I loved her. I really did. I still do. I thought that a miracle had happened, that God had answered my prayers. I was attracted to her. I was able to … to bed her.” He blushed fierily. “Oh, God, I cannot believe that I am discussing this with you. You must hate me.”

“No! Oh, Jeremy, no, I could never hate you.”

“Well, I hate myself. I haven’t any will. I cannot stay away from that life. Despite my love for Rosemary, despite the children we conceived, I keep going back there. And Monroe knows. So will everyone, if you do not marry him.”

He heaved a sigh and sank down into the chair. “Forgive me. I’ve made such a mess of everything. Now our entire lives are at Cam Monroe’s mercy.”

“You have had some help with that.” Angela’s eyes flashed, and she clenched her hands. “Damn him to hell for this!”

She whirled and stalked to her door, rage building in her. She flung open her door with a crash and charged out.

“Angela!” Belatedly Jeremy jumped to his feet. “No, wait! Where are you going? Come back.”

He started after her, but by the time he reached the doorway, she was already down the hall and pounding on Monroe’s door. Before Cam could even get out an “Enter,” she had turned the knob and thrown the door open.

Cameron was sitting at his desk, and he turned at the noise of her entry. His eyebrows lifted when he saw her, and he rose slowly to his feet, watching her. “Angela …”

This, he thought, was much more the woman he had known. Her hair was no longer up and restrained, but flowing like a copper fire down her back. The color was high in her face, and her eyes glittered with strong emotion. There was passion in her once more, even if it was the passion of anger. She was dressed for bed, and though her dressing gown revealed nothing more than the dresses she wore during the day, it carried the suggestion of intimacy. No man but a family member or husband would see a woman in this attire. Desire stirred in Cam as he faced her, awaiting almost with eagerness the storm she obviously carried inside herself.

“How could you?” she raged, slamming the door shut behind her and striding across the room toward him. “What kind of a monster have you turned into? I never would have believed that you would stoop to something like this! That you were the kind of low, conniving, heartless bastard who would ruin a man and his family just to get what you want!”

Angela was furious, too angry to think or to fear him. Her hand itched to slap him, to wipe the smug look from his face.

“You might as well give up, Angela,” Cam replied, in an almost bored voice guaranteed to raise the level of her fury. “I have become accustomed to getting what I want. This time it is you.”

“Well, you are not getting me! I’ll be damned if I will marry a man like you. You have no conscience, no principles. I hate you! There must be ice water in your veins, not blood! How could you have changed so? How could you have turned into this … this vile creature?”

His eyes narrowed. “Your family had a little to do with it, my lady.”

“Oh, no, don’t blame us for what you are. Your soul must always have been black for you to have turned out as cruel a man as you are.”

“An odd thing for you to say, a woman who married a man she did not love for the money he could give her. A woman who was divorced by him because she slept with three of his friends—or, I should say, three that are known. For three of them to testify, there must have been others who would not. How many men did you sleep with altogether, Angela?”

Angela trembled, aflame with anger and hurt, hating him, and yet cut to her heart by his obvious disgust of her. “What does it matter to you?” she hissed. “If nothing else, the price you want to pay for me should be less, shouldn’t it, since I am damaged goods?”

His mouth twisted, and his eyes lit dangerously. It galled him that she would not deny the charges, would not explain why she had done what she had or express even the slightest regret. Yet, at the same time, he could not look at her snapping eyes and flushed face, her breasts heaving with the rapid rush of fury, and not feel a stab of desire pierce his loins. She was beautiful and wild, enticing in her rage. He wanted suddenly to touch her, to pull her to him and feel her lips beneath his again. He wanted to blot out the memory of her husband and all the others from her mind with his kisses, his caresses. He took a step toward her, his hand going out to touch her cheek.

Angela gasped, ice-cold fear rushing through her and dousing the fury that had propelled her. She took a quick step backward, flinching away. He stopped, his hand in midair, and his brows rushed together in a scowl.

