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Lord Sin
Catherine Archer
The Infamous Lord Sin Had Taken A WifeIan Sinclair, the lord of ill repute, had married a country vicar's daughter. Now he was sure there'd be the devil to pay, for the passionate Mary Fulton was the woman he held above all others, and a woman he knew he didn't deserve.The more she learned of Ian's world of privilege, the more Mary Fulton realized how impossible their union really was. Yet the web of gentle passion woven on their wedding night grew stronger with every touch they shared… !



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u87aacda6-7b55-583a-84fb-9c4dba7944d0)
Excerpt (#u70dad3df-fe9d-5c64-93e3-84d9eb1f666b)
Dear Reader (#ucea6d0f6-193e-5ec4-9757-72cc8b36f389)
Title Page (#u660cb98a-4e69-5135-a73a-9f70c313d000)
About the Author (#u9dfadbe9-ebfe-50ef-b977-d34d367ee4da)
Dedication (#ua45a00a3-bf5f-5452-9927-8985a9542599)
Chapter One (#u32a51788-0b1c-5d32-8215-f5f5e54ed851)
Chapter Two (#uc20a56da-0775-5ba5-b579-eef41ad862e5)
Chapter Three (#u05650f76-b6e0-56be-ac64-d8458ceefe60)
Chapter Four (#u7c1fbc7f-8c65-5706-9e2e-7465bd7e5038)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“Why, you insufferable beast!"
Mary took a deep breath, her hands going to her hips.

Ian’s gaze slid down, pausing for a moment on her bosom before he looked back at her face. Only then did she recall that she had unbuttoned the neck of her dress. She knew that if she looked down there would be far more of her showing than she wished. Even as the thought swept through her mind, he smiled knowingly and she felt a deep flush of heat move down her throat and over her breasts. His next words drove all thought of retaining a pose of unconcern from her mind.

“If you keep standing there looking so completely desirable, Miss Fulton, I just might kiss you again.”

Her arms came up to shield her bosom from his view. “You, my Lord Sinclair, are despicable. No wonder they call you Lord Sin.”
Dear Reader,

Catherine Archer is fast gaining a reputation for her dramatic and emotional historical romances, and this month’s Lord Sin with its brooding hero and Gothic overtones will surely add to it. Pressured by his estranged father to marry, a rakish nobleman, in an act of defiance, marries a vicar’s daughter who is outspoken, educated and beautiful, but completely unsuitable, and gains a wife who can finally teach him the meaning of trust and love.
In Elizabeth Mayne’s Lady of the Lake, a pagan princess surrenders her heritage and her heart to the Christian warrior who has been sent to marry her and unite their kingdoms. And Cally and the Sheriff by Cassandra Austin, is a lively Western about a Kansas sheriff who falls head over heels for the feisty young woman he’s sworn to protect, even though she wants nothing to do with him.
Our fourth title for the month is The Marriage Mishap by Judith Stacy, the story of virtual strangers who wake up in bed together and discover they have gotten married.
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all of our books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Lord Sin
Catherine Archer





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

CATHERINE ARCHER
has been hooked on historical romance since reading Jane Eyre at the age of twelve. She has an avid interest in history, particularly the Medieval period. A homemaker and mother, Catherine lives with her husband, three children and dog in Alberta, Canada, where the long winters give this American transplant plenty of time to write.
This book is dedicated to the children of my siblings
with much love and the hope that they might each
follow their own dreams. To Russell, Tricia, Matthew,
Sofia, Samara, Alexander, Joseph, Jeremy, Arielle,
Jason, Crystal and Jacob.

I would also like to add a word of thanks to the
members of the RW—L, for their help with research
information and moral support.

Lastly I must thank my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, for
her support and her valuable contributions to my work.

Chapter One (#ulink_814a8271-c362-5765-9a2c-70e1cd1a4e87)
The wind tugged the hair loose from Mary Fulton’s bun and whipped it across her pale face. She did not even bother to reach up and push it from her eyes. Mary was too intent on holding tightly to the straw bonnet she clutched over her slender midriff. It was as if that plain straw hat could hold her misery inside her, keep it from rising up to completely overwhelm her. She didn’t notice the way the long, wide blue ribbon that was meant to tie the bonnet atop her head fluttered across the front of her lighter blue print dress as she walked, though she once came near to treading upon it.
Nor did she clearly see the heather, asphodel, campion and spotted orchids that bloomed amongst the short, coarse grass of the moorland. She had no appreciation for them, or the sun that occasionally peeked from the gray haze of clouds overhead, or anything else, for that matter. Nothing could get past the swelling ache of emptiness in her heart.
The two weeks that had passed since her father’s funeral had done little to ease her sorrow. In this, the last year of her father’s illness, she had known the end would come, had even realized it would be a release for him. Knowing this truth had not lessened the devastation of losing him. From the time of her mother’s death when she was five, Mary had taken over the care of her absentminded but brilliant parent.
Not that Robert Fulton had completely neglected his only child. The vicar had given unstintingly of himself and his time as far as her education was concerned. The simple truth was that he had had little thought for the ordinary things such as meals and clean clothing, of offering a hug when she fell down. It had been left to Mary to direct the series of housekeepers in their duties and help them with whatever needed doing, to dust off her own scraped knees.
Robert Fulton had spent his time in the pursuit of learning and knowledge. The bond between father and daughter had been forged on that path. Reverend Fulton had been proud of his Mary’s quick mind, gladly teaching his daughter about any subject she seemed to take an interest in. He was a learned, broad-thinking and patient man, which stood him in good stead as a teacher.
Her father’s abilities as a teacher had led Mary to meet Victoria Thorn, whose kind offer of a home had now brought her to her present state of indecision. Her uncertainty had sent her out onto the moor, for it had always had a soothing effect on her. But she found no comfort here.
Victoria was her dearest friend. Not long after the reverend had taken up the position of minister to the local church, Victoria’s father, the Duke of Carlisle, had asked him to see to his daughter’s education. He’d said he was impressed with Mary’s knowledge. The moment Victoria had taken her place next to Mary in the book-filled study at the vicarage, Victoria’s gray eyes had met Mary’s golden brown ones. Victoria’s gaze had been direct and curiously assessing without any of the condescension the minister’s daughter had expected from the offspring of a duke. Mary had found herself smiling, and neither of the girls had ever wavered from the friendship begun on that day.
Unconsciously, Mary sighed, lifting her eyes to the grayness of the sky overhead. Somehow, something held her back from saying yes to Victoria’s invitation. She was infinitely aware of her friend’s own situation, the troubles she had so recently overcome.
In spite of her vast wealth and social position, life had been difficult for Victoria. Her father and mother had died several years ago and, along with their wealth, all their responsibilities had passed to their young daughter. Mary had done what she could to help Victoria through that horrible time. And now Victoria and her husband, Jedidiah, were trying to do what they could to help Mary.
They had invited her to come and live with them at Briarwood, their enormous mansion. Though Mary knew the offer was made from the kindest of intentions, she was not sure she could say yes—in fact, did not see how she could do so.
Victoria and Jedidiah had been married only nine short months and were even now expecting their first child. Mary did not want to intrude on this special time between them. When the two of them had come to the vicarage yesterday afternoon to tell Mary of their invitation to live with them, she had seen the way they touched one another on the least excuse, the way their eyes met and held every few moments, the depth of passion neither could hide.
She did not wish to intrude on that. And a further truth was that their shared intimacy served only to make her own loneliness all the more obvious and painful.
Yet what was she to do? The new vicar and his family of six had lived in a rented house in the village since their arrival in Carlisle over a year ago. The family had a right to move into the comfortable two-story house next to the church. It was a measure of his kindness that Reverend Diller had insisted Robert Fulton stay in his own home through his illness.
Mary knew she absolutely must vacate the rectory as soon as she could. For the hundredth time she asked herself where else she could go if she did not say yes to Victoria. She raised a trembling hand to wipe it across her forehead, unable to think of any answer to her dilemma when her heart was so heavy.
She walked on, putting one foot in front of the other, forcing herself forward over the uneven ground, forcing herself not to look back. Yet she gained no insight, lost none of her sense of confusion.
Lifting her eyes heavenward, she whispered, “Please, God, send me a sign? Help me to know what I should do.”
As if through a haze, the sound of galloping hooves penetrated her reverie. She looked up, her gaze scanning the moor. She saw a black stallion approaching at breakneck speed, its mane and tale flowing wildly in the wind. On its back was a man in dark clothing, bent low over the muscular neck, his lean thighs pressed tightly to his mount’s sides.
Mary stopped still, in unconscious appreciation of the untamed beauty of man and beast. Yet as she watched, her appreciation changed to uncertainty, then apprehension. Her eyes grew round and her heart rose in her throat as the horse and rider continued to bear down upon her.
She felt frozen, incapable of moving. Something, perhaps the excesses of emotion she had experienced in the past weeks, kept her immobile, and she could only stare in growing fear. Only at the last minute did the man pull the horse up short, causing it to rear high in the air just scant feet from her. Released from her fixed state, Mary took a step backward with an involuntary gasp.
The horse spun around in what certainly must have been a dizzying arch. To her surprise she heard what sounded like a husky and decidedly irreverent laugh escape the rider.
Drawing herself up to her full five feet four inches, Mary put her hands on her hips. What sort of lunatic laughed at nearly running down a defenseless woman? She was just getting set to unleash her tongue on this madman when he brought the stallion around and turned to face her.
All the things she had been going to say flew from her mind, like leaves in a breeze. A pair of dark, dark eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of black lashes focused on her in open appreciation. Her heart stopped, then started again with a lurch as he smiled, his white teeth even and strong in his lean-jawed, tanned face. He lifted a hand to rake a tousled dark brown forelock from his eyes as he said, “A good day to you, Miss…?” There was a flirtatious charm in his voice that she could not help but hear.
Mary continued to stare up at him, wondering where this amazingly devastating man had come from, and if indeed he was some figment of her mind. For even in her distressed state Mary knew that physically this overconfident male was exactly what her fertile imagination would conjure in a man if it could do so.
“Miss…?” he prodded.
Suddenly Mary realized she was standing there staring like a fool. Giving herself a mental shake, she pulled the ragged ends of her dignity together. She raised her chin as she told herself that handsome features did not make a man, even while her rapidly beating pulse refused to quiet. Because of her lack of command over her own reactions, Mary spoke with more heat than she had meant to. “And why, may I ask, should I tell you who I am, sir? You have clearly displayed the fact that you are of questionable character by the way you nearly ran me down.”
A look of complete dismay crossed his handsome face. “I? Dear lady, let me assure you that I would not have you think such a thing of me.” He ran a caressing hand over the stallion’s neck. “Balthazar is the most surefooted of mounts. He responds perfectly to the merest touch on the reins. He would never have touched you.” He arched a contrite brow, seeming suddenly more schoolboy than man, as he said, “But I must beg your forgiveness if I caused you even a moment’s concern for your safety. Please, do say you will forgive me?” The brilliant white smile he added was shocking in its power to catch her breath.
Mary recovered herself quickly and looked at him closely, not quite sure why. but having the definite feeling that he was somehow making sport of her. Yet she could see no proof of this in either his expression or tone. She pushed the thought away, having been taught that she must believe the best of people unless they showed her otherwise. “Very well, sir. I accept your apology. I only hope you have more care in the future.”
To her surprise he smiled again, leaning low over the horse’s back, his gaze even with her own. “You have not told me your name.”
She swallowed, feeling warm for no apparent reason at all. “I…Mary Fulton is my name.” She raised her chin, irritated at her own hesitation. “Though it is not as if I owe you the courtesy of introducing myself when you have not done so. I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so good as to tell me to whom am I speaking, sir?”
He laughed, and the sound slipped down her spine like a trickle of warm oil. “I am Ian Sinclair, little spitfire, on my way to Briarwood Manor.”
She gave a start. “Lord Ian Sinclair.” This must be the Ian Sinclair. The one Victoria had told her about several months ago. The one they called “Lord Sin.” The one who had asked Victoria to marry him. Victoria had in fact come very close to doing so, believing that Jedidiah did not want her. But they had worked out their differences and Victoria had rejected Sinclair’s proposal.
So what, then, was he doing at Carlisle now?
He must have gained quite a bit of information from her reaction, for he seemed to scowl with chagrin for a moment before that expression of studied charm and unconcern masked the more vulnerable expression. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Miss Fulton. Am I to take your reaction as indication that you know of me?”
She nodded slowly, wondering why she felt even more drawn to him after having seen that momentary glimpse of vulnerability beneath the surface of his charm. “I am well acquainted with Lady Victoria. She has mentioned you in passing,” she told him carefully. It was not precisely the truth, but for some reason Mary felt uncomfortable with having Ian Sinclair know she knew so much of his private affairs.
An inner voice told her that the more distance she kept between herself and this man, the better.
Blessedly unaware of her thoughts, he nodded, settling back on his horse. “Then I shall surely be seeing more of you this week while I am at Briarwood, Miss Fulton.” Again there was that oddly intimate inflection in his voice that she could not fully define. It was also apparent in his mysterious dark eyes.
Self-consciously, she stepped backward and shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps. Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure they are expecting you.”
Ian Sinclair looked down at her, the expression in his eyes now more clear as his admiring gaze moved slowly over her. Raising a dark brow, he indicated the empty space on the saddle before him. “I am not in such a great hurry.
I would be happy to take you wherever you might be going.”
Unaccustomed to such attention and unsure as to how to react, Mary was unable to meet that appreciative gaze. She flushed and ran unaccountably trembling fingers over the skirt of her blue cotton dress. “No, really, I have not finished my walk.” She waved a hand to indicate the open moor before her.
He looked at her closely. “Are you sure? You would be no trouble to me—no trouble whatsoever.” Again she heard that unexplainable something in his voice, a quality that made her think of summer nights that were too hot to lie beneath the covers.
For a breathless moment his eyes met hers and the world tilted. Now to that image of a hot night was added an unexpected vision of his face leaning over hers, his dark eyes seeming to see right into her soul. Mary took in a breath of shock.
He smiled, a dark, knowing smile that made her flush deepen as she blinked with disbelief at her own thoughts. “Well?” he prompted.
Quickly she answered, refusing to acknowledge any of what was happening. “I am quite sure that I have no need of your assistance. I do very well on my own.”
A dark brow arched high. “Do you, now? But just imagine how very well you might do with someone else.”
She did not want to even try to contemplate why he was persisting in talking this way. But Mary had had quite enough. “Really, sir, I do not think it very good of you to make sport of me.”
He sobered abruptly, putting a hand over his heart. “I assure you, Mary, I have no desire to make sport of you. At least, not with words.”
She frowned, feeling more and more out of her depth, and not liking that in the least. But she tried her best to hold her own, dismissing him with as much disdain as she could muster. “That would be Miss Fulton, please. Now, good day, sir.”
Ian Sinclair smiled again, seemingly unaffected by her hauteur. “As you wish, Miss Mary Fulton. Until we meet again.” With that he spun his mount around and galloped off, the horse’s hooves flashing.
She watched him, shaking her head. They would not be meeting again. She would make sure of that. He could not be up to any good with his lingering looks and innuendo that she could not quite understand. Men like Ian Sinclair, who she knew was the heir to an earldom, could only mean disaster to a young woman like her with no dowry and no prospects to recommend them for marriage.
Not that she wanted anything to do with the blackguard. He was not the kind of man one could depend on, with his flirtatious ways. And no one would deny that he was far too handsome for his own good.
Heaven help her, if a miracle did occur and Mary someday met a suitable man and fell in love, he must certainly be a gentleman to depend on. Someone who would be a partner and soul mate. He would not be a man who would shed the light of his charm on every woman he met.
Squaring her shoulders, Mary set off across the moor once again, realizing as she did so that for the few moments he had been there, Ian Sinclair had made her forget the problems confronting her. With a sigh, Mary cast one last glance in the direction he had gone.

