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The Earl's Secret
Kathryn Jensen
A wrong turn down a castle drive and tourist Jennifer Murphy was suddenly on a tour of playboy royal Christopher Smythe' s turret bedroom. Their attraction was immediate and immense, but despite their soul-connection, the union would be temporary.For in a land where title and honor meant everything, the dashing Earl of Winchester had sworn an oath of silence and was cursed to watch his beloved child raised by another " father." The secret had clenched his heart as tight as a fist. Yet there was an undercurrent of need in the aching aristocrat, and the American beauty was determined to be his healing balm…and to become this lord' s forever lady!


Sending The Staff Home To Leave Himself Alone In The Castle With A Female Guest Had The Makings Of A Classic Seduction.
Jennifer wasn’t sure if she was nervous or excited as Christopher led her upstairs. But she was out of breath by the time they reached the top.
“Is something wrong, Jennifer?” The earl’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “If I’d wanted to attack you, don’t you think I would have done it before now?”
“Oh no, I wasn’t thinking—”
“Yes, you were. You’ve read too many gothic novels, luv. Here—”
Before she could pull away, his lips settled tenderly over hers. It was over as quickly as it had begun. “What was that for?” she gasped.
“To prove I could kiss you without being driven mad by passion.”
“I see.” As to her own passion or sanity, Jennifer couldn’t presently vouch for either. Because with his arms enclosing her, she felt as near to heaven as she’d ever been.
Dear Reader,
Happy New Year from Silhouette Desire, where we offer you six passionate, powerful and provocative romances every month of the year! Here’s what you can indulge yourself with this January….
Begin the new year with a seductive MAN OF THE MONTH, Tall, Dark & Western by Anne Marie Winston. A rancher seeking a marriage of convenience places a personals ad for a wife, only to fall—hard—for the single mom who responds!
Silhouette Desire proudly presents a sequel to the wildly successful in-line continuity series THE TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB. This exciting new series about alpha men on a mission is called TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: LONE STAR JEWELS. Jennifer Greene’s launch book, Millionaire M.D., features a wealthy surgeon who helps out his childhood crush when she finds a baby on her doorstep—by marrying her!
Alexandra Sellers continues her exotic miniseries SONS OF THE DESERT with one more irresistible sheikh in Sheikh’s Woman. THE BARONS OF TEXAS miniseries by Fayrene Preston returns with another feisty Baron heroine in The Barons of Texas: Kit. In Kathryn Jensen’s The Earl’s Secret, a British aristocrat romances a U.S. commoner while wrestling with a secret. And Shirley Rogers offers A Cowboy, a Bride & a Wedding Vow, in which a cowboy discovers his secret child.
So ring in the new year with lots of cheer and plenty of red-hot romance, by reading all six of these enticing love stories.
Enjoy!


Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

The Earl’s Secret
Kathryn Jensen


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

KATHRYN JENSEN
has written many novels for young readers as well as for adults. She speed walks, works out with weights and enjoys ballroom dancing for exercise, stress reduction and pleasure. Her children are now grown. She lives in Maryland with her writing companion—Sunny, a lovable terrier mix adopted from a shelter.
Having worked as a hospital switchboard operator, department store sales associate, bank clerk and elementary school teacher, she now splits her days between writing her own books and teaching fiction writing at two local colleges and through a correspondence course. She enjoys helping new writers get a start, and speaks “at the drop of a hat” at writers’ conferences, libraries and schools across the country.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue

One
Life had taken a wrong turn somewhere. And no matter how hard the young earl of Winchester tried, he couldn’t seem to put it right.
At the top of the castle’s north turret was his favorite room, his refuge and place to be alone with his most private thoughts. As a small child he and his brothers had played here. All through adolescent summers, this was where he came to read of valiant knights, courageous battles and beautiful yet desperate princesses. He was always victorious in his daydreams, and he had been comforted when his young spirit was troubled.
But these adult days, when he spent time within the thick granite walls, the thoughts that curled round him like the mists off Loch Kerr only blackened his already dark mood. His frustration and anger grew day by day, gathering power like a storm rolling across the Scottish moor, until he came perilously close to lashing out at anything or anyone who crossed him.
Stepping out onto the stone balcony, Christopher Smythe glowered across the fragrant purple heather. Three hundred miles to the south lay London, where most of his elite circle of friends would spend a few days before drifting en masse for the month of August to the Côte d’Azur. His houseguests were frequent and usually an effective distraction, but eventually they left for a new foxhunt, the next polo match or house party. Then he had no choice but to face his helpless fury, because he was unable to act on man’s deepest instinct.
Christopher’s strong hands gripped the stone balustrade as he lifted his face to the morning sky and loudly cursed it and fate, too. Instead of feeling better for unleashing his rage, he experienced something else. An almost overwhelming sense that his life was about to become still more complicated before he could hope for peace of mind.
It was then that he thought he saw something move at the distant end of the narrow gravel drive leading up the hill from the main road. It appeared to be a van of sorts: red, squat and dusty. His housekeeper didn’t drive, and his caretaker was off for the day. The stable master and his lads were busy tending to his horses. He wasn’t expecting the stone mason’s crew to return for another few days. In fact, no one he knew drove a boxy little vehicle like that.
As the crimson monstrosity rumbled closer, kicking up dust and pebbles like a skittish mare, he squinted at a brightly colored magnetic sign attached to one side: Murphy’s Worldwide Escapes. A lost party of tourists, he thought grimly. There was nothing to do now but go down and give them directions back to the highway.
Irritated that his brooding had been interrupted—or because the interruption promised to be so brief and unexciting—he hurried down the turret’s tight coil of steps to the landing. In long, purposeful strides he took another flight, two ivory marble steps at a time to the great hall on the ground level. Christopher flung open the weighty, iron-nubbed oak door and stepped outside to see a young woman climb down from the driver’s seat of the van and cheerfully wave her passengers out onto his property.
This was too much.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” He rushed at her, feeling heat rise up from his collar and settle like a steaming blanket over his face.
She spun around, staring at him, lips parted in surprise. Her eyes were the color of new leaves. Fresh, green, virginal. They darkened the instant they settled upon his scowl. “Excuse me?”
“Didn’t you see the sign?”
“What sign?” There was a note of challenge in her voice, which surprised him. Usually he was able to send intruders scurrying with a simple glare.