“My, God, Angela, do you despise me that much?” he growled. “Have you become so aristocratic that my mere touch would debase you?”

She braced herself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was here, of Cam’s power and her lack of it. The old familiar fear gripped her, turning her bowels to ice. She loathed herself for that fear, for the desire to turn and run, to give in to whatever he demanded. She could not back down, could not let her fear show.

“You debase yourself. What you do to people, the cold, selfish calculation in you—that is what I despise.”

“I see.” Cam crossed his arms over his chest, watching the color disappear from her face and the light from her eyes, replaced by the ice that had been there this morning. He regretted the transformation. “Well, that is what I am now.” He turned away and strolled back to the desk, saying casually, “Tell me, do you plan to despise me as a stranger or as my wife?”

His words surprised a brief burst of laughter from her. “God, can you really be this callous? Do you not even care that you marry a woman who hates you?”

He shrugged as he sat back down in his chair. He gestured with his hand toward another chair, but Angela shook her head, remaining where she was. The moment of fear had pierced the hot bubble of her anger, letting it drain away and leaving her feeling sick and wrung out. She wanted to get away, to go back to her bed and pull the covers over her head like a child. Yet something in her made her stay.

Cam looked at her, steepling his fingers together. “A willing wife is certainly easier,” he said, as unconcerned as if they were talking about the weather. “However, it is not one of my conditions.”

“What are your conditions?”

“Then you are ready to negotiate?”

“I did not say that,” she replied carefully.

“You have let me know what a low and filthy soul I am, and I have acknowledged it. Now we can get down to bargaining. My condition is that you marry me as soon as possible. In return, I will tear up your brother’s personal notes. I will invest money in the mines and the land so that both can be restored to their former profitability. I will take over their running—only in actuality, of course, not in title. For the time being, we will live here, as I will have some work to do to bring the mine and lands back into shape. The castle will need restoring, as well. There is dry rot in the Elizabethan gallery, I understand.”

“And what about the report on my brother? What about the threat you hold over his head?”

“I would have little reason to besmirch the reputation of my own brother-in-law, now, would I? I will toss the report on the fire, and I have paid the investigators enough to ensure their silence. No one will know of it.” He paused, then added, “You shall have your own fund, of course, for your pocket money. Jeremy should be all right without the interest of all his debts weighing him down and without the expenses of this house. But if it’s necessary, I shall give him an allowance until the farm and mines start to yield better profits.”

“So … on the one hand, destruction—on the other, beneficence. How easily you play God.”

“Not God. Merely a man who knows what he wants.”

“I see. And what other people want does not matter.”

He shrugged. “We are negotiating, are we not? If you want something, say so.”

Angela started to remind him that she was not negotiating terms with him, that she had no intention of accepting his offer, but it seemed too much effort at the moment.

“Come, come, Angela, surely there is something you want from me.”

“All I want is my freedom.”

“You shall have plenty of freedom—more freedom than you have now, in fact, since you will be a married woman, and one with money. Money creates a great deal of freedom. I have proven that.”

“No wife is free,” Angela replied flatly. “She is always subject to her husband’s whims.”

“I am a man of few whims.” The faint smile on his face goaded her.

“I do not wish to share your bed,” she told him bluntly.

Her words seemed to hang in the air. Angela flushed. Suddenly she was very aware of the fact that she wore only a nightgown and robe and that Cam was very casually dressed, his coat and tie off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing a vee of browned chest, lightly dotted with black hairs. Angela swallowed and looked away. There was a strange sensation in her stomach, the flicker of some long-ago feeling. She remembered how it had been when she and Cam were in love, the way they had rushed together at every opportunity. They would ride out behind the ruins of an old shepherd’s hut, to a copse of trees there, and she would dismount, sliding down into Cam’s arms.