Ian barely felt the wind tugging at his hair as he rode away from the little country beauty. With her gold hair, and eyes that seemed to look right inside him, she had been enough to warm any man’s blood. There had been no quaint demureness in her manner, stirring Ian’s interest even further.
He was not at all surprised to learn that she was acquainted with Victoria Thorn. That lady was not one to simper and flutter her lashes like a schoolgirl. Lady Victoria faced a man directly, as had Miss Fulton—Mary. He laughed aloud at recalling her insistence on his using the formal address.
Mary. The name suited her, being somehow soft and strong at the same time, as he suspected its bearer was. For some reason he felt a growing curiosity about the young woman he had left behind him on the moors. She was not dressed at all fashionably, with her golden hair whipped to a wild disarray. Her plain straw bonnet could do little to protect that creamy complexion from the sun, clutched in her hand the way it had been. No hoops had shaped the skirt of her pale blue dress, and the wind had molded it quite distractingly to a slender and delicate but pleasingly rounded form.
Perhaps Victoria would be more willing to quench his curiosity about Miss Fulton than she herself had been. He spurred his mount forward.
Some time later Ian was riding down the well-tended, tree-lined drive. In the distance, through the veils of new leaves, he could see the enormous sandstone manor house where lived his host and hostess, the recently wedded Victoria and Jedidiah Thorn-McBride.
Ian had asked Victoria to marry him just under a year ago, and for a short while it had looked as if she might say yes. But it had been Jedidiah McBride whom she had loved. Jedidiah had been posing as her cousin from America at the time, though Ian had ultimately sensed there was something more than family devotion between the two. At the wedding, Victoria had admitted there was no family connection, only that they had agreed to do a favor for the other, and had ended up falling in love. He’d be lying if he said his heart was broken by her refusal, but he was disappointed, having felt they would deal very well together.
Having become even more friendly with the couple when they were in London right before Jedidiah’s trip to America, Ian was content that Victoria had made the right choice for herself. It was more than obvious that the newlyweds were completely devoted to one another. How could he begrudge them such happiness?
As he came closer to the house, Ian could not help comparing it with his own family estate, a place he had not visited in two years. Briarwood was pale and bright, while Sinclair Hall seemed dark and austere in contrast. It was as if the exterior of his ancestral home reflected the stilted emotions and lack of forgiveness in the hearts of those inside.
Ian did not want to think about that. He had spent the eleven years since he was seventeen doing everything he could to keep himself from thinking about it. A fact that had left him with a less than savory reputation.
He drew his horse to a halt at the bottom of the wide steps. A liveried manservant came out to take his horse as soon as his feet touched the ground.
When he entered the high-ceilinged foyer, Victoria was coming across the marble floor, her hands outstretched. She smiled, and Ian could not help seeing what a beautiful woman she was in spite of her advancing pregnancy. Her creamy skin was touched by a delicate flush of health and her dark locks gleamed, as did her gray eyes. Victoria was favored with spirit and intelligence as well as beauty. It was with only the slightest twinge of regret that Ian told himself again that Jedidiah McBride was a very fortunate man.
For some reason he had a brief image of Mary Fulton’s eyes, her wind-tousled golden hair. When Victoria took his hands and spoke, it disappeared. “We were surprised and so happy to receive your letter saying you would be in the district. It is good of you to come and visit us.”
Ian smiled at her, kissing her offered cheek in a brotherly fashion. Usually with this woman, if no other, he felt completely at ease, with no need to play intricate sensual games. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place. Yet at this moment he had need to call upon his skills at acting.
Jedidiah had been the one to contact him, having decided to purchase one of Ian’s finest mares as a birthday surprise for his wife. The mare was tied behind the carriage that was some hours behind him. Ian was not about to give away the secret. “How could I stay away?” he told her with exaggerated clutching at his chest. “You know you have stolen my heart, Lady Victoria.”
She gave him a mocking reprimand. “Do please discontinue this kind of talk. Your heart is safely locked in your chest, where I believe it will continue to reside, Ian.”
At his pained expression and declaration of “Now you’ve mortally wounded me,” she laughed, as he had meant her to.
After taking his coat with a quelling glance, Victoria handed it to another footman. She said, “John, please have Mrs. Everard send tea into the sitting room.”
“Very well, my lady.” The young, dark-haired serving man bowed to each of them respectfully and moved off across the marble floor.
Victoria then linked her arm through Ian’s and led him forward. “Now come into the sitting room and we’ll have tea. Jedidiah is off showing one of the tenants how to set up an irrigation system. He should be back shortly.”
As they moved across the foyer Ian could not help thinking again what a charming home Briarwood Manor was. In spite of its size and grandeur, it reverberated a feeling of comfort and warmth. Through the open doorways on either side of them he could see into rooms where the drapes had been drawn back to let in the light. He gained the impression of a pleasant mix of pale and vibrant colors that made each chamber seem to beckon a welcome.
Once more Ian could not help comparing it to Sinclair Hall. He tried not to acknowledge the melancholy that tugged at his heart on doing so. His own ancestral home he found lacking on every score. The rooms of that great house were kept dark and closed off, a fitting home for the ghosts that roamed its halls. And there were ghosts—not only the ghost of his mother, who had died giving birth to him, but also that of his brother, Malcolm.
The thought of his brother made his heart ache with loss. Ian had loved Malcolm with a devotion that was akin to hero-worship. Even Ian’s very early understanding that his father’s love for himself would never come close to that of his older son had not changed Ian’s feelings for Malcolm. He had been intelligent, loving and so full of life. How could anyone begrudge him anything, least of all Ian? Malcolm had been the sun they all orbited around. That was why his father had never been able to forgive Ian when he believed his younger son had caused Malcolm’s death.
It was a death that he had, in fact, not been responsible for.
Ian’s lips thinned as he pushed the painful thoughts away. It was surprising how difficult this was to do, especially when he had worked so diligently to forget in the intervening years. Nothing—not drink, not women, not horse racing—had made him forget for more than brief hours. Realizing that living as Lord Sin was not making him forget had made Ian wish to change his life. He had thought Victoria would be part of that new life, but that had not come to pass.
Victoria led him into the sitting room, where they seated themselves on a pale green settee. Immediately Ian turned to her, needing to concentrate on something beyond his hurtful thoughts. “It seems Jed is keeping himself busy with the duties of running the estates.”
She rested a hand on the swell of her stomach. Contentment and pride were clear in her tone and shining gray eyes. “Yes, he is. He never seems to resent the burdens marrying me has laid at his feet. He does in fact seem to thrive on the work and responsibility of looking after the welfare of so many.” She smiled ruefully. “And I am grateful for him for more reasons than I can say. Not the least of which is that his care for our lands has freed me to be a mother to my child.”
Ian heard her speak of Jedidiah’s pleasure in his duties as overlord with a trace of regret. He would not be averse to taking up the duties of running the Sinclair estates. He did in fact wish that his father had ever seemed the least bit interested in having him do so. The one thing he appeared to expect from his son was an heir, and on that score he had been quite blunt. When last they’d spoken, the elder man had reiterated his desire for Ian to wed his cousin Barbara and get her with child. Ian had no intention of falling in with his father’s wishes. He was not in the least attracted to Barbara, and would not have married her if he was. He would not allow the older man to rule his life. As long as he was earl Malcolm Sinclair had the power to keep Ian from having any say in how the estates were run. But he could not control the way Ian lived his own life.
As he replied, Ian could not help the unrest in his tone. “I’m sure the duties your husband performs offer more satisfaction than you know, Victoria. Seeing your own ideas implemented, improving conditions for the people who depend upon you. Those things would be reward enough to content any self-respecting man.”
Having confided more of his unhappiness to Victoria than anyone else, Ian was not surprised when she laid a hand on his arm. “Ian, perhaps someday your father will allow you to take up your own rightful position as his heir. I know it is what you desire most.”
Though he had told Victoria of his troubles with his father, Ian found he was somewhat uncomfortable with her concern. He gave a falsely bright smile. “I doubt the old fellow has any plans to do anything of the kind, but I shall not be losing any sleep over the matter. As you know, I have my horses and will continue to find satisfaction in that, for it does not look like I will inherit for many years to come. Not that I wish the earl any ill fortune. In spite of everything, he is my father.”
“Are things no better between you?” she asked, cutting through his attempted facade easily. It was a knack she had possessed since the very beginning of their acquaintance.
Unable to keep up any pretext with this woman, who seemed to read him as if she had known him all his life, Ian shook his head, allowing the smile to fade. “No, I am afraid not. He has remained unceasing in his insistence that I marry. His every letter is a diatribe on the subject. He did in fact come up to London some months ago to reiterate his demands in person.”
“Then why do you not marry, if only to make peace with him? You were prepared to do so some months ago.”
He could not explain to her his own continued reticence, and so replied dramatically, “The woman I wished to wed has taken another.” Ian cast a mock tragic glance her way.
Her only answer was a delicately arched brow.
He grew more serious. “In all honesty I have met no one else whom I would seriously consider spending the rest of my life with. And I have no intention of doing as he wishes by marrying my cousin Barbara. It is unthinkable.”
“If you made a real attempt, you might find someone of your own choosing,” she told him stubbornly.
Ian shrugged. “You know how I feel about the young debs who are paraded before the bachelors of London society. They dance and flutter their eyelashes well enough, but not a thought about anything more interesting than how many dresses they own or how many servants a prospective bridegroom might provide passes through their minds. To marry one of them would be to condemn oneself to a life of abject boredom.”
“Surely that is not true of all the young women you’ve met?” she said dryly.
Unexpectedly a vision crept into his mind. The vision had long golden hair and a pair of bewitchingly gold eyes, eyes like a hawk’s. “I did meet a woman today not far from Carlisle,” he told her with more uncertainty than he would have thought clouding his teasing tone. “She was…well…different.”
Victoria leaned closer to him, her gray eyes sparkling with interest. “Different. And not far from Carlisle. This is quite exciting. Ian, you must tell me all. What is her name?”
He was surprised at his own reluctance to talk about the woman he’d met. He pushed it aside. This conversation was after all occurring only for amusement’s sake. “I really know very little of her. The young woman seemed stimulatingly contrary and addressed me quite deprecatingly, in the manner of one quite accustomed to great deference. Though from her dress and the simple miss she attached to her name, she was certainly not of the nobility.”
So occupied was he in remembering how much he had enjoyed the exchange that Ian did not notice how very quiet Victoria had become. “She was quite beautiful and I must admit that I would not be averse to getting to know her better, possibly much better.” He glanced at Victoria then as he ended and found her biting her lip as she gazed down at her hands.
He finished with a dawning sense that something was wrong. “By the way, she said she knew you, and that her name was Mary Fulton.”
Victoria sat back abruptly, her whole body stiff, one hand going to the mound of her stomach. “Mary? I had feared as much.”
He scowled at her obviously unfavorable reaction. “I resent your use of the term fear.”
She looked at him then, her gray eyes grown grave with warning. “You must not speak of Mary that way, even in jest. I do in fact know her, and well. She is my dearest friend and has just lost her beloved father. He was the reverend of the church in Carlisle from the time I was quite small. Mary is in no way equal to your game, Ian.”
He felt as if she had slapped him, and a tightness gripped his chest as he looked away from her. So she thought he was not a suitable companion for her friend. His voice took on a condescending tone to cover his hurt. “I do hope I have misunderstood what you are trying to say. Are you implying that I would seduce your little friend? I had no such intention. Now that you have told me of your association, I shall put her from my mind.”
Victoria was completely frank with him. “Ian…forgive me, but you as well as anyone know of your reputation. You have never pretended otherwise, even when you were courting me.”
He continued to hold himself stiffly. “And I also recall telling you that I had had enough of living up to my own reputation as Lord Sin. I meant it.”
A look of chagrin came over her fine-featured face. She spoke softly. “When you said you would like to know her better…I simply assumed…” She drew herself up. “You know your father would never approve of your attachment to a simple vicar’s daughter. And I love her so, as if she was my own sister. I could not bear to see her hurt in any way, even if it was inadvertent on your part. Jedidiah and I have asked her to come and live with us, though she has not said yes.” Victoria paused before going on. “I will accept your assurances that she is in no danger from you.”
He glanced over to see that she was biting her lip again. Ian shook his head, meeting her eyes earnestly. “I told you when I asked you to marry me, Victoria. I am done with all that. I have no desire to seduce young innocents. And any that I might have gotten the credit for leading astray in the past were not as innocent as their families might have believed. Besides, you give me far too much credit.” He gave a forced laugh. “There is no reason to believe the young woman would succumb even if I was to press her.”
She shrugged with a rueful smile. “Do not underestimate yourself, Ian. Because your heart is so carefully guarded it is difficult for you to see that others are not so adept at protecting their own.”
He felt he must defend himself here. “I was willing to love you.”
She shook her head sagely. “No, Ian, you were prepared to like me, even to respect me. That is not love. Love is the total giving of yourself into another’s keeping. You did not love me.”
When he scowled, ready to deny what she had said, she held up her hand. “But enough of such talk. Forgive me. I believe you will act honorably. As I said, I spoke only out of my love for Mary and concern for the sadness and vulnerability she is feeling right now.”
Ian nodded. He was no more interested in carrying on this conversation than she. He had no wish to examine the discomfort he felt at hearing her say he had locked his heart away. He knew he had learned to avoid thinking about how deeply his father’s rejection of him hurt. That did not mean he could not love.
Just then the door opened and the maid entered with tea, effectively preventing any more such talk. And Ian was relieved. But as he watched the maid set the heavy tray down on the low table before them, Ian had a thought pass through his mind without his having called it forth.
He heard Victoria’s voice telling him that his father would not approve of Mary Fulton. Indeed, Ian thought as he nodded for three sugars, Malcolm Sinclair would likely very much disapprove of the young woman, Mary Fulton. And not only because she was a minister’s daughter. There had been an obvious measure of strength and determination in those direct golden eyes. She was quite unlikely to be led about by the nose. Which Ian believed was his father’s major reason for approving of Barbara.
Ian and Barbara had been thrown together on every possible occasion since Ian was twenty. It seemed she had been a guest at Sinclair Hall on each of his infrequent visits. Barbara, being only four years his junior, could not have been anything but aware of what was happening, especially after his father had gone so far as to move her into Sinclair Hall just over a year ago. Though she had never actually expressed any desire to marry Ian, she seemed willing to go along with their parents’ plans. Ian was not.
Again he saw Mary Fulton’s face in his mind. Ian now knew what had caused that trace of sadness in her golden eyes. He was assaulted by unexpected feelings of protectiveness.
He gave himself a mental shake. Ian knew he must put these unwanted thoughts of Mary Fulton from his mind. He had given his promise not to seduce her. And he really could not offer marriage to a vicar’s daughter even if he wanted to. It would be too far to go in his defiance of his father.
Any sense of protectiveness he was experiencing was brought on solely by his lack of compassion when he met her. It was regretful, really, that he had not known of her father’s death.

