Chapter 2

2

Major General Beaufort Drake, Earl of Tetly, scarred war hero, private investigator for the prime minister, fearsome warrior, loyal friend to few, and deadly foe to many, had suffered more than most men. Tortured at the hands of Afghanistan’s cruellest warriors, his body bore the evidence of grievous wounds. A wicked scar carved him from forehead to chin in a diagonal slash of roped tissue, turning once rugged features into a gruesome mask. A beautifully fitted suit hid even more brutal evidence of the pain he’d endured.

His soul was steeped in sin, and his heart had fossilised years ago. But Drake would gladly relive every nightmare that created him into a cruel, cold, deadly weapon if it granted him freedom from his current circumstances.

Trussed up in his best suit.

Sipping watered-down ratafia.

Avoiding the curious and horrified gazes of the beau monde’s bluest of bloods.

Cursing the ache in his leg currently reaching a crescendo of pulsing agony.

Cooling his heels at the edge of the Devil’s most dastardly affair.

A ball.

He repressed a shudder.

Give him fire-heated blades, rusty daggers, the rack. Anything but a soiree of England’s most pampered, pompous lords and ladies. But the prime minister needed his best man for a mission, and Drake always answered the call, regardless of how treacherous the terrain.

This glittering battlefield was diabolical in the extreme.

If one more mercenary mama thrust her clearly horrified daughter in his face, hoping for a match with the Earl of Tetly, he might be sick in the potted palms framing the ballroom. It was unthinkable how easily a matron could sell her child to the highest title or largest bank account in the room. Even if the man behind the money and title was a heartless dragon. A monster his friend Killian often likened to Drake.

Drake wouldn’t wish himself upon any of these delicate virginal sacrifices, nor would he ever choose to suffer their company. He was not here to dance. Or flirt. Or seek out a wife.

He was here to find a killer.

‘Don’t look now, but another young miss is heading this way, led by none other than the Duchess of Dorsett.’ The man next to him whistled low. ‘I may have been in France for the last two years, but even across the Channel, Lady Winterbourne’s reputation is renowned.’ General Reynard Renquist once fought under Drake’s leadership. His older brother, Major General William Renquist, Marquess of Stoneway, was a fellow commander in the Anglo-Afghan war. They had all been taken prisoner together with their lead commander, Lieutenant General Robert Killian. Months of hideous torture nearly destroyed them. But it also forged friendships extending beyond the bonds of brotherhood. Theirs was a kinship created in the fires of hell, amalgamating the four men like tempered steel.

Drake had been working with Lieutenant General Killian on their current mission, tracking a murderous group of men operating a sex ring. In Killian’s absence, Drake was glad for Reynard’s return from France and his assistance on this mission.

The unfortunate Lieutenant General Killian had fallen prey to a terrible tragedy. Marriage. To the infuriating Miss Hannah Simmons. Drake would never forgive Killian for succumbing to the deadliest of all ailments. Love.

Horse shit!

Love was a lie.

Drake huffed out a disgusted sigh. He supposed for a man like Killian, chasing a beautiful woman across Europe on an extended honeymoon tour might be preferable to ferreting out a killer amongst England’s most elite. The opposite was true for Drake. Not that he wished ill upon his friend, but Drake secretly hoped Killian ate some bad meat or perhaps developed sea sickness. Nothing lethal, just painful enough to ruin his disgustingly romantic holiday. After all, Killian had abandoned Drake to muddle through this mess of an assignment alone. All for the sake of a woman.

He shuddered at the thought of willingly strapping on the shackles of matrimony. Though Prime Minister Russell was making veiled threats about Drake finally submitting to the inevitable. Apparently, Killian started quite the trend. A married lord was far less suspicious than a single one. The prime minister believed a wife would make it easier for Drake to continue his clandestine investigations into the gentry’s worst crimes.

Russell can bugger off!

Drake drained his cup, forgetting for a moment what filled it. He winced at the disgustingly sweet drink. The na?ve ideal of love and marriage had tempted him once, and the resulting betrayal almost destroyed him. He would not willingly enter into a contract with any creature as mercurial as a woman. Instead, he would prove Prime Minister Russell’s theory wrong by using speed and efficiency to capture his prey, not hiding behind the skirts of some duplicitous female.