Angela knew that she would never forget the look in his eyes, so dark they were almost black, yet leaping with a flame, or the way his mouth widened sensually as he smiled up at her. He would let her slide slowly down through his strong hands, and then he would pull her to him and kiss her. Angela shifted and cleared her throat. Her stomach was jumping wildly around.

“Indeed?” Cam said coolly. “An odd request, coming from you.”

Angela stiffened at the implied insult and whirled to stalk out of the room. Cam was up and after her in an instant. His hand lashed out and curled around her wrist, pulling her to a stop.

“Why?” he growled. “Just tell me that! Why did you sleep with those others, yet you would rather let your brother sink into ruin than sleep with me? Is it because of who I am? Because the blood in my veins isn’t pure enough? Is my skin too dirty to touch yours?”

Angela started to deny his words hotly, but reason stopped her. Let him think what he would, as long as it gave him a disgust of her. Then he would no longer desire to marry her. She raised her chin a little and stared straight back into his face, forcing herself to hold her gaze steady.

“I am a Stanhope,” she told him proudly. “Perhaps when I was young I was foolish enough to think birth did not matter, but I know better now. Money will never make you a gentleman. I cannot lie with a man who is anything else.”

Ostentatiously Cam dropped her wrist and walked away. Angela braced herself, prepared for a loud and angry condemnation of her shallowness. She was surprised when, after a moment, he turned and said in a clipped voice, “Are those your terms? Not to sleep in my bed? If I agree to that, you are willing to marry me?”

Angela stared at him, flabbergasted. “What? You still want to marry me? Knowing how I feel about you?”

His face was as impassive as stone. “I told you, I expect no love match. ‘Tis more a … a business arrangement on both sides. I did not ask to marry you in order to get between your sheets. If you think that I could live with a cold wife and not keep a warm and willing mistress stashed away for comfort, then you are very much mistaken.”

Angela’s lip curled. “Of course. You would have to have a mistress.”

“What do you think? That I should live a celibate because you are too fine a lady to let a common man into your bed?”

“No. I think only that you should leave me in peace.”

“However, if I agreed to such terms, it would eliminate the possibility of heirs, now, wouldn’t it? I had wanted to have children with the Stanhope blood, the Stanhope place in Society. I had wanted to see my children acknowledged by families such as yours.”

“You think that our children would have any place in Society?” Angela retorted sarcastically. “The offspring of a servant and a divorcée? There isn’t a chance in hell. You would do better if you married a genteel maiden, even if her parentage were lower. Better yet, go back to the United States. It is where you belong.”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “I have found that I do not belong anywhere.” He paused, then went on, “Again I ask, what if I agree to your terms? If I agreed that sharing a bed would not be part of our arrangement, would you marry me then?”

She gazed at him stormily, hating the roil of emotions inside her, hating his unflappable calm. Jeremy desperately needed her help, and she owed him for the way he had helped her during and after her divorce. She felt very guilty about refusing to do what was necessary to save him; it seemed horribly selfish. If Cam remained true to his word, perhaps it would not be so bad. Cam had never been mean or violent with her when they were young, and he seemed not to have enough emotions about her now to get enraged enough to hit her. If he kept to his promise not to make her sleep with him.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I would have no way of being sure that the terms would be fulfilled. ‘Twould be easy to say that you would not take me, but after we were married, my body would be yours, not mine.”

Cam’s eyes darkened at her words, and his mouth softened subtly. “A curious way to put it,” he murmured.

“A truthful way.”

“If I gave you my word, you must realize that I would not break it. Surely you know me well enough to know that.”

“I don’t know you at all anymore.” Angela took a step back, glancing around her uncertainly. “I don’t know what to do.” She turned and ran from the room.

Angela sat on the bench in the arbor, sketching a stand of irises that had just come into bloom. She had spent most of the past three days, ever since her confrontation with Cam, out on the moors, so that she could avoid having to talk to him. Her plan had worked well so far, but she was getting tired of having to escape from her own home, and when she saw the purplish irises, she had given in to an urge to draw them.