Chapter Two (#ulink_1279e661-e198-5867-bbfd-77a9f39e1a22)
As she made her way out to the garden, Mary hesitated beside the table in the front hall and picked up her widebrimmed straw hat. The last time she had seen Victoria, her friend had been adamant in telling her that she must remember to put the thing on her head when she was outside. She had then with affectionate admonition pointed out two light golden freckles on Mary’s nose.
Yesterday when Mary had met Ian Sinclair she had not been wearing her bonnet. She suddenly wondered if he had noticed those freckles. Being an aristocrat himself, Ian Sinclair would certainly expect any well-bred young woman to take great care with her complexion. Yet when Mary thought back, she realized he had not appeared to be concerned about such things at all. Even now she flushed when she remembered the way he had looked at her. It was as if…as if he wanted to…Well, Mary didn’t know what he wanted to do. Yet she did somehow know that the feeling of tightness in her belly was connected to that look.
In direct opposition to those feelings, Mary firmly told herself she did not care one way or another what the infamous “Lord Sin” thought of her. Then, in spite of her own declaration, she tied the bonnet ribbon securely beneath her chin as she made her way out the front door.
Mary had not done any work in her garden since before the funeral. There had simply seemed little point in tending plants that no one cared about. For some reason she had risen today with the overwhelming need to do so. Her mother had brought many of the seeds and cuttings here as a young wife and mother. Was it not Mary’s duty to honor her memory by looking after the things that she had loved? Especially since that love of gardening had been passed on to Mary. One of the few clear memories she had of her mother was of her reaching up to give her a bloom from one of her own roses as she tended them.
Besides, the task would certainly give her something to do with her idle hands. Not to mention her mind, which obviously needed something worthwhile to occupy it if the number of times Ian Sinclair had popped into it since she met him was any indication.
The garden lay at the back of the red brick house, surrounded by a four-foot-high picket fence. An enormous weeping willow spread its branches over much of the yard, offering a portion of shade to her lilies of the valley during the hottest part of the summer days. Beneath the tree sat the lawn furniture where she and her father had often come to spend a warm evening before he had become too ill. She tried not to let her gaze linger too long on the rattan chaise where he had rested, most times reading a book. But even a glance was enough to jar her aching heart.
Mary squared her shoulders, fighting the wave of grief, refusing to let the misery overpower her again. She must get on with her life. It was what her father would want.
For several hours she managed to think of little besides the young plants she tended, which seemed to respond to her ministrations by reaching eager young leaves to the light. The earth was moist and dark, smelling rich and pleasantly musty in her hands. The few clouds that had lingered from the previous day cleared and the morning sun shone down with determined good cheer.
After a time, Mary grew warm. Absentmindedly she undid some of the buttons at her throat and with the handkerchief from her pocket wiped the perspiration that had beaded on the back of her neck and down the front of her dress. As she reached down between her breasts, Mary felt an odd prickling along the base of her neck. She looked toward the walk that led from the front of the house. No one was there. She told herself she was becoming too edgy from being alone so much, but she did take her hand from the front of her dress.
Telling herself this did not make the sensation of being watched go away. It in fact became overpowering, and she found herself turning around to look in the direction of the back gate.
Then she stopped in horror, still as the statue of St. George in the churchyard. For leaning against the top of the fence was none other than Ian Sinclair himself, looking every bit as handsome, confident and compellingly male as she had remembered him.
It was impossible.
Mary blinked to see if she was conjuring him up herself. But when she opened her lids, there he was, still smiling in that infuriatingly sardonic way of his, his dark eyes regarding her with that strangely unsettling expression of the previous day. It was almost as if he knew a secret about her, a secret that even she did not know.
That, Mary realized, was completely ridiculous. Ian Sinclair knew no secrets about her, because she had none. For some unknown reason this did not soothe her. She drew herself up, raising her chin high. “What are you doing here?”
He raised his brows in what she could only believe was feigned surprise and regret. “Am I to take that to mean you do not want me?” he asked. “Why? What have I done to offend you so greatly? We have only known each other since yesterday.”
As he spoke his gaze drifted down to the open neck of her gown and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Mary had to resist the urge to look at what he might be seeing. With as much aplomb as she could manage, she drew the edges of the dress together with one hand, not at all pleased to note that her fingers were not quite steady.
Did not want him, indeed.
His smile widened as he watched her and she was even further chagrined, but she did not wish him to know that. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr.—Lord Sinclair?”
Unexpectedly his expression changed, growing decidedly more gentle, his dark eyes devastatingly intent with concern. “No, but there is something I wish to do. When I told Victoria of our meeting she informed me of your recent loss. It…I realized that you must have been somewhat distraught even before I came upon you yesterday. I thought I should…”
He indicated the black stallion, which she now saw he had tied farther along the fence toward the front of the house. “Well, I was out riding and decided it would only be common courtesy to come by and offer my condolences and apologize for upsetting you. It is the least I could do after giving you such a start.”
She looked down at the ground, then back at him, nodding jerkily. His apology was rendered so endearingly, almost as if he was a recalcitrant schoolboy. It would have been nearly impossible to remain aloof, but her reaction to his care was stronger than she would have imagined, for it called forth a glowing warmth inside her. “I…thank you, that is very kind of you. I’m afraid I may have overreacted. I was never actually in any danger. It’s just that it has been…so very difficult…” Mary halted, the lump in her throat preventing her from going on.
“And understandably so.” He reached down and flipped the gate latch. The next thing she knew Mary was no longer standing alone in the garden. Ian Sinclair seemed to fill the space with the potency of his presence. He was too alive, too compellingly attractive to be real in the midst of this quiet garden. She watched as he moved forward—with the same grace as a tightrope walker she had once seen at a fair—and reached for her hand.
If some mystical fairy godmother had previously appeared and told her this would be happening, that this devastating man would so gently take her earth-stained hand in his, Mary would not have believed it possible. As it was, the event occurring without any hint of warning, her sense of unreality was numbing. She felt as if she was submerged in some thick fluid that hindered thought and speech.
She could only feel.
His hand was large and warm on hers, sparking a tingling current in her icy fingers. His dark eyes studied her with obvious concern as she looked up at him, not able to breathe properly around the tightness that gripped her throat as their glances grazed.
Mary looked down and found herself no more able to control her reactions to the rest of him. The dark brown fabric of his coat was molded perfectly over his wide shoulders and her fingers itched to trace them, to see if they were as hard as they appeared. Her gaze dipped lower, running over a paisley print vest that lay smoothly over a starched white shirt. His dark brown trousers were without even the slightest unwanted crease on his long legs. Again she realized that Ian Sinclair was indeed the embodiment of her every girlhood fantasy.
And that was what brought Mary to her senses. She was not a girl, but a grown woman of twenty-three, long past the age when most young women married. She was far too mature to allow a man’s physical presence to so overcome her own natural reticence.
She suddenly became infinitely conscious of her own disheveled state, her faded dress, her tousled hair beneath the old straw bonnet. A man like Ian Sinclair could not be serious in his intentions toward her. She was the daughter of a country vicar, he the son of a peer of the realm. Though she could not fathom the reason for his interest, she must not take his obvious concern to heart. It was only her own vulnerability over her father’s death that was confusing her. Pride made her fight the tears that threatened to spill at this thought.
Ian stood looking down at Mary Fulton and was surprised at the depth of compassion he felt as he saw the tears glistening in her golden eyes. He’d not been able to get her out of his mind since seeing her yesterday, and he’d convinced himself it was because of his having frightened her. He had decided that the preoccupation would go away if he came and apologized, offered his condolences on the loss of her father.
But as he studied her delicately lovely face now, Ian had the strange feeling that there was something different about Mary Fulton. That there was an unnamable force drawing him to her. His gaze lingered on the pale curve of her cheek as he watched her fight for control. For some reason her battle for dignity moved him more than he dared admit to himself.
He spoke gently. “Is there something I can do?”
She looked at him then, her expression bleak. “No. There is nothing anyone can do. I must simply learn to bear it.”
“But you needn’t do so alone,” he reminded her. “Why do you not go up to Briarwood now? Victoria has told me that she has invited you to come and live with them. They would welcome you at any time.”
She was shaking her head even before he finished. “I cannot do that. It would not be right.”
Ian raised his hands in surprise. “But what do you mean? Victoria has made her affection for you clear to me. She is eager for your companionship.”
Mary glanced up at him, then away, her eyes unseeing as she stared across the yard. “I could not do anything so thoughtless to Victoria and Jedidiah. They have only been married for less than a year and have already helped me more than anyone could hope for. They have a right to spend this time, with the baby coming, together without my problems to concern them.” Her gaze flicked to his again and she raised her chin. “I shall seek a position as a governess, or…I don’t know. I shall just have to find some suitable employment.”
“But they are expecting—"
She halted him there. “Please. I have made up my mind. Victoria is not responsible for me. I wish to find my own way, to feel that I have not taken charity.”
He watched her with growing admiration. What courage and pride it must have taken for Mary Fulton to make this decision. Few young women would reject such an overture as Victoria had made to her friend. The offer she had made had clearly come out of love alone, with no expectation of return.
He tried once more to convince Mary. “There is no need for you to be so self-reliant. There is no harm in allowing someone who loves you to care for and provide for you.”
Still she did not look at him as she answered in a quiet but steady voice. “We, my father and I, have lived in Carlisle since I was a very small girl. In that time we have been dependent on the Thorn family’s generosity, though it was not given out of charity in the main. When my father was the minister he earned his keep. But do you realize that over the past year he had been able to perform none of his duties? Victoria has been so kind in allowing us to stay here. I love her more than I can say, but I cannot allow her to keep giving so much to me. It would not be right.”
He could hear the iron determination in her tone. Something told him that Mary Fulton would do exactly as she had decided, no matter what anyone else thought best. Her stubborn independence was a characteristic he could admire even while he felt a sense of frustration toward her.
Telling himself he had no right to question this young woman’s decisions, Ian still found himself shaking his head as he admitted, “I admire your will even though I cannot agree that you have chosen in your own best interest. You are very brave.”
When she looked up at him, her golden eyes were glistening like wet topaz and Ian was hard-pressed to remember he had no part in her affairs, that he had told Victoria he had no designs on her friend. Almost as if it were against her will, Mary whispered, “I do not feel very brave. I simply must make a life of my own somewhere. Staying here would be too difficult with Father gone.” Her voice broke as he watched her fight to control her emotions. “I cannot think of what life will be like without him.”
One large tear fell from her eyes to glide across the pearly surface of her cheek. His heart contracted painfully in his chest. Ian could no more stop himself from reaching out to her than he could stop the moon from turning around the earth.
There beneath the sheltering limbs of the weeping willow, Mary’s composure broke and she allowed Ian Sinclair to draw her close to him. His chest was firm and strong under her cheek. All her life she had longed for someone to care for her this way. Her father had loved her, but he had not been one to hold and comfort her. He would likely have spoken to her philosophically of the troubles she was experiencing, told her that the Lord sent the trials of life to strengthen his flock. But she had loved him.
The tears began to flow in earnest when she felt a large handkerchief pressed into her hand. Now there was no stopping the tide as she held the square of soft cotton to her face. It was as if she could no longer hold back the pain that she’d bottled up inside her since her father’s death.
Only when her sobs quieted did Ian Sinclair say anything more. Gently he patted her back, murmuring, “There, it’s all right. Sometimes a grief is just too big to keep inside. You walk around feeling like you have it all under control but it’s there, someplace inside that aches just enough to keep you from ever forgetting.”
His voice was deep and comforting next to her ear, but at the same time she could hear a strange current of pain in his words. This man had suffered hurts of his own. Realizing this left her feeling unsettled and, much as she wished to deny it, she sensed a change beginning to take place inside her—a change she did not quite understand.
Mary knew only that the tingle of awareness that traveled from her ear to the pit of her stomach was in no way connected to any memory of her father.
She became aware of Ian Sinclair’s strong hand on her back, felt its warmth through the thin cotton of her dress with a shiver that had nothing to do with being cold. And at the same time it seemed he had grown very still, as if he knew what she was feeling.
With bated breath, Mary glanced up at him from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. He was looking at her, his dark eyes intent with some emotion she could not name.
When Ian dipped his head and placed his firm but supple lips to hers, Mary thought she would surely faint from the sweet pleasure that rippled through her. Unconsciously she tilted her head to allow him better access as his mouth caressed hers.
His arms tightened, pulling her even closer to the long length of him, and she gave a start as a foreign hardness grew against her belly. Her eyes flew open wide and Mary jerked back in shock.
She looked away from Ian Sinclair, her eyes focusing on nothing, her hand going up to cover her mouth. How could she bring herself to face him after allowing him to kiss her, after feeling his…? Crimson color stained her face and neck. She did not even know this man. Whatever would her father say about this? What must Ian Sinclair himself think of her?
She attempted to cover her shame with hauteur. “I think it would be best you go now.”
He answered, drawing her gaze, though she could gauge nothing of his thoughts by his expressionless eyes nor the cool timbre of his voice. “I am very sorry for what I just did, but let us not make more of this than there is. You were upset and I was comforting you, nothing else.”
Mary felt a shaft of rebellion rise up inside her. Who was he to tell her not to make too much of anything? He had, after all, been the one to kiss her. Her nose tilted high. “How very supercilious of you, my lord. Am I to understand that you always comfort women by kissing them? If that is the case, I very much pity any woman who might find herself attached to you.”
He seemed a bit taken aback, but only for a moment before a gleam of amusement and, dare she think it, admiration lit those dark eyes. “My, but you are direct, Miss Fulton. To answer your question, I do not always kiss women when I am comforting them, but it has happened once or twice and I’ve had no complaints.”
She took a deep breath, her hands going to her hips. “Why, you insufferable beast.”
His gaze slid down, pausing for a moment on her bosom before he looked back at her face. Mary only then recalled that she had unbuttoned the neck of her dress. She knew that if she looked down there would be far more of her showing than she wished. Only by an act of will did she keep herself from doing so. She would not allow him to see that she was embarrassed. Even as the thought swept through her mind, he smiled knowingly and she felt a deep flush of heat move down her throat and over her breasts.
His next words drove all thought of retaining a pose of unconcern from her mind. “If you keep standing there looking so completely desirable, Miss Fulton, I just might kiss you again.”
Her arms came up to shield her bosom from his view. “You, my lord Sinclair, are despicable. No wonder they call you ‘Lord Sin.’"
By the way his eyes narrowed and his lean jaw flexed she could see that this had struck a nerve. He spoke with slow deliberation. “I will thank you not to call me that again.”
“And why should I do as you tell me?”
He took a step closer to her, and Mary took an involuntary step backward. His tone was dangerously controlled. “Because I have asked you not to do so. If you will not comply with a polite request—” he shrugged meaningfully “—I can take more drastic steps to gain your compliance.”
“Why…you…you…I can’t think of anything despicable enough to call you. I’ll not stand here for one more moment.” With that she swung around and stalked away.
Ian watched her with irritation and a surprising amount of amusement and, to his further surprise, a grudging respect. What a little hellion she was. A man just did not know what she might say. Mary Fulton was the complete antithesis of his docile, obedient cousin Barbara. Unexpectedly Victoria’s warnings that his father would never approve of a minister’s daughter popped into his mind again. How very angry his father would be if he married someone like Mary Fulton, someone who would match and possibly even best the old fellow in a contest of wills.
And how very delicious she had tasted. How very much he would like to sip at those lips again, and even more, to learn if the skin on the curve of breast she had so unwittingly displayed was as smooth as it looked.
An idea was beginning to insinuate itself into his mind. The idea that Mary Fulton would make a very interesting selection as a wife. No. He could not even contemplate such a thing.
Besides, the woman obviously detested him. She had even gone so far as to call him “Lord Sin” to his face, something few men would have the temerity to do.
He pushed away the unthinkable notion that continued to prod at his consciousness. He would do well to ride straight back to Briarwood and enjoy the rest of his visit with Victoria and Jedidiah. In a few days he would be returning to London and his life there.
Not even to spite his father could Ian consider any union with that hoyden, no matter that her lips tasted of warm, sweet woman and fresh air. Or even that she was delectably rounded in all the right places despite her delicate form. He started toward his horse, which was still tied waiting for him. Yet he could not keep his gaze from straying to where one of the curtains fluttered at the upstairs window.
So she was watching him. An unconscious smile curved his lips as he rode toward Briarwood.