“The one that says this is private property,” he growled. “‘No Trespassing.”’
She blinked at him twice, nibbled at her lower lip and sighed. “Well, I guess I just assumed we weren’t…” Peering into her purse, she rummaged around inside. “Here it is.” She shook a piece of paper in his face. “We have reservations for 11:00 a.m.”
“Reservations?” He snapped the paper from between her fingers and unfolded it.
It seemed to be some sort of confirmation letter, indicating that her party had arrangements to tour Bremerley Castle. He opened his mouth to inform her Bremerley was a good twenty kilometers to the north along the coast, nearly as far as Edinburgh. But he could see her customers were looking expectantly up at the castle walls, and behind her brave front those green eyes appeared worried.
The outer layers of his anger sloughed away: he felt his brow cool, the tense muscles of his shoulders settle. He didn’t have the heart to tell her in front of the others that she was as lost as a little mole out of its hole.
Besides, she looked adorable, standing there in front of him, running her tongue over her upper lip and gazing up at him with those lovely pale-green eyes. A sudden, inexplicable finger of lust poked at his insides.
“I’ll be happy to show you around,” he growled with as good a nature as any bear woken from hibernation.
Her expression immediately brightened. “Oh, good. You must be the caretaker. Is Lord MacKinney in residence this time of year?”
The unexpected chance of a game pleased him, almost to the point of bringing a smile to his lips. Why not pretend to be someone else for just a little while? And if it helped out this misplaced but lovely young American—so much the better. “Occasionally,” he said. “When he isn’t off playing polo or attending theater in London. He’s not here today.”
She winked at him conspiratorially. “You’re probably happy to have him out from underfoot.”
He bent down close to her ear and caught a whiff of vanilla-scented perfume. “Oh, he can be quite a handful, he can.”
“Well then, I’m glad he’s not around.” She turned to admire the soaring stone fortress, her eyes wide, sparkling and delightfully childlike. “Will you show us the rooms that are open to the public?”
The long curve of her throat drew his attention, summoning a momentary vision of his lips trailing down the delicate flesh, that lust finger poking him again. She was petite—a natural blonde, he guessed, though that wasn’t a sure thing these days. She stood only as high as his shoulder, even in her conservative heels. As she studied the structure that had belonged to his family for nearly three hundred years, her fingers played lightly with the tassels at the bottom of her tapestry purse. A momentary frown puckered her brow, and she looked with more concentration at the right wing, which remained in ruins.
Clever woman, he thought. Bremerley had been fully restored, and if she were a competent guide, she would know that. He wondered how long it would take her to figure out her mistake.
Meanwhile he took pleasure in her interest in his legacy. Usually, when tourists took a wrong turn off the A7 and ended up on his grounds, he or his groundskeeper brusquely sent them on their way. But she was so damn fascinating to watch.
“What is your name?” he asked, gesturing with one hand toward the steps.
She started walking, and her group of ten chattering travelers followed their shepherdess like docile lambs. “Jennifer Murphy, and you?”
“Christopher.”
“Christopher,” she repeated thoughtfully as she climbed the granite stairs, worn low and smooth in their centers by past generations. “Is that a Scottish name? I would have thought English. As in Christopher Robin.”
“I was born in Sussex. I grew up in that area, and in London.”
“How exciting!” Her eyes danced in the morning light.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. He certainly hadn’t fretted about where his next meal was coming from, and there had always been plenty of money with which to do anything he liked. His father, the earl of Sussex, had been grudging with his affection, but he’d placidly doled out cash to Christopher and his two brothers whenever required, as well as titles. They each could legitimately claim to be an earl—although of lesser importance than their father. The family held a collection of aristocratic nametags dating back centuries, gathered from various ancestors on their father’s side.
“What about you? You’re obviously an American. What part of the States are you from?”
“I grew up in Baltimore, and I’ve lived there all of my life. My mother and I own a travel agency. We specialize in European tours.”
“And you personally guide each tour?”
She smiled. “Not every one. Most, though, since my mother prefers to keep watch over the office. And since I majored in history in college, I have the background for the on-site lectures we offer.”
“Is that so?” Not only was she pretty, she was smart, too. He itched to find out more about her. But by now they were standing in the middle of the great hall, and her group was getting restless and starting to investigate.
He was about to ask her to warn her clients not to touch the paintings he’d just moved out of storage and propped against one stone wall to await hanging. But she was staring at his clothing, a frown softly rumpling her forehead. “Is something wrong?”
“I was just curious how much caretakers are paid these days.” She flicked a finger at the lapel of his favorite cashmere blazer.
She was catching on fast. Christopher nearly chuckled.
He had dressed to drive into Edinburgh for a meeting with his solicitor. That was the way he and his father communicated these days. The old earl disapproved of his youngest son’s lifestyle—as recorded in elaborate detail by the British paparazzi. His father considered him a playboy with a weakness for fast polo ponies and faster women. When Christopher had asked a year ago to be given Castle Donan as part of his inheritance, he had agreed in the hope Christopher would settle down in the North Country and find himself a bride. But he had been living at Donan for over nine months and that hadn’t happened.
In actuality, the young earl thought to himself, he had only one weakness—which would remain a secret until the moment he was released from his promise. He hoped with all his heart that day would come soon.
Christopher forced a smile for the young woman’s benefit. “The jacket is a gift from my employer.”
Jennifer studied him for a moment longer through narrowed eyes, paling almost to buttercup-yellow. He wished he could tell what she was thinking. Suddenly she spun around and, with a quick clap of her hands above her head, summoned her group and began talking about the architecture of the Middle Ages. He listened to her, enthralled more by the sound of her words than by their meaning. Her voice was gentle and sweet, reminding him of a time in his distant past when a nanny, whose name he couldn’t recall, had read him to sleep with stories of a time when honor meant everything.
He tried to imagine how Jennifer might look dressed in the garb of a fifteenth-century noble-woman. Today she wore a simple denim skirt and a pink cotton top. Back then it would have been a sweeping gown of Flemish damask, ribbons and jewels woven through her long, flaxen hair. Back then a man could legally shut away his woman behind stone walls, safe from the wandering eyes and lustful urges of other men.
Politically incorrect for the modern world, true…but the male fantasy intrigued him nonetheless. He envisioned himself alone with the Lady Jennifer, free to touch her where he desired. His body responded to the intriguing images playing across his mind. He tried to remember how furious he had been when she’d parked in front of his door, but it was no good.