Her usual companions were sprawled around her. The sun was pleasantly warm on her face, and she felt lazy and contented. It was almost the way it was normally, the way it had been before Cam and Mr. Pettigrew came. The way it would be again, if only they would leave. She let out a little groan at the fact that she had allowed him to intrude upon her thoughts.

She closed her eyes and turned sideways on the bench, leaning back against the arched trellis that formed the arbor, and tried to recapture the feeling of content she had had earlier. She told herself that everything would be better later—except that Jeremy was going to be ruined financially, as well as socially. Firmly she pushed that thought from her mind. But she could not make it stay away. Angela knew that she could not let Jeremy be destroyed on her account. It was entirely within her power to save him. She hated that fact. She hated Cam for having put her in such a position. She wondered what marriage to Cam might be like, whether he would keep his promise not to seek her bed.

Years ago, she would have trusted him with her life, she knew. He had been her god, her idol; she had loved him with a child’s worshiping heart long before they fell in love as adults. Her father had died when she was young, and her mother had usually been sick, which had left her in the company of her grandparents, who were too old and not of the disposition, anyway, to enjoy talking to or playing with a child. She had been left primarily in the charge of her governess after she got old enough to leave Nurse’s care, and that prim woman had provided little affection or attention to a girl hungry for it. But Cam had had time for her. He had listened to her, talked to her, been her friend.

Hot tears welled in Angela’s eyes, surprising her, and seeped out beneath her lids.

“Crying at the prospect of your wedding, my dear?” a familiar voice drawled, not three feet away from her. “Can’t say that I blame you.”

Angela gasped, her eyes flying open, her entire body suddenly chilled to the marrow. Lord Dunstan was standing on the narrow dirt pathway that led to the arbor.




CHAPTER FOUR


SHE HAD NOT seen him in four years. She had thought—hoped and prayed—never to see him again. It was such a shock to have him there in front of her, without warning, that for a moment she felt as if she could not breathe. She simply stared at him, unable to move or to speak, her insides turned to ice.

“Ah, I can tell that you are surprised to see me,” he continued coolly. He looked much the same. Dissipation had yet to mar his well-proportioned face. He looked cold and perfect, as if he had been carved out of marble, and his clothes were in the height of fashion and of the best material. Lord Dunstan allowed nothing but the finest around him.

Angela forced herself to stand up and face him. She could not let him see that she still feared him; nothing would please him more. “What are you doing here?”

She was pleased that her voice did not tremble. She clenched her fists at her side. Her entire body was rigid. Would anyone hear her inside the house if she screamed? The walls of Bridbury Castle had been built to withstand sieges. Beside her, Wellington lumbered to his feet, eyeing their visitor distrustfully.

“I came because I was concerned about you,” Dunstan told her, his voice mockingly sympathetic. “I could not believe the rumors I heard. I had to see for myself.”

“I can’t see why. Nothing about me is any longer of your concern.”

“But you are my wife! Of course what you do is my concern.”

“Was,” Angela pointed out firmly. “I was your wife.”

“Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but, though the legal bonds between us may be broken, I still feel that you belong to me.” His pale green eyes swept down her body knowingly. Angela shivered; it was as if a snake had slithered across her path. “You see, I am very familiar with every inch of you.”

“Go away, Dunstan. You have no right to be here.”

“I cannot leave until I learn what I came here for. I heard that your brother, not the most discriminating of men, as we both know—” again there was a knowing leer in his eyes, and Angela was certain that he, too, knew about Jeremy’s sexual habits “—that Jeremy was entertaining your former stable boy in his home. Odd, I thought. It couldn’t be true, but I heard it so frequently, I decided I must drop by and see if it was true.”

“Cameron Monroe is visiting here, if that is what you mean.” Angela tried for a haughty tone, but the icy amusement in Dunstan’s eyes told her that he saw right through her pose.