When the footman arrived at the rectory the next day with an invitation to dine at Briarwood, Mary told herself that she would not go. Never. Not as long as that man was staying there. With polite determination she gave the man her apology—she would not be able to attend dinner.
He bowed and left. Closing the door, she looked down at the card in her hand. With a disdainfully raised chin she promptly dropped the missive into the wastebasket.
She went back into the sitting room where she had been perusing several recent copies of The Times and The Post. Mary had circled several advertisements. Each was requesting a résumé from young women who would be interested in the post of governess. Sitting down beside the low table, she picked up her pen and continued down the columns. Her stomach churned with nervousness at the thought of what she was doing. Taking such a position would separate her from everything and everyone familiar to her. Determinedly she told herself she was only doing what was right.
Yet not thirty minutes later she found herself back in the front hall holding the invitation to dinner in her hand with a yearning expression on her face. Mary told herself she did so love Victoria and it might not be long before she was gone to make her living elsewhere.
Why should she allow Ian Sinclair to keep her from Victoria? Her friend’s companionship was especially precious to her now when she was very likely going away.
Besides, a small voice inside her piped up, he had done nothing but kiss her. Then apologized for that. Was she, as he had implied, making too much of a little thing? The man had made it very clear that he would not be losing any sleep over the matter.
Yet she could not bring herself to go.