“Are you coming?”
Startled, Christopher focused on Jennifer’s voice, which suddenly seemed distant. He turned to find her moving briskly through the doorway that led into his library. “We need to move along pretty quickly,” she called back at him. “We’re scheduled to lunch at a pub just south of Edinburgh. And—” she cast a knowing look at him over her shoulder “—the notes I’d prepared on Bremerley’s interior don’t seem to match up with your rooms.”
Now he did laugh. A booming laugh to let her know he had no regret he’d been found out so soon. Clever, clever woman indeed.
He hurried to catch up with her.
Listening to her lecture in earnest now, he was surprised by how much she knew of the history of the Borders, the Scottish county whose southern edge touched England, where the battles between the two countries spanned hundreds of years and had been the fiercest. Castle Donan had been a crucial link in the line of defense. She had exchanged hands a dozen times at great cost to both sides. He was so enthralled by her discussion he didn’t at first notice one of the men moving apart from the group to investigate a pair of dueling pistols mounted on one wall.
Out of the corner of his eye, Christopher glimpsed a hand reaching up. A shout burst from his lips before he could stop it. “Don’t!”
Everyone turned to stare at him. Jennifer tipped her head to one side and observed him with a look of triumph sparkling in her eyes.
Taking three long steps across the room, Christopher moved the man’s raised hand away from the pistol. “The earl wouldn’t like you touching his things,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Sorry, I wasn’t going to hurt it,” the tourist objected.
“That’s an excellent rule to follow anytime you’re in a museum or building of historic importance,” Jennifer suggested cheerfully. “Many items you’ll see are irreplaceable, and age has made them fragile. Let’s move along now.” She flashed him a wicked smile in passing. “I’m sure there are many more intriguing things to discover here.”
By the time they had finished viewing the first floor, Christopher was sure Jennifer not only knew she wasn’t in Bremerley, she also had determined he wasn’t who he pretended to be. He felt her watching him whenever the little group entered a new room. Repeatedly he caught himself standing between the group and his most cherished possessions, as if unconsciously shielding them from clumsy hands. He was certain she added this mistake to her collection of clues.
At last she turned to him as they circled back toward the great hall. “Are the rooms on the upper floors open for viewing?”
He automatically stiffened at the thought of strangers plodding through his private chambers. “I, well…you see, the upper floors are all under renovation.” It was true, though he could have shown them, anyway. All but the turret; that was his alone.
Two of the women standing nearby sighed with disappointment.
“Well then, that’s it for this stop,” Jennifer announced. “Thank you, Christopher, for letting us in and playing host. We’ve enjoyed seeing the castle.”
“Anytime.” His own voice, so relaxed and affable, sounded strange to him. How long had it been since he’d felt this free of tension?
Before he could count off the months, Jennifer was herding her charges toward the towering doors, her voice echoing against the stone as she efficiently announced their itinerary for the afternoon.
Christopher followed at her heels, feeling just a little guilty for having strung her along. It didn’t matter that he would never see her again, he thought as he stood and watched her group pile into the van. He just didn’t like the idea of her going away, thinking he had intentionally tricked her when, really, his intention had been to help her out of a jam. And, of course, have a little innocent fun.
“Wait!” he shouted just as she started to slide into the driver’s seat. Reaching in he pulled her out and closed the door to give them some privacy. He spoke in a low voice. “You figured it out. How?”
“Caretakers, usually, are only superficially loyal to their employers,” she stated, her eyes turning unexpectedly sharp and serious. “No hired hand takes as much pride in his boss’s home as you obviously do. I was afraid you might throttle Mr. Pegorski when he touched that pistol.” She looked him accusingly in the eyes. “This isn’t Bremerley, none of the architectural details match my notes, and you aren’t anyone’s caretaker. So where am I and who are you?”
He gave her a stony stare appropriate for the lord of a trespassed manor. “This is Castle Donan. You took a wrong turn. I’m Christopher Smythe, earl of Winchester.”
Her gaze didn’t waver, and after a moment she nodded slowly. “I’ve heard of you, or seen your photo somewhere. A magazine, I think. One of those celebrity tabloids at a kiosk in London.”
He lifted one eyebrow, unsurprised. “Don’t believe everything you read.” The fact that she seemed neither impressed nor worried by his reputation intrigued him. He lifted her fingertips to his lips. Gently he brushed across her soft knuckles. She smelled like vanilla again. After a moment he reluctantly released her hand.
“The earl of Winchester,” she repeated thoughtfully.
“A relatively minor title. They hardly recognize me at court.”
She looked doubtfully up at him from beneath a pale fringe of lashes. Jade behind silk. “Right. You’re just an average Joe who fades into the woodwork…or stone, as the case may be.”
He shook his head and smiled—a real and full smile, for the first time in as long as he could remember. For some reason it pleased him that she considered him attractive. He had learned to ignore looks from female admirers, except for those remote instances when his body told him it was time. Time to satisfy the urges a man could never quite escape.
“You’re not a very good liar, you know,” she said. “And you don’t look at all like a servant. I suspect you couldn’t fool anyone for long.”
He liked her refreshing candor. “The inability to deceive can be a good trait. How long will you be in Scotland?” he asked, impulsively.
“One more day.”
“And then?”
“We’ll be in London two days, then I’ll send my charges back to the States. I’ve planned to stay on for an additional day before leaving myself.”
“So little time. A pity,” he murmured as she turned to open the van’s door. An unwelcome heat settled down low within his body.
He chose to ignore it. Clearly Jennifer Murphy was on this side of the Atlantic for only a brief time. Her home and future lay in the U.S. His place was in Great Britain and would remain so for many reasons he chose not to dwell on now.
“Well then,” he began, but had to clear a strange roughness from his throat before continuing, “goodbye, Jennifer of Baltimore.” He offered his hand, then helped her up into the driver’s seat before turning quickly in the direction of his stables. He needed a good hard ride. It wasn’t the physical activity of his choice, just now, but it would bloody well have to do.

Jennifer glanced up at the rearview mirror as she drove away from the wrong castle. For the few seconds it took the van to reach the first curve in the drive, she watched Christopher Smythe stride around the corner of the gray stone wall of his beloved Donan. Her palms felt moist on the steering wheel. Prickles teased the back of her neck. She could still feel the pressure of his lips against her fingertips. Damn the man.