I dare any married blighter to be a more effective executor of the law.

‘I’m glad you are here, Reynard. It’s certainly nice to have someone with me I can trust since Killian stuck his neck in the Parson’s noose.’ Drake continued to scan the crowd, refusing to let his gaze linger on Miss Whittenburg, her bright hair a beacon in the crowded ballroom.

Reynard chuckled. ‘God save us from such a horrific fate, eh old friend?’

‘I may be thirteen years your senior, Reynard. But I’m not in my dotage yet. Let’s leave off the old.’ Though despite his six and thirty years, he felt ancient. Drake stretched his neck, sighing when the vertebrae popped. It was insufferably warm in the Whittenburg’s ballroom, and the overpowering stench of pomade, perfume, and sweat did not improve the atmosphere. ‘But yes, I would happily saw off my own arm to avoid being trapped by any of these misses. Especially that one.’ He nodded toward the statuesque Miss Whittenburg, gliding behind the Duchess of Dorsett as proud as a goddess perched on the prow of a warship.

While many would consider Miss Whittenburg too old, too tall, too bold in her colouring with such a riot of red hair piled high, red lips glistening, red cheeks glowing, Drake found her annoyingly captivating. A man could overfill his hands with breasts so generous.

Where the Devil did that thought come from?

His cock strained against his breeches in an eloquent response.

Absolutely not.

Drake crushed the attraction stirring his long-dead libido with an iron will. He hadn’t felt such interest in a woman since Nora, though Miss Millicent Whittenburg couldn’t be more different from his ex-fiancée. Where Miss Millicent was luscious curves and powerful limbs, Nora’s waif-like figure and angelic colouring made her a true English rose.

Complete with sharp and deadly thorns.

No part of him wished to think about his first – and only – love or how that disaster ended.

Still, he learned well the lesson Nora taught him about the dangers of being vulnerable. The last thing he needed was to become entangled with a woman destined to destroy his carefully constructed calm. The redheaded Valkyrie making a beeline toward him was just such a creature. Drake would do well to turn and run. But he ran from nothing.

Clad in cream silk nearly matching the tone of her skin, it was all too easy to picture her without the dress. His cock heartily agreed with his imaginings.

Dear God, I am not some cad lead around by my prick!

If Miss Millicent knew his thoughts, she would run screaming in the opposite direction. The woman distracted him when nothing ever destroyed his focus. Instead of scanning the crowd for a killer, Drake contemplated the exact texture of her lips. Would they be soft or firm? Sweet or tart? And for that alone, he should keep his distance. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of this mission.

As if to further prove his point, his inner calm evaporated, along with any hope of control, as the women approached. Miss Millicent Whittenburg was wild and unpredictable. Everything he despised in the fairer sex. Everything that made him ache in places long forgotten.

‘Ah, Major General Drake. I distinctly remember you abhorring social events. What possibly induced you to attend this soiree?’ Lady Philippa raised an eyebrow in an expression designed to quell a lesser man. He resisted the urge to step backward in retreat.

‘Your Grace, always an honour.’ Bowing his head at the duchess, he noticed Miss Millicent’s skirt had caught, revealing an inch of surprisingly slim ankle. Heat suffused his neck, and he clenched his jaw before she shifted and the buttery silk fell smoothly back into place.

‘And who is your new friend?’ Lady Philippa thrust her chin toward Reynard.

‘Allow me to introduce General Reynard Renquist. We fought together in the war.’ Drake stepped back so Reynard could bow.

‘Ah. Well.’ Lady Winterbourne thwacked a jewel-encrusted fan against her hand. ‘Renquist. Hmm. I know your brother. Though we haven’t seen much of him since he returned from the war.’

‘An honour, Your Grace. Yes, William prefers his own company these days.’ Reynard’s mouth twitched before he turned his mischievous dark gaze on Miss Millicent. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Miss…?’

Women fell to Reynard’s charm like autumn leaves in a brisk wind. He was everything Drake would never be. He looked like a naughty cherub who’d turned into a man, complete with golden, curly locks. Reynard even had dimples, which women were known to swoon over. After years of watching the dashing reprobate use his gilded tongue to talk women out of their lacy underthings, Drake more than expected it. He welcomed Reynard’s skills. It took all the attention away from Drake. No lady would choose a scarred old man over a dashing young rake. But for some reason, the idea of Millicent Whittenburg blushing in flustered appreciation at Reynard’s practised flirtations filled Drake with a black rage.