“My dear girl, really, you can’t mean you still have your predilection for low types. I would have thought you had lost that by now.” He sighed. “Ah, well, one would have hoped that Jeremy, at least, would have more thought to the Stanhope name.”

“What do you care about the Stanhope name? It is none of your business who is visiting us, anyway.”

“It is my business when my wife—all right, my former wife—is rumored to be marrying a servant. How do you think that looks, for you to go from me to a stable lad?”

“I don’t care how it looks! It has nothing to do with you!”

“Ah, but everything about you has to do with me,” he replied, reaching out and stroking his knuckles down her cheek. Angela flinched instinctively. “I see you still remember.”

“Of course I remember,” Angela replied in a choked voice. “How could I possibly forget?”

“Then you must remember how completely I owned you, my dear. I still do. Whatever other man might have you, you will always have my stamp upon you.”

Bile rose in Angela’s throat, and she swallowed hard to keep from gagging. Dunstan, watching her, smiled.

“I wouldn’t mind having you back,” he continued. “It takes so many years to school a woman as adequately as I had schooled you, you know. ‘Tis such a chore, having to train others. And, I find, there are few who are quite as … titillating as you are.”

Angela could not hide the convulsive shiver that ran down her spine at his words. She felt pinned between Dunstan and the arbor bench behind her. She wanted to run around the bench and up the path to the house, but she hated to turn her back to him almost as much as she hated facing him. Besides, it galled her to let him know how much he scared her. That had always been one of the things from which he derived the most pleasure.

“You will never have me back.”

“Won’t I?” Dunstan’s mouth twisted in a smile. “I told you, it is all over London that Jeremy is on the threshold of debtor’s prison. Everyone knows you are for sale to the highest bidder. Why else would Jeremy entertain the notion of allying your family to that of a servant? I should think he would be grateful to me if I were to save him from denigrating the Stanhope name in such a fashion. I can pay off his debts, and I would think he would be suitably grateful to me. Don’t you? Of course, marriage would be out of the question now. An Asquith could have a divorcée as no more than a mistress, say.”

Angela sucked in her breath and stiffened. A white-hot rage swept through her. Dunstan watched her with a faint smile on his lips, enjoying the reaction his words had caused in her.

“Angela?” Her brother’s voice came across the yard.

Angela whirled. Jeremy was hurrying toward her along the path from the house, a worried frown on his face. Cam Monroe was beside him, looking wonderfully solid and safe. A feeling of power surged up in Angela. Suddenly she felt stronger and more confident. She glanced at Dunstan. There was something in his eyes that told her the thought of her marrying Cam Monroe galled him. It was pride, she decided, pride and possessiveness. He hated to think that another man—worst of all, someone of lowly birth—might own something that had been his, for that was the way Dunstan had thought of her, as one of his beautiful possessions.

“Ah, and this must be your swain,” Dunstan commented, his mouth curling into a sneer.

“Yes, it is,” Angela said loudly, turning toward the approaching men and holding out her hand. “Cam, I would like for you to meet Lord Dunstan.” She turned toward her former husband, lifting her chin in a gesture that was both defiant and triumphant. “Dunstan, this is my fiancé, Cameron Monroe.”

Jeremy stopped dead, his mouth dropping open. Cam’s eyes widened slightly, but he gave no other sign of his astonishment as he went to Angela and took the hand she offered.

“Good morning, my love.” He bent and gave Angela a peck on the cheek, then turned to the other man and bowed. “Lord Dunstan.”

Dunstan’s nostrils flared, and a deadly light flickered in his eyes. Angela thought for a moment that he was going to refuse to return the acknowledgment. But polite behavior had been bred into Dunstan more deeply than morals, and, after a moment, he sketched a stiff bow. “Monroe.”

“I presume Lord Dunstan was about to leave,” Cam went on pleasantly, glancing from Angela’s pale face to the man’s. “Sorry that we did not get to talk, my lord. Why don’t I walk you out? That way we can chat a little.”