Yes, he was arrogant. Yes, he was too good-looking and rich for his own good or the sanity of any woman who crossed his path. But thanks to him, no one in her party seemed to realize she’d gotten lost on her way from London to Edinburgh, and intruded on a real earl and his home. For that she was indebted to him.
How could it have happened? She never got lost! By the time she led a tour, she had done her homework—charted her routes in detail and double checked them, memorized her lectures on the art, architecture and history for each stop.
She was vexed with herself, so much so that she didn’t blame him for tricking her. Admittedly he had taken advantage of her mistake and flirted with her outrageously, but he had also provided a way for her to save face. She really ought to do something nice for him in return. Maybe send a thank-you note…or rip up at least one copy of that horrid tabloid that had written embarrassing things about him.

Throughout the afternoon in Edinburgh, Jennifer thought about Christopher, even though she tried her very best not to. His dizzying blue eyes flashed repeatedly in her mind; his expressive mouth and sexy British accent whispered to her as they toured the ruins of Hollyrood Abbey and the adjoining park. She remembered how his dark hair had fallen in a boyish wave across one corner of his forehead, and how his eyes twinkled, sharing the joke with her when he realized she had found him out.
Then there was that fingertip-kissing business. Had the seductive tingles racing up her arm been unintended? Probably. Christopher was a man accustomed to—and obviously very good at—arousing such feelings in women. But he no doubt had gone through the motions automatically. She could picture him bussing the plump hand of an octogenarian duchess, then turning unconcernedly away as she swooned. All in a day’s work for a handsome earl, what?
Although Jennifer’s head told her the feelings he’d left her to sort out meant nothing, her heart wouldn’t cooperate. Now is the worst time to complicate your life, she told herself.
She had to protect her own and her mother’s financial security. That was her first priority, and it meant working long hours to pay off the last of the debts her father had dumped on them before her mother finally divorced the rogue. It would be nice to have a man in her life, yes. But none she’d ever met could guarantee her the security she needed. And she’d be damned if she let one come between her and the financial well-being she needed!
Jennifer thought about her father, then about Christopher. The only type of male worse than a womanizer with a penchant for gambling was a playboy who threw money away on extravagant clothes, cars and parties for his friends. And he lived on another continent! Imagine the weeks of separation, wondering if he was spending his last pound or sleeping with another woman while they were apart. Even if he was faithful to her, imagine the money wasted on long-distance calls and airfare.
Getting hung up on someone as sexy and charming as the earl of Winchester—who lived in an honest-to-goodness castle, raced the length of polo fields astride wild-eyed ponies and made women weak-kneed at the touch of his lips…that would be the worst mistake of her life.
Stop it! Jennifer ordered herself as she shakily gripped the iron rail outside the bleak stone walls of Hollyrood. Why on earth was she thinking like this? She had spent exactly ninety minutes in the company of Christopher Smythe. She knew next to nothing about the man, and here she was daydreaming an already-doomed relationship with him! She must be losing her mind.

At the end of the day, Jennifer made sure that everyone in her charge was well fed and settled into their respective rooms at the stately Caledonia on Princes Street. Bringing her maps and brochures with her, she took the lift down to the hotel pub and found a seat in a quiet corner. There would be no more mistakes made on this trip! With a determined little cough, she unfolded the city street map of Edinburgh.
“Good idea,” a deep voice stated from nearby.
Jennifer looked up, startled. “What are you doing here?” She grinned at Christopher, her insides quivering with pleasure at seeing him again, even as an inner voice whispered, Don’t you dare get all wobbly inside!
“Business,” he said quickly. “Need a second opinion on those maps?”
She laughed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, although we’ll be walking most of the time tomorrow. I don’t know what happened today. I never get lost, honest. If my mother ever found out she’d have a fit.”
“Then we won’t tell.” He winked at her and pulled out the chair beside hers. Leaning over the table, he scrutinized another of her maps, the one showing Scotland’s highways, one of which she’d highlighted in bright orange.
“Is Donan the real name of your castle?” she asked. She had noticed earlier that he pronounced it as a Scot would: Dun-in. “I couldn’t find it on the Historic Registry.”
“It’s taken from the Gaelic, the name of an ancient clan. I haven’t yet been able to qualify for the registry, because of its condition.” He pointed with one long finger at a symbol on the map. “Here was today’s problem. You should have waited for the next exit off the A7, just after the loch. Then you would have been fine.”
“I know, I figured that out when we stopped for lunch. I really do feel foolish. By the way, I owe you for covering for me. Although most of the folks in my little crew are very nice, I have one problem couple.” The rest of the group was easy.
She had four couples, three of which were married and seniors. The other couple was in their thirties and evidently had been dating for several years. The remaining two clients were a single man in his forties, who was tracing his genealogy, and a fiftyish woman who seemed to enjoy the security of traveling with a group.
He frowned. “What kind of problem?”
“They’re never satisfied with anything, or at least they pretend to be upset. I have a feeling they’re building up to ask for their money back. We guarantee satisfaction with all our excursions.”
“Surely just one little slip like getting lost for an hour shouldn’t cost the entire holiday.”
Jennifer shrugged. “You’d be surprised. Some people sign up for trips knowing they can get at least half their fees refunded if they complain loudly enough. It’s a scam of course. But sometimes it doesn’t pay to let them drive away new business, especially if you’re a small company like us. You just have to take the loss.”
Christopher shook his head.
She studied him. The irises of his eyes were a darker, more intense blue here in the pub. She sensed a serious side to him that hadn’t been as evident at Donan. He had a habit of locking his jaw when he was displeased with something—like the unfairness of con-artist travelers and thoughtless guests who dared touch his treasures.
“You’re not just in this hotel by coincidence, are you?” she asked intuitively.
He looked up from his glass of whisky. It was half-gone, and she suddenly suspected that, whether or not business had brought him to Edinburgh, he had been waiting here for her. The thought sent a warm, liquid shiver through her body.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“It wasn’t difficult. When you climbed in your van to leave, a brochure from the Caledonia lay on the passenger seat. I figured the odds were good you’d be staying here tonight. If I hadn’t found you in here, I would have called up to your room.”
A pleasantly nervous chill rippled up her spine. “And did you have any particular reason for tracking me down?”