Half an hour later, unable to concentrate on anything, Mary left the vicarage. A walk would surely clear her mind. Until recent times, being out amongst the growing things had always soothed her. Perhaps it would do so today.
But she was not soothed. She could not stop thinking about the way Ian Sinclair had kissed her and how she had reacted to that kiss. Why, oh, why did she feel this strange, unfortunate attraction for the blackguard? Why had she no more control over her own emotions and feelings?
A lush hawthorn hedge ran the length of the laneway. She followed it to where it ran past the church that sat beside the vicarage. Greeted by Matthew Brown as he used a pair of hedge clippers to trim the new growth, she raised a hand and smiled. The elderly gentleman had been looking after the church grounds for as long as she could recall. But Mary did not stop to chat with him as she usually did.
At the end of the hedge she paused and looked up at the church. It was a welcoming-looking structure, deceptive in its simplicity of design. No expense had been spared in the quality of the stained glass windows that ran the length of the building, nor in the highly polished woods, beautiful statuary and tastefully used gilt trim inside.
But it was not to the inside of the church that her thoughts turned today. It was to the bell tower. The enormous silver bell that pealed so purely every Sunday morning was silent and glistening in the sunlight far above her.
Just looking up at it caused a knot of tension in her stomach.
It had not always been that way. She had loved that bell tower as a child. She had felt that she could get just a little closer to heaven and thus to her mother by going up there. Yet that had all changed when she was seven and two older boys from the village had discovered her up there alone. They’d teased her and said she was nothing but the lord’s daughter’s live doll. When she’d replied, haughtily telling them they were only jealous, they’d held her at the very edge of the tower platform, threatening to throw her off if she didn’t retract her words. Pride had not allowed her to do so.
Luckily Victoria’s father had come along. The boys had been punished, but Mary had not been able to go up into the tower nor to any other high place since. In all the years since that event, Mary had forgotten neither the fear nor the feeling of comfort she’d known as the gentle duke had carried her home. Not until yesterday when Ian Sinclair had taken her into his arms had she known those feelings again.
But she did not want to think of Ian Sinclair.
As she looked up, she felt frustrated and angry with herself for allowing someone else to rob her of the comfort she had known from being in the tower. And now that both her mother and father were gone from her, she was doubly cheated of any comfort she might find there. Why should she let anything, especially something that had happened so very long ago, to keep her from being close to her parents?
Just as she had allowed Ian Sinclair’s presence at Briarwood to rob her of Victoria’s company. Wasn’t she made of sterner stuff?
Pushing her anxiety down with an act of will, Mary entered the church. Before she could change her mind she went quickly to the doorway that led to the tower.
At the bottom of the stairs she stopped. Her breath was beginning to come more quickly as she looked up at the seemingly endless curve of the circular staircase. Dragging her gaze back, Mary took a deep, calming breath. She would not live in fear.
She closed her eyes, telling herself not to look, not to see how far it was. Taking hold of the bottom of the railing with shaking hands, she kept her eyes closed and put her foot on the first tread. Over and over again with each step upward she told herself not to think of where she was going, to pretend she was only walking up the stairs at home, that there was nothing to be afraid of.
And her determination might have worked, might actually have gotten her to the top. But she did not find out, for her foot caught on the hem of her dress and she stumbled. With a cry of fear she opened her eyes, at the same time clutching frantically at the railing.
Her horrified gaze lit on the floor so far beneath her. Vertigo swept her in sickening waves. Her heart pounding in her chest, Mary held on to the rail in abject desperation. Completely paralyzed by her terror, she could now move neither up nor down. The rail seemed the only stable force in a continually shifting world.
With a sob of self-defeat, she sank down, closing her eyes on the reality of her overwhelming fear. She’d solved nothing, proved nothing to herself.

How long she stayed there she did not know. Time felt as if it had melded to a pinpoint of fear, and paralysis. Forever she would be here frozen in this one moment of terror.
And then through the haze of her anxiety she heard the sound of a voice. It was a deep voice, rich and filled with concern.
Ian—where he had come from she had no idea, nor did she care. “Mary, what is it?”
She could not look up, could not speak, merely shaking her head in anguish. She was past even being ashamed that he should see her this way.
“Mary,” he prodded softly. “You must tell me what has happened.”
Without lifting her face from the crook of her arm, she whispered, “Too high, this is too high.”
The next thing she knew she was being lifted, her hand being pulled from the security of that rail with gentle but unshakable insistence. It seemed the one thing she could do was cling to the only other stable object in her world.
Ian. His arms closed around her even as he pressed her face to his chest. Her own arms found their way around the solid strength of his shoulders and she clutched at him desperately as he started down the steps, the motion making her head spin anew even though she did not look.
Mary tried her very hardest to think of nothing, to make her mind a cloudless blue sky where the fear could not control her. It was not until Ian paused and lowered her to some soft object that she realized they had stopped.
She then heard him move away from her. For a moment Mary simply lay there with her eyes closed, making certain the feelings of vertigo had passed. As indeed they seemed to have done. Her head did not spin, nor her stomach.
At last, telling herself that she was quite safe now, Mary opened her eyes, and saw the cream-colored ceiling of her own sitting room. She saw also a decidedly anxious Ian Sinclair standing over her, his compelling dark eyes troubled.
He reached toward her with a glass in his hand. “Drink this,” he told her.
Automatically Mary sat up and took it and drank the water it contained. She was not entirely surprised to see how badly her hands were shaking, but now that the terror had passed she was beginning to feel a certain amount of embarrassment over what had occurred.
Why, of all people, had it been Ian Sinclair who had found her like that? How indeed had he found her?
Avoiding his gaze, Mary swung her boneless legs over the side of the settee. Still without looking at him, she put the glass on the table with exaggerated care. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, being not at all pleased at the huskiness of her voice. “How did you find me?”
He answered with a sigh. “I had come to the rectory looking for you. The man who was trimming the hedges told me you were in the church.”
She glanced up at Ian, unable to keep from seeing the sheer masculine strength of him. In spite of her fear, Mary had felt so safe in those arms. Determinedly she kept her attention focused on the conversation. “Why were you looking for me?”
He scowled. “I was in the foyer when the footman was telling Victoria that you would not come to dine.” His brows moved even farther together. “I had the distinct feeling that you had refused because of me. I could not allow you to do so.”
Her incredulous reaction to this statement seemed to wash away the lingering traces of anxiety. “You would not allow, sir? How dare you!"
He halted her with a raised hand, shaking his head regretfully. “Mary, I did not mean to insult you. I have misspoken. I simply wanted to talk to you, to make you understand that you have no cause to avoid me. I know how much you must need your friends right now.”
Mary could only stare at him, surprised by the seemingly genuine concern in his voice. The moment stretched on and she felt almost as if she was being pulled down into the dark, mysterious depths of his eyes.
Even as she watched, his expression changed. Those eyes became yet deeper, more sultry. Mary’s pulse quickened in her veins, though she tried to calm it.
She knew this was wrong, knew with utter certainty that it was mad for her to allow Ian Sinclair to matter to her in any way. He was the son of an earl. Mustering every ounce of her will, she looked away. “I…thank you for what you did for me…in the church.”
“What did happen in the church?” he asked, studying her closely. His face was set, making the fact that he refused to be put off quite evident.
She glanced over at him again, forcing herself to remain coolly polite. “I am simply afraid of heights. I had a bad experience in the bell tower as a child. I should not have tried to go up there.”
His gaze was compelling. “Why did you, then?”
She wanted to lie, to make up some story that would salvage her pride, but her upbringing would not allow her to do so. Yet neither was she able to resist his will for her to answer. “I…know this must sound terribly silly, but I wanted to be closer to my parents. Before I was held at the edge and threatened with being tossed over by two illbehaved boys from the village I would often go to the bell tower to speak with my mother. After that I could not go back.”
“That is quite understandable,” he answered with surprising kindness. “All of us live with the fear of something. And as far as thinking you silly for wanting to be closer to your parents, nothing could be further from the truth. I had my own special place to go in the wood at Sinclair Hall to speak with my mother. She died when I was born.”
She nodded, somehow touched by his sharing this with her. “It does seem as if they can hear you better in certain places, does it not?”
He nodded his own head. “I continued to go there until I was seventeen. That was when I went to live with my grandmother in London, after…” Ian stopped as if he had suddenly realized he was saying more than he wished to, his lean jaw working. “Well, enough of that,” he concluded with studied charm. “It was you we were speaking about.” In spite of the change of tone, Mary could see the tension in his stiffly held shoulders and neck. She wondered at the depth of unhappiness in him, as she had that day in the garden when he had spoken about the way unresolved hurts can influence one.
Looking at him from the outside, it seemed impossible that anything could so affect this man. He had wealth, social position and an undeniably handsome form and countenance. But each time she caught a glimpse of the man inside she sensed his hurt, and it drew her to him even more. What could possibly cause him such deep loneliness?
He went on, drawing her attention away from her thoughts, his gaze unwavering on hers. “Why today, Mary, when you are already under such constraint because of the loss of your father? Why would you try to overcome this fear now?”
Again she felt compelled to reply. “Today I just…” She looked down at her hands where they lay twisted together in her lap. “I just wanted to be free of my fear. I’ve never felt so afraid of things in my life as I have of late. I feel so uncertain about what will happen to me, about the decisions I am making.” She unconsciously waved a hand over the London papers, which lay where she had left them.
The silence that greeted her admission made her look at him in surprise. Ian had bent forward and was reading the circled advertisements with a fixed expression. He raised his head to meet her gaze, and his lips thinned. “You are seriously looking for a domestic position.”
Mary was confused at his obvious disapproval. She raised her chin. “I am considering taking a position, yes.”
“But why, when there is no need for you to do anything so extreme?”
She stiffened, refusing to look at him again. Mary would not allow him to influence her with those eyes. “I will do as I think best.”
His reply was cold. “I see. You may of course do as you will. But may I be so bold as to say that if this is really what you want to do, then it is doubly important for you to be with your friends now. For Victoria’s sake as well as your own you should spend some time with her before leaving. I wish you would not stay away from Briarwood simply because I am a guest there.”
Mary could think of no reply to this. She rose to her full height, albeit on trembling legs. “I appreciate your concern for me in the matter of Victoria. It is very kind of you. And now I must ask you to leave. There is no further need for you to stay. You have done more than anyone could have asked of you.”
He bowed. “As you wish, Miss Fulton. Don’t bother to see me out. I am quite capable of finding my way.”