He recognised this feeling. He experienced the same rush of impotent anger when he returned from the war to see Nora on the arm of his brother, her ring finger glinting with a diamond wedding band. Jealousy. But it made no sense for him to suffer the emotion now. Certainly not for the bold redhead.

‘Miss Millicent Whittenburg, sir.’ Millicent didn’t blush. She didn’t bat her eyelashes or raise her fan to hide a coquettish smile. Instead, she narrowed her coffee-brown gaze. Sharp intelligence flashed in her eyes. ‘How odd. This ball is being held in my honour, but I don’t remember seeing either of your names on the guest list.’

‘Most peculiar, as we both received invitations.’ Drake straightened his shoulders and leaned into the lie.

The Marquess Henry Whittenburg and his Marchioness may not have summoned them, but Prime Minister Russell made sure Reynard and Drake were equipped with expertly forged invitations. Besides, no one paid attention to the guest list at a ball this crowded. Except for Miss Millicent Whittenburg. Maddening woman.

Facing a lady so close to him in height disconcerted Drake. At six foot three inches, he towered over most people. But Miss Millicent almost reached his chin and held his gaze with the fortitude of a commander.

Did she inwardly recoil at the devastation of his scars? This close, in the blazing light of a thousand candles from the chandelier above, she would see the gruesome stretch of roped tissue as it pulled against healthy skin. The white scar cut across his brow, bisecting his left eyebrow, slashing across the bridge of his nose, and slicing through his right cheek to end at his jaw. There were no surgeons in the Afghanistan prison, but a young bootmaker-turned-soldier had done his best in the dank cell they shared. Drake knew his visage was grotesque, but Millicent’s eyes – darker than cocoa beans and just as rich – didn’t stray from his own icy glare.

Just as she opened her indecently plump lips to no doubt deliver a blistering retort, the orchestra swelled to a crescendo, signalling the end of the set.

‘I believe they are readying for the next dance.’ Lady Philippa drew his gaze away from Miss Whittenburg.

Dear God, surely the duchess doesn’t expect me to dance with her.

Drake cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond. He hadn’t seen Lady Winterbourne since Everly Manor. Her ward was the same Hannah Simmons who married his friend right after the courageous young woman saved Lieutenant General Robert Killian from a killer.

Perhaps Killian wasn’t quite as foolish in marrying the girl as Drake thought.

Hardly. Even courageous women are dangerous. More so, sometimes.

‘Thank you, Your Grace. Though I am certainly no fit partner for someone as dignified as yourself.’ His rusty social skills were on full display.

The duchess snorted. ‘I know. I have no interest in dancing with you. But you should suffice for Miss Whittenburg.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Dance, Major General Drake. With Miss Whittenburg. Now.’ Lady Philippa blinked at him, and the effect was similar to a firing squad sending its first volley into the fray.

If the Queen’s military were run by the Duchess of Dorsett, we would rule the world in under a sennight.

He couldn’t refuse such a blatant command. It would be an unpardonable offence to the duchess and a grave insult to Miss Whittenburg.

Bloody fucking hell.

Just the idea of holding Miss Millicent within the circle of his arms, her soft curves pressed against his hard planes, her dark eyes melting like hot chocolate over flames, her scent – an intriguing blend of citrus and crisp cotton – infiltrating his senses was enough to make him forget his whole reason for attending this blasted ball.

Laundry and lemons shouldn’t cause a wave of lust to wash through him like lava, but it did. Not a good sign.

Miss Millicent’s reaction to Lady Winterbourne’s command was even more confounding. The beautiful disaster of a woman swallowed hard and tucked her hands behind her back.

His suspicious nature sparked to life. She was usually bold and brazen. He watched her ride a horse with the skill of a seasoned infantry soldier, trade insults while wielding her wit like a sword, and defend her friends with reckless courage both inspiring and intriguing. She was a harridan of the highest order, but her audacity also impressed him.

Yet, standing close enough for him to see the dusting of freckles across her nose, it was clear Miss Millicent was flummoxed. Her expressive skin flushed as she ducked her head in a rare display of nerves or embarrassment.