He studied her, his lips firmly closed, his expression verging on severe, brooding. It took him a long time to answer. “I guess I just wasn’t ready for the tour to end.”
“You were the one who said the other rooms in the castle were off-limits.”
Slowly his mouth relaxed into a wicked smile. “Not that tour.”
She could feel the heat filling her cheeks like the diluted pink wash from a watercolorist’s brush when touched to paper. The way Christopher was looking at her felt dangerous, in a delicious sort of way. She told herself that her reaction was because she was so far from home, on foreign territory…alone. And she wasn’t accustomed to receiving propositions, if that was what this was, from castle-owning aristocrats. How many women were?
Jennifer looked down to find Christopher’s hand pressed warmly over hers on the tabletop. Desperately she tried to force her brain to function, tried to come up with something witty and sophisticated enough to impress an earl. Her mind was a maddening blank. A second later, it kicked into gear, only to deliver a troubling question. Does he have a girlfriend? She had seen his photo with a long-legged, spa-polished woman in that London tabloid. Had his companion been more to him than a simple date?
“Does this sudden silence mean the tour has ended?” he asked at last.
She smiled brightly and aimed for a politic line. “If you ever visit Maryland, be sure to drop in on us in Baltimore. I’ll show you the sights.”
“Those aren’t the sights I’m most interested in seeing.” His eyes. His eyes were impossible to escape. They drew her in. She tried to pull her hand away, but his fingers closed tightly around hers. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.
“Let’s try this again, luv.” The last word, which sounded more Liverpuddlian-Beatles than upper-crust British, took her by surprise. Christopher leaned across the table and looked into her startled eyes. “No more beating around the bush. How about going out to dinner with me tonight?”
“I’ve already eaten.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider whether or not she wanted to fib herself into a second meal.
“We could go somewhere for dessert and coffee,” he suggested.
Jennifer stared down at their clasped hands. She was beginning to be able to read him, which was a little scary after knowing him for so short a time. What she understood from his voice and body language was that Christopher Smythe wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And if he refused to listen to the word, where food was concerned, what did that tell her about his willingness to understand and honor her wishes when more was at stake than overeating? Her only countermeasure was to seek neutral ground, fast.
She looked around at the dark wood paneling, bronze sconces casting their golden light, the beautifully aged leather banquets, the other guests conversing in hushed tones—a classically masculine setting, very British, very earlish. Ver-r-r-y Christopher. But all that mattered to her was that it seemed safe here.
“I have an early morning tomorrow,” she said. “Why don’t we just stay here and talk.”
He appeared neither pleased nor disappointed. “Fine. What will you have to drink?”
“A white zinfandel, please.”
His hand barely raised above the level of the table before the steward appeared beside him. Moments later a glass of pale pink wine was set before her. Jennifer took a few cautious sips, and mellow warmth enfolded her.
Christopher settled back in his chair and observed her over the amber liquid in his own glass. “Why Baltimore? Why do you live there when you’ve obviously seen so many exciting cities?”
“I live in Baltimore because it’s my home,” she said simply, then came back at him. “Why do you live in Scotland when you’re English?”
He seemed startled by her question, and the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. “I live in Scotland because I like it,” he responded brusquely.
Not satisfied, she set her wineglass on the table between them. “That’s no answer. Everyone chooses to do things because, for one reason or another, they find them appealing.”
“Not always. Sometimes we act in a certain way because we have no choice.”
“Everyone has choices.”
“Not always,” he snapped. Then, as if he thought he might have spoken too harshly, Christopher reached out for her hand again and rubbed his thumb soothingly over the back of it, creating a warm spot. “Life sometimes surprises you,” he said enigmatically.
Jennifer decided the level of tension in the air dictated a change of subject. She asked the first question that came to mind. “What are your favorite London restaurants?”
He seemed to welcome the new direction of their conversation. As he spoke, his voice grew less tense. She watched his thumb trace hot little circles over the back of her hand, entranced by the motion as much as by his touch.
At one point she caught a glimpse of him in the mirror beside them, and she thought to herself—though it didn’t seem logical at the time—this is a tormented man. But how could that be when a man had so much money, so many friends, so many opportunities in life? She dismissed the thought as overly romantic, far too Jane Austen: the lord, the castle, the dark moods.
When she turned back to face him, he was studying her and had stopped speaking.
“What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You’re so pretty and so American.”
She didn’t know how to react to the compliment, or was it a subtle dig? She sipped her wine and decided to address the second part of his statement. “What’s that mean—to be so American?”
“You have an optimistic, nothing-ventured-nothing-gained attitude.” His eyes still seemed shadowed with sadness, regret or resentment…but they warmed as he looked at her. “You’d be fun to be around, Jennifer. You would make me laugh, and I would tease you until you blushed, everywhere.” His glance dropped suggestively to the front of her blouse.
She was so shocked, she didn’t know how to answer. But his gaze created a lovely pool of heat in her center. She liked it. Liked all of the sensations, even though some of them might be risky. Nevertheless, when Christopher brought his eyes up along her throat to her face, she met and held them with her own.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’d really like to get to know you, too. But I’m working for as long as I’m in England, and I’ll have to leave soon.”
“Yes,” he said. It was the only time she remembered hearing a single word sound wistful. He lifted his glass to her. “Here’s to missed chances, luv.”

Two
Jennifer decided to take her breakfast alone the next morning. Room service was a small luxury she felt justified allowing herself. She needed time, a telephone and no interruptions to complete her plans for the remaining days of the trip. Just as the tray with her breakfast arrived, the telephone rang. She tipped the waiter and dashed across the room to answer.
“Good morning! I was hoping I’d catch you before you left for the day.”
“Christopher?” Her heart raced at the rich timbre of his voice. Her fingers threaded through the coils of the telephone cord, twisting them tighter. She’d lain awake all night wondering if she’d done the right thing by brushing him off.
“Did you sleep well last night?”
“Absolutely,” she lied energetically. “Was the drive back to Donan very bad in the rain?” It had started to pour at ten o’clock, just after he had left her.
“I ended up staying in the city at a friend’s place.”
She couldn’t help wondering about the gender of that friend, but immediately told herself it was none of her business. A man like the earl undoubtedly had social connections in most every city in Europe. Some were bound to be with attractive and wealthy women—a good match for him.