Chapter Three (#ulink_1546f802-3577-596b-823c-df3a557099de)
As she heard the front door close behind Ian, Mary unhappily found herself recalling how she had clung to him as he carried her, how she had been more than willing to allow him to find the way for both of them. Mary gave herself a mental shake. She would not think about that. She must stand on her own feet. There was nothing to be gained in relying on this man. Nothing could come of a liaison between them, nothing but ruin for herself.
Yet his words about her last opportunities to be with Victoria kept ringing in her mind. She had not thought about the way her absence would feel to her friend. And it was quite unlike her to ignore the feelings of others. Much of her time was spent ministering to the poor and needy in the village. How could she ever forget to consider her dearest friend?
Should she then not spend what could possibly be her last remaining weeks at Carlisle wisely? To use Ian Sinclair’s previous questionable behavior as reason to avoid going to Briarwood seemed unreasonable. He had not tried to take any untoward advantage of her at this meeting. He had been the soul of propriety. It was her own thoughts of him that had been inappropriate.
Should she allow her unacceptable attraction to this man to keep her from her friends? Mary had failed at conquering her fear of going up into the tower. Was she to fail in overcoming her fear of her own attraction to Ian Sinclair?
Before she could allow herself time to reconsider, Mary penned a note and gave one of the Anderson twins, who lived on the other side of the lane, a coin to take it up to the manor house for her.
She then went up to her room at the back of the house. It was a simple chamber, the only furnishings being the bed, a heavy oaken wardrobe, a night table and a chair. But the walls had been painted her favorite shade of pale pink and the counterpane was patterned with tiny red pansies. As she opened the door, the breeze from the open window brushed the ends of the lace curtains across the hardwood floor.
For a moment she paused in the narrow doorway, knowing she would miss this room very much. She had grown up here, conjured her own girlish fantasies of a happy future, a man to love her, children, a comfortable home with a garden, of course.
With a self-deprecating shake of her head she pushed the thoughts aside. None of that was to be, and she’d best get used to it.
With this thought fixed firmly in her mind, Mary went to the wardrobe and took out the one fashionable dress she owned. The rose pink gown with its full hooped skirts and low scooped neckline had been a completely impractical Christmas gift from Victoria. Though she wore the hooped confection only to Briarwood, she was secretly quite pleased to own it. Even a simple vicar’s daughter felt the occasional need to look fashionable and attractive.

With an unmistakable flutter in her stomach, Mary alighted from the carriage Victoria had sent for her. She told herself that she was quite overreacting. This night was no different than any other she had spent at Briarwood. An image of Ian Sinclair’s sardonic grin came to mind. Determinedly she pushed it away.
The footman opened the door immediately and reached for her wrap as she stepped into the grand foyer. As always, Mary sent a quick glance and prayer of thanks up to the cherub-painted ceiling. As a little girl she had thought those little angels were sent specially by God to look after her and her friend. Even though she now knew it was not true, they being the work of a gifted but mortal artist, Mary could not quite break the habit. And for some reason she had the sense that she needed their protection now as much as ever she had before.
Victoria came down the wide formal staircase at that very moment. She held out her hands. “Mary, I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Mary nodded, taking her outstretched hands and kissing her taller, elegantly gowned and coiffured friend on the cheek. “You are beautiful, Victoria,” she said. And it was true. The pregnancy had not detracted from Victoria’s loveliness in the least. Her dark hair was shining with good health and her cheeks bore a fresh rosy tint.
Victoria hugged her and led her along the hall to her favorite sitting room. “Jedidiah and Ian are out in the stables admiring the mare Jedidiah bought from Ian for my birthday. Wait until you see her. She’ll be a perfect mount after the baby comes. Until then you are more than welcome to ride her. It will be much easier for you to do so, of course, once you finish packing things up at the vicarage and come to us.”
So Ian Sinclair had not told them of her decision. For some reason this made Mary feel a grudging gratitude toward him. Obviously he was not one of those aristocrats for whom gossip was a favorite sport.
But Mary did not wish to think favorably of Ian Sinclair, nor did she wish to discuss her future right now. She knew Victoria was going to try to convince her to stay. Her kind nature was one of the reasons Mary loved her. For this one evening Mary wanted to forget her troubles. Thus she remained silent.
They went into the sitting room and settled themselves on the pale green settee. Just as she turned to Mary again, Victoria raised startled brows and placed a hand on her swollen abdomen. “My, that was the strongest kick yet.”
Mary gazed at her friend in awe as she watched the delicate fabric of Victoria’s pale lilac gown bulge a moment later. “Was that the baby?” What must it be like to have something alive inside you? Mary marveled. To feel your own child moving?
The ebony-haired woman gave a rueful laugh. “I’m afraid it was.” As if sensing her friend’s question, she asked, “Would you like to feel it?”
Mary’s golden eyes widened. “Oh, Victoria, might I?” At her friend’s nod, she said, “I would like nothing better.” Placing her hand over the spot Victoria showed her, Mary was rewarded a moment later as a firm thump met her palm. She gave a startled laugh, tears springing to her eyes. “Victoria, it is amazing.”
Victoria smiled indulgently as she ran a loving hand over her stomach, giving away the real emotions inside her even as she spoke with irony. “You would not think so in the middle of the night. The little one has even begun to wake up Jedidiah.” A look of loving contentment came into her face. “But he does not seem to mind. He lights a candle and talks to baby until it settles back down. Even if it takes hours. He says he does not wish to miss another moment of my confinement, having already lost too much time in his trip to America. Oh, Mary, I am so fortunate to have him love me. I never thought life could be so perfect. Every moment with him is precious, especially when I thought we might never come together.”
Mary knew the troubles the couple had faced, though Victoria had fully shared them only after they had been resolved. She was more certain than ever that she was making the right decision in going away. Jedidiah and Victoria deserved to have this time together—alone.
Mary realized she could not tell her friend of her plans. She did not want Victoria to know until it was too late to stop her. Once she had found a position and the arrangements had been made, it would be too late for discussion.
She was saved from having to hide her churning thoughts by the arrival of the two men. Mary’s gaze went directly to Ian Sinclair as if drawn there by some inescapable force. She saw that the tall, dark man was also looking at her. She blushed and glanced away. Goodness, but he was every bit as handsome as she remembered, and more. The midnight blue of his perfectly tailored jacket and trousers fully accentuated his height, the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. The crisp white of his shirt collar made his hair look even darker by contrast.
Her gaze flicked briefly to him again and she saw that he was still studying her, with those onyx dark eyes narrowed. As their gazes clashed for that brief moment he lifted one black brow high.
Heat suffused her. Was he remembering the fact that she had so abruptly asked him to leave her home and was now staring at him like some besotted fool?
Quickly Mary turned her attention to Jedidiah McBride as he said, “Good evening, Mary.”
She nodded. “Good evening.” Mary was genuinely fond of the American and felt he had been good for her friend.
He then came forward and kissed his wife on the cheek. Victoria was smiling at her tall, golden-haired husband with love. “How is the mare?”
Jedidiah laughed, the corners of his sea green eyes crinkling. “Settling in, but frisky. I think you’ll get plenty of excitement out of her when you can ride again. Ian has produced a mare worth every pound of her exorbitant price.”
Mary was infinitely aware of Ian Sinclair as he bowed and nodded modestly. Beneath his reticence she could tell he was proud of the horse they were discussing, as a parent might be of a praised child. His obvious fraternal affection for the animal surprised her and Mary realized there were many things about Ian Sinclair that she did not know.
What kind of father would he be, she wondered?
As soon as the thought entered her mind, Mary dismissed it. How Ian Sinclair might parent was not her concern.
Ian felt Mary Fulton’s gaze rake him again, but this time he did not look at her. She’d made her feelings quite well known when she’d asked him to leave her house. And in all honesty, Ian could not truly blame her for resenting his interference in her affairs. He had as yet been incapable of coming up with any reasonable explanation for why he was so very interested in what she did with her life. He’d tried to convince himself it was because he knew how much Victoria cared for the other woman, but somehow it did not ring true.
Before Ian could stop it an image of Victoria’s horrified face as she had listened to him talk about her friend flooded his mind. He clearly heard the discouraging words she’d said to him about his father’s sure disapproval of his wedding a vicar’s daughter.
Ian’s lips thinned. To even contemplate the notion of marrying a woman simply because his father would be displeased was despicable. It was true that part of his desire to marry Victoria had been brought on by knowing she would greatly irritate the earl. But she had been one of his social class, the daughter of a duke. Mary was not. Not only his father but all of society would frown on such a union.
Unconsciously he found himself studying her again. She was looking quite delectable in a gown of rose satin. The dress was of the latest fashion and showed off her tiny waist above her wide hooped skirt, not to mention a bewitching hint of cleavage. She was without a doubt the most delectable morsel of womanhood he had seen in some time. There was no denying the attraction he felt toward her.
Yet what he had learned of Mary over the past days had taught him that she deserved better than he could offer. From what he’d seen of her, she had a quick mind and a strong spirit that prevented her from bowing to anyone. Ian could not but admire that, for it answered a like place within himself. He had spent most of the years of his adulthood flouting convention. It was what had earned him the appellation of “Lord Sin.” But that was all behind him now, and fortunate that, for he might not have been able to resist the temptation to seduce the lovely Miss Fulton despite his assurances to Victoria.
His resistance to his desire was made doubly hard by her own reactions to him. For in spite of her anger toward him, he was not blind to the fact that Mary was not immune to him. Ian had experienced the charms of enough women to know mutual passion when he experienced it. Her response to his kiss, though brief and untutored, had been apparent Her desire needed only a gentle and sensitive hand to call it to the fore.
Ian drew himself up and forced himself to concentrate on the conversation Jedidiah was having with his wife. He would not allow himself to think of Mary Fulton in any but the most appropriate of terms.
It was all he, with any honor, could do.
He was drawn from his thoughts by the servant who announced that dinner was ready to be served. Ian watched as Jedidiah offered Victoria his arm.
Mary stood and came forward with them. Ian told himself that his recent feelings for this young woman precluded his doing the polite thing and offering his own arm. But as she moved toward him, Mary glanced up from beneath the fringe of those thick dark lashes, her golden eyes uncertain. When she saw that he, too, was looking at her, she raised her head high.
He could not help thinking of the way he had found her that afternoon, quaking with terror on the bell tower steps. She was such a strange mixture of strength and softness, this Mary Fulton.
Without even realizing he was going to do so, Ian held out his arm. “May I?”
She hesitated, and Ian had to make an effort to hold back his annoyance. Why was he so drawn to this woman when she seemed to resent him despite the attraction she had not been able to hide? Could it be because she was the exact opposite of his cousin Barbara, who would never openly disagree with anything he said or did, as Mary was quite willing to do?
Finally she nodded, then reached out to place her hand on his arm. As she did so he was struck by a jolt of piercingly sweet awareness that moved from her to him. A delicately floral scent rose from her hair and Ian found himself wanting to take it down from the loose bun she wore, to see the glorious golden mass draped across her shoulders and naked…
He stopped in his tracks. What in God’s name was he thinking here?
Mary looked up at him in question. “My lord.”
He could see that Victoria had already reached the doorway that led to the dining room across the foyer. He had indeed been lost in thought. Knowing that Mary would be completely shocked to know what he had been thinking, Ian did not meet her puzzled gaze. “I beg your pardon. I fear I was not attending.”
He made no comment on her suddenly closed expression. Releasing his arm and stepping away from him, she said, “I will leave you to your thoughts, then.”
Ian nearly reached out to stop her, but he drew his hand back. He told himself that it was much better for both of them if she was annoyed with him. Hadn’t he promised Victoria that he would not seduce her? Hadn’t he promised himself?
As he had told himself before, Mary deserved better than that.
Victoria was watching him closely as he entered the elegantly furnished chamber behind the others. She raised her dark brows high as she glanced pointedly from Ian to Mary, who was already seated.
He quirked a brow in return, wondering how she would react to the turn of his thoughts.
Jedidiah interrupted this silent exchange. “Please be seated, Ian.” He indicated the empty chair directly across from the vicar’s daughter.
As he took his designated place, she flicked a glance toward him and Ian saw again that Mary was not immune to the strange attraction that existed between them. Her cheeks darkened to rose and her breath came more quickly from her slightly parted lips.
Victoria interrupted his contemplation, and though her tone was teasing, he could not but hear the chiding in it. “I hope, Ian, that you have not forgotten the promise you made to me.”
He drew himself up, meeting her gaze directly. “I have not forgotten.”
With a relaxed expression, which Ian knew belied the keen mind he possessed, Jedidiah asked, “What promise is that, my dear?”
Victoria turned to her husband with a smile. Ian knew she would not risk hurting Mary’s feelings by making her reprimand of Ian known. “That answer you will not get from me, love. No more than you would tell me why Ian had come to visit before you had given me the mare. Torture would not have it from me.”
For a moment Jedidiah said nothing, letting the heat of his gaze fall upon his now blushing wife. “I think we both know that you have your breaking point, my dear.”
She flushed even more deeply and Ian looked away. What must it be like to be so close to another human being? Ian had never known.
Ian’s gaze flicked to Mary. Though she flushed, she faced him squarely. He felt a wave of admiration.
As a notion he had been trying to reject for days set itself even more firmly in his consciousness, Ian’s lips pressed to a line of determination. He would not seduce her.
But there was another way to have her. Was he not a man, free to do as he pleased? The act he was contemplating might very well garner enough disapproval from his father to see Ian disinherited, but he would not be ruled by the older man.
In the next breath Ian halted himself. What was he thinking? He could not marry this woman simply because he desired her, nor even because it would be the perfect act of rebellion toward his father. Had he not decided that he would no longer live up to his reputation as “Lord Sin"? Mary Fulton was a young woman who had shown that she took much pride in ordering her own life. How could he not understand this sentiment when it was a right he valued so highly himself?