The woman was less inclined to dance with him than he was to ask for the privilege.

How interesting. I wonder how often she is asked to dance.

‘This is a mistake,’ she murmured.

He almost missed her words in the cacophony of conversation surrounding them. But Millicent’s husky voice was like a siren song, calling to him. She expected him to refuse the duchess’ command. So, he did the opposite.

‘Miss Millicent, would you do me the honour?’ Drake extended his gloved hand.

Millie wanted to gasp for air as she drowned in regret. The plan seemed so brilliant when the duchess first discussed it with her weeks ago. An excellent way to avoid Viscount Treadful, spurn her stepmother, and gain the one thing she wanted most: freedom.

Lady Philippa made it seem so simple. Seduce the one man who would never offer for her. Major General Drake fit the bill perfectly. He was many things. Cold. Deadly. Unfeeling. And most importantly, he despised the fairer sex.

Millie had sat in Philippa’s sitting room, sipping whiskey-laced tea, her attention completely focused on the duchess as Philippa recounted the vicious gossip surrounding Major General Drake and his fiancée, Miss Elnora Fitzwilliam. One of the beau monde’s jammiest bits of jam, desperately in love with the dashing Earl of Tetly, until Elnora abandoned Major General Drake when news of his capture in the Afghan desert reached England. Believing him as good as dead, Elnora married his younger brother. Quite the scandal.

When Major General Drake returned from the Anglo-Afghan war, scarred, damaged, hardened by the atrocities he’d endured but still very much alive, it was to the news his fiancée was married to his brother. Major General Drake never attempted to court another lady. All signs pointed to the man remaining single forever.

Incredibly tragic for Major General Drake. But perfect for their plan. His hatred of women would eclipse his honour once Millie tricked him into ruining her. Or, more accurately, re- ruining her. But this time, there was an important difference. This time, her ruination would be public.

Count Treadful would be forced to rescind his offer of marriage. Drake would never ask for her hand – or any other part of her for that matter. Millie’s father and stepmother would be more than happy to hand her over to Lady Philippa Winterbourne, and the duchess would secret her away in the country where her sinful nature could do no more harm.

Except Millie wouldn’t be languishing away picking roses and dodging bumblebees.

There was a diabolical ring of men kidnapping country girls and forcing them into the flesh trade. Lady Philippa needed someone to pose as a maid. Bait for the secret society of lords orchestrating this sex-trafficking ring. Millie was going to be that bait. Not something she could accomplish as the dutiful wife of Lord Tread.

Major General Drake was her way out. All she had to sacrifice was something she’d already destroyed years ago. Her virtue.

Simple as a Sunday tea party. Just seduce the Earl of Tetly.

A man who thus far had shown nothing but an acute dislike of Millie.

He doesn’t have to like me to ruin me. St George certainly didn’t care a whit about me, but that didn’t stop him from throwing up my skirts.

But that is where she and Philippa mis-stepped. While the idea of seducing Major General Drake seemed easy to achieve, the reality was quite different. Looking into Major General Drake’s glacial gaze created a most unwelcome heat in embarrassing places. The back of her neck. The hollow of her knee. The apex of her thighs. Her whole body was enflamed, her skin stretching too tightly. She was unaccountably sensitive to the brush of satin against her legs.

Bloody hell!

Millie was no innocent, but she had never reacted so strongly to a man as she did to the major general’s frigid stare. Highly annoying and very inappropriate. She certainly never felt such ardent heat with her one-time lover, Franklin St George, and at the time, his gaze had held nothing but impassioned affection, not the cold disdain sharpening Major General Drake’s glacial glare.

What if Patricia is right? What if I’m a wanton?

This was nothing like the mild tingles she’d felt with Franklin. He had been her childhood obsession. Their country estates abutted one another, and they grew up playing together on the grounds of their neighbouring properties. Millie’s ability to run faster, punch harder, ride better, and shoot more accurately than St George created some friction, but generally, they got along famously. Both families assumed Millie and Franklin would marry one day, joining the two ancient titles in property and bloodlines. It wasn’t surprising when Franklin St George asked to court Millie during her first season out.

It was surprising how easily she succumbed to seduction. Some might say Millie leapt forward when others would have hastened a retreat.