“My business is going to keep me in Edinburgh longer than I’d expected,” he continued. “But I won’t be able to accomplish much of anything until the afternoon. I wondered if you’d mind my tagging along this morning. I’d make myself useful, help out with the driving if you like, give a running narration as we move around the city.”
“That would be nice,” she admitted as calmly as possible, while her heart hammered out a wild tattoo in her chest.
“That isn’t to say you didn’t do a beautiful job at Donan.” His voice slid lower, became subtly intimate. “You are a remarkably insightful woman, for one so young.”
She looked down at her fingers, which were hopelessly snarled in the cord, and decided she must be imagining the change in tone. “You can only get so much out of books,” she said quietly. “A person has to live in a country to really understand it. You have that advantage over me.”
For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he seemed to rouse himself at the other end of the line.
“What time shall we meet?” he asked.
“Nine o’clock in front of the hotel. If you like, you can arrange for the valet to bring the van around.”
“That I’ll do, lass,” he said, in a fine imitation of a Scottish brogue that set her grinning.
Jennifer hung up the phone. Her hand was trembling, and the nape of her neck felt damp with perspiration. Why did he affect her so strongly?
She had met plenty of interesting men, but she wasn’t prone to being swept away by the mere touch of a hand or flash of blue eyes. Was she afraid of that dark inner core of him? No, she answered herself. Christopher seemed to be a man with principles. If he’d been truly dangerous, the gossip columns would have had even more ruthless comments on his flamboyant lifestyle.
So, yes, he was flirtatious, but she was certain he would never attempt to force her to do anything against her will. Was he the sort of man who got his kicks seducing female tourists? She’d run into that type before—identified, cataloged and dismissed them without hesitation.
No, she decided, Christopher Smythe was different. But what made him different and what he wanted from her—those were the real questions.
Despite her preoccupation with the earl, by nine o’clock Jennifer had finished drafting her plans for the day, selected the appropriate maps and guide notes she’d written up before leaving Maryland and called each of her clients’ rooms to make sure they were ready to set out. True to his word, Christopher was waiting beside the rental van when she stepped outside, followed by most of her group.
“Oh, it’s that handsome young groundskeeper from the castle!” one of the women twittered.
“Dashing, dear. Here in Britain, all the young men are dashing,” another woman corrected her. “You know he looks an awful lot like that young lord we saw in that newspaper in the hotel lobby.”
“I wonder what he’s doing trailing after us to Edinburgh,” Mr. Pegorski commented, waggling his eyebrows in Jennifer’s direction.
She pretended not to see or hear any of them. “Everyone, this is Christopher Smythe from the castle yesterday. You remember him, of course. He’s agreed to give us a local’s view of the city.”
Jennifer could feel the estrogen level rise in her group as the females ogled Christopher. The rest of their party arrived then, so they all piled happily into the van and started out for an overview of the city.
While Christopher drove, she sat beside him in the passenger seat and studied his profile—elegant, but purely masculine, she decided. His features were powerfully drawn; his blue eyes made the more vivid by the dark lashes outlining them. A very faint scar ran close to the hairline along one temple, and she wondered if it had been caused by a polo injury. The article she’d seen mentioned his aggressiveness on the polo field. From the little she knew of the game, it was a rough sport requiring strength and daring. His hair was a dark, glistening brown that verged on black when out of direct sunlight.
She admired his speaking style, which combined a touch of dry humor with crisp intelligence, all wrapped up in an English accent she found irresistible. But over all of this was a veneer of a darker emotion—like mahogany laid over paler oak—disappointment or sadness, or something fragile she couldn’t yet define.
“Do you have family around here?” she asked between stops along their route.
He seemed startled by her question, then glanced sideways at her, still keeping an eye to the road as they sped along. “My father still lives in Sussex. I have two brothers.” His voice was clipped, to the point.
I’ll wager they’re both as devilishly handsome as you, she thought. Were they as terse and secretive, too?
“Then your brothers live in Sussex as well?” she asked.
“In Sussex? With my father?” He choked on an involuntary laugh. The taut muscles in his face relaxed enough to allow a thin smile. “My father isn’t the kind of man who encourages his family to remain close to home. As soon as we were old enough to be away from our nanny, he shipped us off to boarding school. None of us have gone back for more than the occasional holiday.”
“How old were you then…when you first went away to school?”
“Six.”
“Six years old!” She knew that the upper-class English put great stock in educating their youth away from home, but a six-year-old seemed hardly more than a baby to her. “Didn’t your mother object?”
The corners of Christopher’s lips pinched grimly inward, and she knew she’d said something terribly wrong. But before she could apologize, he was speaking in that incredibly dry, unemotional way she was beginning to suspect might be his form of self-protection. “Apparently, her sons’ welfare wasn’t at the top of her list of priorities. She left my father and the three of us before I turned a year old.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, shocked at the very idea of a woman abandoning three sons and a husband.
“It’s all right. I remember nothing of her.” The chill in his words was a thing she could almost touch. His pain showed in the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, despite his unemotional denial. She didn’t know what to say to comfort him, but she sensed she had to keep him talking or risk losing the one chance she might have of understanding him. For some reason, that seemed important to her.
“Are you and your brothers close?” she asked hastily.
It took a moment for him to gather his thoughts and answer this time. “Not in any way you might expect. My oldest brother, Thomas, is an advisor to the King of Elbia. He lives with the royal family, travels with them, rarely returns to England. He recently married an American woman and inherited a gaggle of youngsters in the bargain.” He chuckled affectionately. “Thomas has his hands full now, but seems happy as a clam in an ocean of mud. Our middle brother is Matthew. I think he took our mother’s desertion the hardest. He was three years old when she left, and swears he remembers her vividly. As soon as he turned twenty-one and collected his inheritance, he lit out for America. He’s been there ever since, running an import business.”
She waited for Christopher to go on. Something in the halting way he had spoken told her that he wasn’t accustomed to talking about his family. When he didn’t continue on his own, she prodded gently. “Do you often travel to visit your brothers?”
“I have obligations here,” he said, casting her a sharp, sidelong glance.
That was it then. He was ending the conversation.
“I see,” she murmured. But she didn’t, not really. What was more important than family?
Elbia, she mused, as her clients chatted happily among themselves in the seats behind her. She tried to envision a simple map of Europe. Wasn’t that the tiny alpine country about the size of Monaco? How difficult could it be for a man with Christopher’s means to jet across the continent for a quick visit with his brother? Traveling to the States was a little more difficult but surely the business that kept him tied down in Scotland would allow for a few weeks off now and again to see his own family.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Christopher asked after a long silence.