As a knock sounded on the front door, Mary looked up from the box of books she was packing. Still holding a volume in her hand, she went to answer it.
Deliberately she avoided looking at the letters waiting on the hall table to be posted. She had crossed a bridge by writing them, as each was an offer of her services for the position of governess. She had every hope that at least one reply would be favorable. Her problem lay in the fact that she had been assaulted by doubts as to the wisdom of her decision as soon as the missives were sealed. The idea of facing the unknown future had become suddenly overwhelming, but she knew she must do so, must have the courage to leave behind the only life she knew and strike out on her own.
She told herself they must be sent this very afternoon. Before she could change her mind. Why she was having such doubts she could not say, other than realizing that Ian Sinclair’s face kept intruding on her thoughts. But that, she knew, was completely ridiculous. Lord Sinclair had nothing to do with her future. Even if she had wished to accept Victoria’s generosity and live at Briarwood, she would not be seeing him. Sinclair was only visiting her friends and would soon be off to do…well…whatever a single man of his wealth and undeniable attractiveness did.
And beyond that he was not in the least interested in her. He had hardly spoken to her last eve at Briarwood.
It was true that Ian had kissed her the second time they’d met, but he had done nothing of the sort since. Oh, there had been times since when he looked at her…when she had thought…Obviously it was nothing more than her overactive imagination at work.
Realizing this only seemed to bring her a discomfort that she somehow feared to examine too closely. With these dismaying thoughts in mind, it was with little enthusiasm that she opened the front door.
To her utter amazement, Ian Sinclair himself stood on the stoop. A sudden nervous chill gripped her and she hesitated before speaking. Seeing him was especially unnerving considering her recent preoccupation with him. Telling herself she was being foolish, she opened the portal and said, with much more breathlessness than she would have hoped, “Good afternoon, Lord Sinclair. Is there something I can do for you?”
To her surprise he seemed somewhat hesitant, even agitated himself, turning his black silk hat in his hands. He stopped, his dark gaze meeting hers as his brows arched upward. “I…may I come in?”
She stepped back, realizing that she must seem somewhat foolish standing there gawking at him like some besotted schoolgirl. Determinedly Mary told herself she was not attracted to him, in spite of his undeniable good looks. She was simply overreacting to the fact that he had twice been there when she needed someone.
She would remain calm. Yet her heartbeat quickened as he stepped across the threshold to stand so near that she could see the fine shadow of mustache above his mobile lips. Would it, she wondered, feel rough if he should kiss her?
Mary’s eyes flew wide with horror at her own thoughts. She certainly did not want Ian Sinclair to kiss her.
To her relief he did not appear to notice her agitation and continued to seem somewhat nervous as his gaze slid away from her to graze the tabletop. Then he appeared to frown with displeasure as his eyes alighted on the letters she had been thinking of only moments before. “Your requests for employment?”
She nodded, too surprised by his reaction to resent the prying question. “Yes.”
His frown deepened for a moment before he straightened his already wide shoulders and took a deep breath. For some reason she had the distinct impression that he had come to a decision about something. His next words served only to confuse her further. “I have come to ask you a question.”
“Oh,” she replied, not at all certain as to what she should say. Studying him closely for a moment and judging him no less nervous, she began to think this was no ordinary question. What of import could Ian Sinclair have to say to her? Did he have some position in mind for her?
Ian continued to look down at her in the long, narrow hallway, and Mary glanced away, knowing that the light from the window that sat high in the door illuminated her own face much more clearly than his. In spite of the dim lighting she was very much aware of his being too tall and imposing for such humble surroundings.
Trying to still her sudden trembling, Mary reached out with her free hand. “May I take your hat?” She halted as she saw the traces of dust on her white fingers. With a selfconscious laugh, she wiped the hand on her apron, then indicated the book in her other hand. “I have been packing my father’s books. I will be taking some of my favorites with me.”
He glanced at the volume. “You read Greek?”
She looked down at the book. “Why…I…yes, father was a great scholar. He taught me everything he would have taught a son.” She held her head high, knowing how most men disapproved of the practice of educating females and referred to them as bluestockings.
But Ian did not seem the least bit shocked or disapproving of her revelation as she reached out again and he gave her the silk hat. He said only, “I see.”
How very nice for him, she thought with a trace of irony, for she certainly did not see. She hoped he came to the point soon, for she was growing more uncertain by the moment. With deliberate care Mary placed the hat on the rack along the wall and turned back to him.
“Would you care for some refreshment? I could make some tea.”
He shook his head, his intense onyx eyes meeting hers again. “No, thank you.” Once more she had the impression that this was no ordinary social call. She told herself she was imagining things.
In spite of her self-assurances, it was with growing unease that Mary motioned toward the open door of the study. The chamber was in a state of upheaval because she had been packing the books, but it was one of the few rooms that did not have dust covers over the furnishings. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”
The answer that accompanied his polite nod only served to make her more unsure. “Yes, I think that would probably be best.” She did her utmost not to worry herself over this last strange remark as they sat on the two matched navy blue wing chairs near the window.
With studied poise Mary folded her hands in her lap and waited for Ian Sinclair to begin. He did so after only a moment. “Miss Fulton, I realize that what I am about to say may seem somewhat precipitous to you, especially as we have only known one another for a very short time.”
She frowned, wondering where on earth this could be leading. “Go on.”
He surprised her by reaching over and taking her cold hand in his warm one. Mary was too amazed to either comment or draw her hand away and she listened to him continue with only half her mind, as the touch of his warm skin made her own tingle with awareness. “I know that the last months have been very difficult for you and that you find yourself in somewhat distressed circumstances. I want you to know that if the situation were otherwise I would not speak so hastily.” His dark eyes were full of meaningful intent as she looked up into them, feeling herself drawn closer to him, though she made no physical movement.
She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I cannot think what you might be talking about, sir.”
He squared his wide shoulders. “I am asking, Miss Mary Fulton, if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
The words had the effect of creating a thick haze of shock and confusion around her. She looked down at her hand in his, feeling as if it was miles from herself.
How—why was this happening? It could not be real. Ian Sinclair, eminently eligible bachelor and heir to an earldom, could not be asking her to marry him.
For heaven’s sake, they did not even like one another. A sudden vivid memory of the kiss they had shared only days before in her own backyard insinuated itself into her mind. Even through the fog of her confusion Mary felt a tug in her lower belly.
She shook her head to drive the thought away. That kiss had not occurred because Ian liked her. He’d said himself that he was only trying to comfort her.
Was that possibly why he was doing this, she asked herself, because he felt sorry for her? Her sense of confusion cleared slightly at the thought. She looked at him closely and found that he was still watching her with that same intent expression he’d worn since entering the vicarage.
Forcing herself to speak calmly, she asked, “Why…why are you doing this? Is it because you feel—” she sat up straighter, forcing herself to go on “—sorry for me?”
The immediate and forceful tone of his reply made her believe him when he said, “No, absolutely not. I have no need to marry any woman out of sympathy.”
A frown marred her brow as she wondered why, then, he would wish to marry her. “Tell me what has brought this about? I don’t understand.”
He leaned close to her, his tone intimate. “Don’t you, Mary? You are a beautiful woman. I also think you would make just the kind of bride I have been searching for.”
The words caused her heart to beat more quickly, even as she realized that for a moment there was something odd in his tone, almost a hint of bitterness. But as he went on looking at her that way she told herself she had imagined it.
As if sensing her uncertainty, Ian’s fingers tightened on hers. “I desire you, Mary. I should think that even an innocent like you would know that.”
A thrill of honeyed warmth suffused her even as she answered, “I don’t know. I don’t think it would be…” There had been times when he had looked at her as if…well, she’d been too afraid of her own reactions to really allow herself to understand what that look meant.
There was no denying it any longer. Mary had been attracted to Ian from the first moment she saw him riding across the moors toward her. Even the discovery that he was the infamous “Lord Sin” had not dulled her interest, no matter how she had tried to tell herself he was not an honorable man. And was he not disproving that even now, by asking her to marry him? It was completely honorable, this proposal he offered her. And did she not in her most secret heart rejoice that such a bold and handsome man would want her, Mary Fulton?
Still, a small voice inside her cried out in indecision. She shook her head and repeated, “I do not know.”
He halted her with a finger on her lips. “Don’t think, Mary. Just say yes.”
When he saw her continued hesitation he went on, his tone rich and persuasive. “Or do you prefer the future you have told me of? Do you wish to spend your life in another woman’s house, looking after her children? Is that what you really want for yourself, Mary? You were meant for so much more than that.”
She pulled her hand away from the persuasive warmth of his touch and rubbed her forehead. “This is too sudden, too unexpected. I don’t know how to answer you. I had not even thought.”
To her utter amazement he stood and drew her, completely unresisting in her surprise, into his strong arms. His mouth, warm and pliant, descended to hers.
A current of heat swept her as his lips played over hers. It became a torrent as his mouth encouraged hers to open and his tongue flicked over hers. Mary moaned as the sensations pooled in her belly. Her breasts swelled against the hardness of his chest and she pressed herself closer to him to relieve their aching.
When Ian drew back, she looked up at him, her eyes heavy with languor. He spoke huskily. “Can you say you have not thought of that, Mary, of the way it feels when we touch, kiss? I have thought of little else since I first kissed you.”
His frankness and her own innate honesty brought forth a truthful, albeit befuddled reply. “I have thought of it.”
Ian placed his hand on the back of her head and drew her to him, kissing her again with a mastery that left her head swimming, her blood pounding in her veins. Weakly she leaned against him.
He felt so strong, so very solid in an unknown world. This was her opportunity to have her own home, a husband…perhaps children. Mary had always been strong, looked after those around her, behaved with a maturity far beyond her years. Was this her invitation to throw caution and common sense to the four winds?
His breath was hot on her forehead. “Say you will marry me.” Again his mouth found hers. Those mobile lips sucked and played at her own until she could barely stand the depth of heat that washed through her and left her knees weak. He drew back only slightly, punctuating each word he uttered with a kiss. “Say…yes…Mary.”
Unable to think of anything save being in his arms, of being held and kissed by this man, Mary nodded. When she replied, she was a little surprised by her own breathlessness, her own capitulation. “Yes, yes. I will marry you.”