“Perfectly all right,” Dunstan said smoothly. “I know my way.” A knowing smile touched his lips as he went on. “I have been here before you.”

Cam’s smile was more a baring of teeth. He understood the double meaning that the other man intended to convey, but he refused to acknowledge it. “However, I am sure it is no longer familiar to you. I insist on escorting you to your horse.”

He moved to Dunstan’s side, and the only way the other man could avoid Cam’s taking his arm and propelling him along was to turn and voluntarily move forward, though it was clear from the chill on his face that it galled him to do so.

Jeremy moved over to his sister and slid a comforting arm around her shoulders, asking in a low voice, “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Angela nodded. But the momentary flush of victory she had felt was fading. She felt sick and weak in the knees, and her mind was whirling. “Oh, God, Jeremy, what have I done?”

Cam was certain that Angela was regretting what she had said. He carefully avoided her for the rest of the day, so that she would not have a chance to withdraw her hastily uttered words. Instead, he spent the time closeted with Mr. Pettigrew and Jeremy, drawing up the terms of the marriage contract and making sure that the announcement of the impending marriage was sent to the Times. At dinner, Jeremy announced the engagement to his mother and grandmother. Angela looked a trifle trapped, but she made no demur. Cam went to bed that night feeling pretty well satisfied with himself.

He was awakened by screams. He was out of the bed and headed toward the door before he was awake enough to realize what had happened. He paused, shaking his head to clear it, thinking for an instant that it must have been a dream. But then he heard a woman’s voice again, raised in fear, saying, “No, no, please.” in a way that sent chills down his spine. It was Angela’s voice.

It was the same as always. She was running down a long, dark corridor, her heart pounding, her breath rasping in her lungs. She was fleeing the thing behind her, the faceless horror that followed her. She didn’t know exactly what it was, only that it was monstrous and terrifying.And it was after her.It would not rest until it had her.

She ran on in terror, careening around the corner and rushing down the stairs. The stairs went on forever, around and around until she was dizzy. And then suddenly she was outside, and now she knew where she was: the formal gardens at Gresmere, Dunstan’s estate. There was the statue of the satyr, hidden deep within the maze. He was grinning lasciviously down at her, hands on hips, hairy and goatish, but extending from him a huge and human male member.

She was running now through the lanes of the maze, the close-growing, suffocating green hedges that often twined together at the top, blocking out most of the sunlight. Every corridor she took, every twist and turn she made, brought her back to the middle and the evil grinning satyr. Her lungs burned, and she was crying. Her legs ached, and she was so scared she wanted to vomit. She staggered and lurched along, shivering in the cold. Hands reached out, touching her, plucking at her. Then she realized she was naked. She wanted to stop, to hide, but there was no place in the thick green bushes. She had to run on, because the nameless thing was behind her, reaching for her. It would not stop….

She fell to her knees and crawled on, sobbing and begging. Suddenly, instead of the bushes, there were people lining the way, all of them watching her silently. She cried out to them to help her, to save her, but no one moved or spoke. They all just watched her with avid faces, eyes alight and mouths twisted into grotesque smiles just like the satyr’s. There was a pounding, and she thought they were clapping. Or maybe it was the thing stomping after her, for it was right behind her now, reaching for her, and she could no longer move. She began to scream. The pounding drowned out her cries.

Her eyes flew open. She was awake, out of the horror of the dream, yet still wrapped in darkness. The pounding continued, confusing her further.

“Angela!” a man’s voice roared outside her room. “Damn it, open this door.”

A shudder ran through her, and she glanced around, horror-stricken, thinking for an instant that she was still married, that it was Dunstan outside demanding entrance. But she recognized the furniture, and she knew it was her room at Bridbury. The pounding stopped, followed by a metallic crash against the doorknob.

“Wait! No!” That was Jeremy’s voice. “Angela, it is I, Jeremy. Are you all right?”