“Edinburgh Castle, of course, then Queen Mary’s Bathhouse and the Royal Mile for shopping and house tours.”
He glanced up at the sky. “The rain should hold off long enough.”
She nodded, then let a grin slip out.
“What is it?” he asked, glancing at her curiously as he pulled over a lane to let a lorry pass.
“Queen Mary of Scots. Legend has it, she bathed in white wine and goat’s milk. I wonder if that mixture really is good for the complexion.” She held her arm out to inspect it as the truck sped past them.
“I’ll bring the wine and milk, you try it out and—” he lifted a dark brow aimed toward the dip in her neckline “—I shall be the judge.”
She laughed, thinking she wouldn’t put it past him. Stand ready for inspection, miss! He’d insist on seeing every inch of her. Fat chance she’d let him!
Christopher accompanied Jennifer’s group to the castle and sixteenth-century cottage known as the queen’s bathhouse, which, more likely, had been a simple summerhouse or dovecote. He then asked her to drop him off at his car and arranged to meet them after lunch.
Jennifer watched him drive off in a bottle-green Jaguar, weaving expertly through the noonday traffic. She promised herself that when he returned she would find out one more thing about him. Just one more thing before she let herself like him any more than she already did.
So far, she had been careful. She had done nothing wrong. It was all just talk and a little flirting, the way strangers do—particularly when one is from out of town. Talk, harmless glances, a few touches. That was all.
But she felt in her bones that he wanted more. And, in truth, so did she. She wanted him to run his thumb in those little circles on the back of her hand. She wanted him to call her “luv,” in that playful, un-aristocratic, bad-boy way. She wanted him to touch her where his eyes had suggestively rested as they discussed Queen Mary’s baths.
All this, even though she knew in her heart that they had no more than a few days to share. But first she had to know if there was another woman in his life.

As Christopher drove out of the city in the Jag, his thoughts turned from one female to another. Lisa was the most precious thing in his life. Yet she had never really belonged to him. Ever since he had learned he was to be a father, eight years ago, he had set aside all else for the child. Whatever was best for her came first.
When a woman he had had a brief affair with told him that she was going to have his baby, Christopher initially had been shocked and troubled. He immediately offered to marry her, only to discover she wasn’t interested in marrying him. His masculine pride took a hard hit, but another part of him was relieved. He knew he didn’t love her, and she was quite honest about her lack of feelings for him.
“Our marrying,” he remembered her saying coldly, “would be stupid. I’ve already told Sir Isaac, my fiancé, about the problem. He’s fine with it. Really. As long as we publicly let on that the baby is his, for the time being.”
At first this had seemed fine to Christopher. He’d been let off the hook. But when Lisa was born, he couldn’t stay away from the hospital. And at the instant his gaze settled over her tiny pink face and crystal-blue eyes, he lost his heart. From that day on he had done all he could, without going back on his promise, to see his little daughter and support her in any way he could.
He became an official friend of the family. As soon as she could speak, Lisa took to calling him Uncle Chris. If he was lucky, the nurse would bring the little girl down to greet houseguests, which often numbered in the dozens. Lisa grew from fragile infant to delightfully rambunctious toddler, to a charmingly intelligent child who favored wearing her riding jodhpurs and helmet over white eyelet and pink ribbons. He never tired of talking to her or reading her stories. And she always seemed just as happy to see him.
When she was old enough to go to school, he offered to pay her tuition. All her mother had to do was choose the school. Much to his dismay, instead of selecting one of the better London institutions, Sandra Ellington chose her own alma mater in southern Scotland. So very far from London, where he lived.
Determined not to lose contact with Lisa, he had secured a position for himself on the board of regents at St. James School for Girls. He had been present at nearly all school functions in the past year that she had attended, particularly when Lisa’s mother couldn’t be, and he dropped in on the campus whenever possible. He aggressively solicited funds for the new addition to the school from his many social contacts while sharing Lisa’s triumphs with pride.
Time passed so very quickly. Christopher prayed for the day when Sandra would do as she had promised him years before and tell her daughter about her real father. “I’m just waiting until she’s old enough to comprehend all of this. It’s a delicate issue for a young girl,” she reminded him whenever he asked.
Now he was beginning to wonder if she ever would reveal his identity to Lisa. Fear alternated with helpless anger. His hands were tied, his silence expected, and emptiness gnawed at his soul.
He knew it wouldn’t be right to act without permission from the child’s mother. After all, she must understand her daughter better than anyone. What if he risked revealing all to Lisa, and the girl refused to believe him? Their warm relationship would be destroyed. Worse yet, she might feel betrayed because he had lied to her all of these years, pretending to be an honorary uncle when he really was her father. She might hate him. He couldn’t bear that.
And so he continued to wait and hope for a time when he could embrace his daughter and tell her how much he loved her…had always loved her.
As it turned out, Lisa’s class was on a field trip that day and he couldn’t see her at all. Disappointed, he picked up his copy of the builder’s contracts for the addition from the administration office, then drove back into the city. He would need to review them before the board meetings. The urge was stronger than ever to cherish and protect the little girl who might never know his secret burden.

“The Royal Mile was wonderful!” Jennifer cried when she saw Christopher waiting for her outside the Caledonia. “I bought a ton of great stuff, and I almost never shop while leading a tour!”
He had been under such an oppressive cloud since he left St. James that he’d feared his spirits would not be lifted even by seeing her again. But just the sight of her sunny face and sparkling eyes did wonders for him. She gave him something other than his troubles to think about.
“I’m glad,” he said, at the moment more interested in the lovely glow of her cheeks than her shopping victories. An intriguing thought shot unbidden through his mind. Just how far down her body did that glow extend? The length of her long, sweet throat was rosy with excitement, but her collar stood obstinately in the way. Would her breasts be flushed as well?
He felt himself react to the image, then immediately warned himself to get a grip. He liked her; she excited him. That, after all, must be the end of it. When he was younger, he had effortlessly picked up girls and, if they were willing, made careless love. American coeds had been attracted to his English accent like moths to the proverbial flame. And when he let slip his title in casual conversation…instant melt-down. A quick hop into bed.