Chapter Four (#ulink_794d7220-4c3b-5b1b-9208-8437f081b9d0)
Mary looked at herself in the gilt-edged mirror, hardly able to believe that the woman staring back at her was herself. Her hair had been arranged in an elaborate coiffure, with only a few soft tendrils left free to curl about her nape and temples. The eyes that stared back at her were luminous with an excitement she did not wish to acknowledge.
She was marrying Ian, but not because she loved him. Oh, no, Mary did not have any illusions as to that. She was doing it because it might be her one opportunity to have a home, a family. It also helped that Ian seemed to accept her as she was, to not fault her for her outspoken ways or education. The few men of her station whom she had chanced to meet had felt quite differently.
Behind her she heard Victoria say, “You may go now, Betty.” She heard the door close behind the maid only a moment later.
Mary looked at her friend’s reflection. Her eyes met Victoria’s troubled ones as she asked, “Mary, are you sure this is what you want?”
Frowning, Mary turned to face her. “Yes. Why do you ask? I know it has been sudden, but I would think you would be pleased for me.”
Victoria took Mary’s ice-cold fingers in hers. “Yes, but Ian. Why him? That is the part I don’t understand.”
Rising, Mary began to pace the luxurious bedchamber where she had spent the previous night. The soft white carpet muffled her agitated footsteps. “Victoria, why would you be so surprised that I have agreed to this wedding? You even thought of marrying the man yourself.” She looked closely at her friend. “You said that in spite of his reputation as ‘Lord Sin,’ Ian…” She paused, the name feeling strange and intimate on her lips. “You felt he was a good man, that he would have made a decent husband.”
Victoria’s gaze was beseeching. “But I was in love with Jedidiah.”
Mary threw up her hands in exasperation. “Well, that has cleared up any confusion I might have over what you are trying to say to me.”
Victoria laughed, though there was a sad quality to it. “That is the most like yourself you have sounded in weeks. You have been through so much I fear you have not been yourself. I wish you would think about that. You could at least consider waiting for a time before you marry. You are in mourning.”
“As far as mourning is concerned, I know my father would not wish for me to wait because of any societal dictum. He felt that death is only a passing over into another, better place.”
Victoria nodded. “After having been taught by your father I know that what you say is true. He would have been appalled at your doing that. It is your own state of loss that I am speaking of. You should wait until you are more yourself, Mary.”
“But I do not want to wait.” How could Mary explain that a part of her knew that what she was doing was completely out of character, that if she allowed herself to stop—to think—she might not go through with the marriage? All her life Mary had done what she must, cared for her father, pushed her dreams to the back of her consciousness with unwavering determination.
Then Ian had come and offered her a shoulder to cry on. He had offered the prospect of security, not just monetarily—which was of little import to Mary—but in an emotional sense. In the few days she had known him, Ian had been irritating and male and quite maddening, but he had also held her when she needed someone. No one else had really ever done that, had ever seen past the wall of strength she presented to know how much she wanted that.
How could they, when she herself had not even realized it?
But Victoria did not know any of this and she continued with her train of thought. “Mary, I do not wish to badger you, but I hope you will reconsider. I’m sure Ian would understand if you decided to postpone the wedding. It is true that I considered marrying Ian, but there was a major difference in our situations. I was in love with Jedidiah at the time. You are not in love with someone else. What if you fall in love with Ian? He is charming and handsome, and although I am married, I would be blind not to see that there is a strange compelling sensuality about him. Can you tell me you do not see that?”
Mary could not stop the blush that rose to her hairline. She chose not to reply to the question, though she had indeed noticed that quality. Instead she shrugged and said, “I am still unsure as to what all this means. Would it be so very dreadful if I came to care for the man I am about to make my husband?”
Coming quickly across the floor, Victoria took Mary’s hands in hers again, forcing her to meet her troubled gaze. “Ian will make you love him, Mary, without even trying. But I do not know if he can truly love you or anyone else in return. There is pain inside him that can only be healed if he wishes it to be.”
Mary closed her eyes for a moment. She had sensed that there was something hurting in Ian, had been moved by his pain, even drawn to him. Surely it was not so deep it would prevent him from someday caring for her. Mary was not so foolish that she believed Ian was in love with her. He had never said any such thing, though he had been ready enough to admit his desire. Could that not become something more?
Remembering the heat of her responses to him, Mary could not help thinking that such passion might very well develop into a deeper bond, given time. How little Victoria understood that this might well be Mary’s one opportunity to experience all of the things that she, as a happily married woman, took for granted.
When she opened her eyes once more her expression was determined. “Victoria, I know you love me. I also know you are concerned for my happiness. But let me be frank. We are both aware that I have no prospects. Before Ian offered for me I had come to the conclusion that I must seek a position as a governess. Had in fact written the letters of application.”
As Victoria opened her mouth in shock, Mary halted her by going on, “I know you want me to live here with you. But I cannot do that. I need to find my own life. I want a child, a home. Ian has given me that chance. I know he does not love me, nor do I love him, but I believe he has some degree of respect for me. I wish above all else that you might find it in your heart to allow me to take this chance, to make this decision for myself.”
For a long moment Victoria said nothing, then she smiled tremulously and there were tears in her eyes as she squeezed Mary’s fingers gently. “Very well. I love you and must only pray that this marriage brings you nothing but happiness.”
Mary reached out and put her arms around the taller woman. “Thank you, dear friend.”
Victoria returned the embrace. “You have been with me through so much—the trials of girlhood, the loss of my family, the lonely years until I found Jedidiah. I shall miss you, Mary.”
“And I you.”
They embraced once more, then Victoria drew back, her expression serious. “Just remember that you have a home here with us any time you want it.”
As she answered, Mary realized that she was unlikely to ever take up the offer, but she understood that it was given in the spirit of love. “I shall remember. And I want you to know it means more to me than I could ever say.”
A soft knocking sounded at the door, before it was opened by a beaming Betty. “The carriage is ready to take you to the church, my lady, Miss Mary.”
The ceremony was to take place at the little country church where her father had taken the pulpit every Sunday for most of her twenty-three years. Mary knew it was what he would want.
The previous night was the last she would spend at Carlisle for what would surely be a very long time. Ian had. asked that they begin the journey to his home and she had agreed. Sinclair Hall—Mary felt the smooth, hard feel of the name in her mind. It was Ian’s home, and soon to be her own.
With one last check of the ivory silk gown Victoria had insisted on giving her as a wedding present, Mary straightened her slender shoulders. “Shall we go?” Again she was shocked that the woman staring back at her was herself. The ivory silk skirt was decorated with hundreds of tiny rosebuds, as were the scooped neckline and the lace edging on the elbow-length sleeves. Mary felt like some princess in a fairy tale, and that only served to make what was happening even more unreal.

Ian’s gaze moved over Mary’s face as he leaned back against the dark blue velvet of the carriage seat. They had been traveling for some time, with only the most civil of exchanges, and he could see Mary’s nervous agitation growing with each mile that passed.
She glanced toward him, then back out the window, and as she spoke he was infinitely aware of her fingers pleating the lush amber velvet fabric of her traveling gown, which had also been a gift from Victoria. “How many days until we arrive at Sinclair Hall?”
He answered evenly, “We should get there some time on the third day.”
She nodded, her fingers now fidgeting with her laceedged collar. His gaze was then drawn slightly lower to the provocative curve of her breast. Ian had to force himself to attend her words as she said, “I am most eager to meet your family. Tell me about them.”
Ian stiffened. He did not want to talk about his family—not his father, nor Barbara. Yet he felt somewhat uncomfortable with taking Mary without some warning into what might very well be an unpleasant situation. “There is very little to tell. My cousin Barbara and my father are the only family living at Sinclair Hall. I…things are…difficult between myself and my father. He has long wanted me to marry.”
She spoke up quickly. “Then perhaps things will be better between you now.”
Ian smiled tightly. “Perhaps. But do not be surprised if he does not seem over pleased with the matter in the beginning. Father does, very much, like to be in control of everything.”
Mary looked at him directly then, her gaze holding his own, a hopeful anticipation written clearly on her lovely features. “We shall weather any opposition together, and surely in the end he shall see that all is well.”
He could not find it in his heart to apprise her of just how bad the situation might become. What if she was correct? What if his father did come around? Nodding jerkily, Ian replied earnestly, “If he will allow himself to see you as I do, Mary, he will be hard-pressed to find any fault with you.”
She blushed and turned back to her contemplation of the passing scene. Thinking to forestall any more questions about his family for the moment, Ian closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat.
Perhaps because he had discussed his father with Mary, the reality of what he had done was finally beginning to set in. He was married to Mary Fulton—Sinclair now—and on his way home to Sinclair Hall. He did not question his immediate need to take her home, to see what his father would say to him, to discover if Malcolm Sinclair would accept his son’s selection of a bride. He only hoped that his wife’s optimistic view of the future would indeed occur. Reason made him doubt the possibility greatly.
Mary’s ready agreement to his suggestion that they begin the journey to Sinclair Hall immediately after the ceremony had surprised him. He did not have to open his eyes to know that she remained pale with nervousness, which he could understand. It was that discernible level of dubious excitement that somehow made him uncomfortable.
All through the two days leading up to the ceremony and even during it, Ian had not let himself think of anything other than that he had made the right decision. This had been made easier by the fact that there was much to do in a short time. He’d procured a special license, answered Victoria and Jedidiah’s surprised queries with aplomb, made travel arrangements and hired men to see to the packing and moving of the rest of Mary’s belongings.
He’d given no more than a passing thought to what his friends and acquaintances in London might say concerning his marriage. When they did learn of it they would surely be surprised, but would quickly immerse themselves in the many amusements that occupied their waking hours. He expected no more, having chosen his companions carefully. He wanted no one to ask unpleasant questions about his private life, and wanted no involvement in anyone else’s personal concerns.

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