The first voice spoke again, a deep male rumble of anger, followed by Jeremy’s agitated answer. Angela slid out of bed and hurried through the dark to the door, still trembling and dazed from the terror of her nightmare.

She put her mouth close to the door. “Who is it?”

“Angela? It’s me, Cam. Open up. What the devil is going on?”

She opened the door a crack, trying to control her shivers. “It’s all—”

Her words were cut off as Cam shoved the door back and stepped into the room, casting a swift, encompassing glance around the dark room, then sweeping her up into his arms as if she were a child. Under normal circumstances Angela would have shrunk from such an embrace. But now, still half-spellbound by the powerful nightmare and without her usual conscious defenses, she curled her arms around his neck and clung to him, burrowing her head into his chest. She wanted shelter, and he was large and warm, a safe haven.

“There, now,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest, beneath her ear. He kissed the top of her head. “It’s all right now. I’m here.”

He turned back to the door, where Jeremy and the others were edging in. Cam scowled at them. “I will take care of it.”

He reached out with his foot and shoved the door closed, then turned and strode across the room, still carrying Angela, to the large, comfortable chair by the window. He sat down in it and cuddled her on his lap. She snuggled closer to him, pushing her toes down between the cushion and the chair to keep them warm. Cam smiled a little at the gesture and curled his arms around her even more tightly. He laid his cheek against the top of her head.

“What happened?” he asked after a moment. “A nightmare?”

“Yes. Sometimes I have them. Not much anymore.” At first, after she left Dunstan, she had had them almost every night. It had been so bad that Kate insisted on sleeping on a cot in Angela’s room, so that she could wake her mistress when she was in the throes of one of the dreams. But as the years passed, the nightmare had come less and less often, and after a time Kate had agreed to return to her own more comfortable bed in the servants’ quarters. It had been almost a year now since Angela had had the nightmare.

“You want to tell me about it?” he asked.

“No.” Angela shook her head decisively. She had never told anyone what happened in the dreams. She certainly wasn’t about to start now, with Cam. She could not bear for anyone to know how scared she was and how little it took to reduce her to such a state. It was not, in the telling, she knew, anything particularly scary. The terror of the nightmare was in the feeling, in the knowledge of how awful and evil was the thing that chased her. And that she could not convey without talking about Dunstan. And Dunstan was something she refused to talk about.

“That’s fine.” He stroked his hand down her hair soothingly. “You know, I remember having nightmares when I was a child. In one of them I took a step off these really high stairs, and then I was falling and falling. I would always wake up before I hit the ground.”

“When I was little, I used to have bad dreams about the Gypsies that came every spring. Do you remember them?”

“Of course. They came for the shearing, and they would camp on the edge of town. And Mother would always say, ‘Stay away from the Gypsies. They will steal you away.’”

“That’s what Nurse always said, too. She said they took little children and sold them.” It was pleasant talking to him; it took her mind away from the nightmare. And his hand on her hair was soothing. “Do you think they actually did? Would there be a market for children?”

“I have no idea. With all the children in the workhouses and orphanages, I cannot imagine why one would have to steal a child from his family in order to acquire one.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair, noticing the faint scent of roses. Her hair was soft, and the scent and texture of it stirred his senses. This was something he had dreamed of, he remembered, when he fell in love with Angela so many years ago: being married to her and able to sit like this of an evening, Angela snuggled up on his lap, lazily discussing their day or whatever took their fancy.

“I can’t, either. But the thought of it used to terrify me. For weeks afterward, I would have nightmares about it.”

“I would steal away with some of the other lads, I remember, and go down and spy on their camp. They would play instruments around the fires, and sometimes they would dance. They looked so exotic to me, and at the time I thought how wonderful it must be to travel as they did. To see the whole country, to be free of constraints. I didn’t consider the hungry stomachs they must often have had, or the towns they were chased out of, or the lack of a home.”




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