But after Lisa came into the world, he took sex far more seriously. His liaisons became infrequent, cautiously and safely executed. He had learned he wasn’t the sort of man who could spread his progeny with abandon. He considered himself responsible for little Lisa.
There was also a change in the way he allowed himself to feel about women. If they were so easily able to enjoy one man’s pleasures then go off with another for reasons of prestige or money or pure flightiness, he would never again let himself feel anything enduring for one of them. It was a matter of self-preservation.
But Jennifer was incredibly desirable. She would tempt any man to throw off caution as quickly as a topcoat at the first bloom of spring. He must be careful…very careful, he reminded himself.
Having completed the afternoon’s tours, the group had returned to the hotel for a hearty meal. Early-evening excursions had been arranged by those wanting to pack more into their day, while others discussed going to the theater or a quiet game of cards in the lounge.
“Looks like you’ll have some time to fill before turning in,” Christopher said after Jennifer bade her crew a good evening.
“Yes,” she said. “But I need to check in with my mother and pack for London.”
“I see.” So tomorrow she would indeed be gone. He sighed inwardly. In the little time he’d spent with her, she’d been good for him. When he was with her, his thoughts seemed lighter, the day somehow brighter, more tolerable. He dwelled less on his mistakes. Or maybe that was all romantic hogwash, and he just wanted to sleep with her. A good dose of lust definitely took a man’s mind off his troubles.
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she murmured, laying her hand on his arm, making him even more aware of the sweet scent wafting up from her skin. She stood close to him. So close he could easily slip his arm around her waist and pull her against him. Right here in the lobby. Why not? “Everyone has said,” she continued breezily, “what a wonderful treat it has been, your taking us around today.”
He forced out the correct, civil words and even gave her a polite smile. “No trouble at all. I enjoyed myself.”
She beamed up at him in appreciation, and he thought he had never liked green eyes as much as he did now. “Yesterday…I was serious about my invitation. If you ever do come to America, and you’re near Baltimore—”
“It’s unlikely,” he said, interrupting. “You can do me another favor, though.” He hadn’t thought through his words. They simply arrived on his lips, and he had no power to stop them.
“Anything,” she said. “What is it?”
“You wouldn’t have dinner with me last night. What about tonight?”
She blinked thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I should.”
“Why not? You’re free for the night. You need to eat, don’t you? I know all the best places in Edinburgh.”
“But—”
“You’re leaving tomorrow. I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment.” Lust was a charmer, he was. The muscles in his shoulders and back tensed as he waited for her answer. Don’t say no…don’t say no! a voice chanted from inside of him. “I’m harmless,” he added, flashing her a deliberately wolfish grin.
She laughed out loud. “I’m not sure of that part.” Still, she hesitated. “Listen, I don’t know any tactful way of asking this, but… Are you attached in any way?”
He chuckled. “You mean married? Good Lord, no.”
“I meant…seeing anyone.”
“No. Although I do keep the phone numbers of a few ladies who graciously accompany me on social occasions. Would you like references from them?”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just, you never said and—” she shrugged, looking prettily flustered. “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you. You pick a good place to eat.”
“I know the perfect one,” he said.

Two hours later Jennifer was certain she’d made a mistake when Christopher pulled his car off the A7 and onto an unpaved road that looked suspiciously like the one leading to Donan. “I thought we were going to your favorite restaurant.”
“My favorite place to eat isn’t a restaurant.”
“You can cook?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted. “I have a wonderful woman who prepares my meals. When I was given a choice of the family’s estates as part of my inheritance, I chose Donan. Half the castle was in ruins, as it still is, the other half hadn’t been occupied in years and was in need of serious renovation. But I wanted it, and the Clarks, who had been with my father for years in Sussex, have kin in the area and were eager to take it on for me.”
“You’re lucky you can run your business from a place like this.”
“Yes,” he said quickly.
Having already seen the first floor, she knew the way to the dining room and turned in that direction as they passed through the great hall.
Christopher touched her on the arm. “Hold on a moment. Let me check with Mrs. Clark to see how close our dinner is to being ready.”
Jennifer wandered into a side room and contentedly browsed along the dark-paneled walls. When she had been here with her group, Christopher had pointed out one of Alexander Nasmyth’s oils of a Borders landscape. The mist-enshrouded body of water in the center looked a lot like nearby Loch Kerr. Then there were two portraits that appeared somewhat older, in the opulent style of John Wright, though she was no expert on seventeenth-century art. For all she knew they might actually be Wrights—in which case they’d each be worth a small fortune.
She followed a narrowing corridor and found a canvas whose artist she was sure of—one of her favorite painters, Anne MacBeth. Anne had been a member of the so-called Glasgow Girls, at the turn of the previous century, who had rocked the art world with their daring experiments combining art nouveau and Celtic influences. Jennifer was delighted. Either Christopher or someone in his family was a serious collector of female artists as well as the established masters.
Christopher returned, smiling when he found her in front of another MacBeth painting. “We can sit down now. It’s ready.” He stood behind her and rested his wide hands on her shoulders when she lingered just a moment longer in front of the painting. Jennifer felt comfortable beneath his steady palms. “I was going to take you around the rest of the castle, if you’d like, but since the meal is hot and you’re hungry…”
“I am famished,” she admitted. “But I’m curious about the upper floors. I would love a tour after dinner.” She wondered what other treasures might be hiding in dim corners or forgotten rooms, waiting to be brought out into the light.
They ate wild duck, prepared with a deep red Burgundy sauce she would have thought a more likely match for beef. It was a surprisingly delicious combination. They drank a local wildflower wine from Cairn O’Mohr, which seemed perfect with the meal. She had never eaten game before. At home, everything in her fridge came from the supermarket, and most of that was in the form of frozen commercial dinners. She favored quick-and-easy, low-fat meals. Tonight the textures and colors on her plate resembled an artist’s palette, and the flavors were amazing. She savored every bite.
“I must tell Mrs. Clark how wonderful a cook she is.”
“I’m afraid she’s left for the day,” he said. “I told her I’d wash up after we finished eating. It didn’t seem fair to make her stay while we indulged ourselves in a leisurely meal.”
Jennifer smiled. “That was nice of you.” She caught a mysterious twinkle in his eyes and wondered if his motives for dismissing the woman were all that pure. Sending the staff home to leave their master alone in the castle with a female guest…this had all the makings of a classic seduction. She wasn’t sure whether she was more nervous or excited at the prospect.

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