While she never thought herself a lustful woman, Franklin’s clumsy attempts at kissing quickly evolved into much more. Millie found she ached for an elusive something shimmering on the horizon as his hands became bolder and her skirts were shoved around her ears in a frenzy during one sunny afternoon picnic. Unfortunately, the entire event was rather disappointing for Millie and far messier than she guessed. In a sticky, painful, frantic moment, her virtue was gone, and soon after that, so was her betrothal to Franklin St George.

Foolish Millie, believing the pretty lies St George fed her during their doomed romance. After their disappointing picnic, Franklin met with her father and confessed their crimes, though she was the only one thought to be guilty. In the meeting, he insinuated Millie’s virginal state to be in question prior to their dalliance. While he had been swept away by affection for Millie and succumbed to her seductive skills, once certain truths came to light – namely, her lack of virtue – St George no longer wished to pursue a spoiled maid.

Which was ridiculous. Given the fact he spoiled her, and his only argument proving she wasn’t a virgin involved compromising her himself as evidence of her wanton nature.

Men are such illogical creatures!

It was embarrassingly obvious Millie’s virtue had been intact prior to their fateful picnic. However, no one asked her to confirm or refute St George’s accusations. Her guilt was established the moment St George spread her thighs. Her father’s heart was broken by his sinful daughter. And Millie’s shame was complete.

St George agreed to quietly end the betrothal and never reveal her sexual immorality in exchange for a tidy sum bestowed upon him by Millie’s father. Which was Franklin’s purpose from the beginning.

Mortifying to know his sole interest in Millie centred on the money he gained by not marrying her. Especially considering the tendre she had long carried for the bastard.

She pulled herself back to the present.

No more of that nonsense!

It was insufferable. A man could swive about London carousing with prostitutes, mistresses, and merry widows to his heart’s content. Reformed rakes were in high demand on the husband market. But women received no such chances for redemption. A lady caught with her skirts above her knees was immediately and irrevocably invalid. The unfairness of it lit a fire in Millie.

So, she would use this inequity to bring her carefully laid plan to fruition.

Major General Drake would compromise her tonight, even if Millie had to force the man with brute strength. But this time, her ruination wouldn’t be swept under the rug like unwanted dirt. The entire beau monde would be privy to Millie’s indiscretion, and her chances of ever marrying would be destroyed.

Thank God!

Millie took a deep breath and threw back her shoulders. Even though it felt manipulative and wrong, even though an oily coating of shame made her stomach twist uncomfortably, she had committed to this course. There were no other options. Major General Drake could bugger off if he didn’t like it. She didn’t much like it either, but it was her only hope for freedom. And besides, her reputation would suffer far more greatly than his.

She reached out to grasp the major general’s gloved hand and, in lieu of a smile, ducked her head in an abbreviated curtsey.

In a few moments, my entire life will be changed.

Major General Drake had very shiny boots. Millie wanted to scuff them. Instead, she let him tuck her hand in the crook of his arm and lead her smoothly to the dance floor. A hint of leather and spice tickled her nose. Cloves, if she wasn’t mistaken. The man smelled of saddles and sweet buns.

I do love sweet buns. And saddles, for that matter.

Still, the combination shouldn’t cause her tummy to erupt into a million bubbles. Millie’s mouth watered as her nipples constricted. Odd, considering the ballroom was insufferably warm. And why couldn’t she breathe? Franklin St George had certainly never caused her lungs to seize.

A murmur rippled throughout the assembly as a hundred gazes burned into her back. Fresh fodder for the gossips tonight.

You haven’t seen anything yet, ladies. Prepare yourselves for a truly scandalous evening!

If she was going to be painted as a wicked wanton, she might as well enjoy herself. Not only had she avoided dancing with her intended for the expected display of affection required at such events, but she had also managed to convince one of the most reclusive and intimidating bachelors of the season to squire her onto the dance floor.

Nothing to it, ladies. Just employ the Duchess of Dorsett as matchmaker, and almost any ungainly spinster can bag an earl.

She should stitch the instructions onto handkerchiefs and hand them out at balls. Millie almost smiled. But then she remembered the task at hand.

This was serious business. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t kind. But she was tired of being kind and fair at the expense of her own happiness. She wished the circumstances were different. But wishes were as useless as tea in a typhoon. No one would save Millie from her fate except Millie herself. With some assistance from the duchess, of course.

The major general swept her onto the floor, his right palm pressed against her left. His left hand resting on the generous swell of her hip. She had noticed Major General Drake walked with a slight limp, but it didn’t hinder his graceful movements on the chalked floor. She lifted her right hand and placed it on his shoulder. A shoulder made of granite.

Good heavens!

The man must have replaced his musculature with something impenetrable and unyielding. Millie fleetingly wondered how one achieved such a medical miracle. But then the violins began to sing, the cello resonated through the crowd, and like the wind in the rowan trees or the sea swelling on the sand, they began to move.

Never before did her feet float above the floor. Never did she feel delicate and fragile in a man’s arms. Never had her heart beat so loudly, she feared the whole assembly might hear it. Perhaps it was because the major general was so tall. And powerful. And terrifying.

And desirable.

Poppycock!

Millie didn’t desire Major General Drake.

Ridiculous notion.

From her first meeting with him four months prior at Lord Geoffrey Bradford’s dinner party, he had continually been rude and dismissive toward her.

If she was bold enough to bring her scheme to fruition, his disdain would only intensify.

But what choice do I have? Pernicious Patricia and her ridiculous plans!

No. She couldn’t blame her stepmother for what she was going to do to Major General Drake. This decision was hers, and she must shoulder the consequences alone.

Besides, adding ‘rake’ to his reputation will only increase Major General Drake’s appeal with young ladies who like dangerous, mysterious men with dashing scars. Which I do not . She viciously reminded herself.

But honestly! Did he have to look like some romanticised Viking warrior with the most startingly blue eyes she’d ever seen? So light, they reminded Millie of a description she’d read about icebergs written by the courageous Captain John Biscoe in the Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London . It was incredibly unfair.

No wonder Lord Drake’s gaze could freeze her like a blast of arctic chill. Chips of frigid water trapped in a face both fearsome and striking. Though his gaze didn’t seem cold tonight.

Can glaciers smoulder?

If only Millie’s conundrum could be solved with a solid round of sparring instead of a waltz. She was getting quite good at physical combat. Philippa said her height and general athletic prowess made her a dangerous pugilist. It would be so much easier to grapple with Major General Drake than glide across the dance floor in his strong arms.

But not nearly as pleasant.

Millie’s thoughts were becoming muddled. An unfortunate habit she developed around Major General Drake.

‘I should offer you my felicitations on your upcoming wedding.’ The major general’s gravelled voice created vibrations along her spine, spiralling over nerve endings, zinging through her veins like a primal pulse.

Mingling with his leather and clove scent was something dark and smoky. Perhaps it was the cheroots she’d seen him smoking. She wanted to lean closer and inhale him.

‘Do you ever tire of doing things you should instead of what you want?’ Millie pressed her lips together. Where had that come from? She risked glancing up.

He pulled her infinitesimally closer.

‘Yes.’

One syllable and her core turned liquid.

Candlelight glinted on the blond stubble covering his chin. His shadow beard matched the shade of his hair. What little hair he had. He kept it shorn so close to his head, he almost seemed bald. A shocking fashion choice, but who was she to judge?

He had a remarkably symmetrical head. What would it feel like to rub her hand over the bristled edges of his hair? She shivered.

‘Are you cold, Miss Millicent?’ He leaned close, his words tickling her ear.

‘Actually, I find myself overly warm. Perhaps we could step onto the veranda for a bit of air?’ She held her breath. This was the moment. If he refused or escorted her back to the wall where she belonged, her plan would be sunk.

He stiffened against her. ‘I don’t think?—’

‘Just for a moment. I might swoon.’ She tried for ‘breathy desperation’ but feared her tone was closer to ‘forceful command’.

Major General Drake leaned back, narrowing his gaze on her face. ‘You do look flushed.’

‘Of course I’m flushed. Patricia invited so many people to this ridiculous ball, we’re packed in here like pickled herrings.’ It wasn’t a delicate simile. But Millie wasn’t a delicate woman.

Without missing a beat, the major general swooped her in a spin that made her dizzy. It was the flex of his bicep beneath her fingers. The heat from his body seeping past her silk, stays, and chemise. The pressure of his hand on her hip. Her bones melted to jelly.

Jumping junipers!

She needed to get out of his arms and off the dance floor. Immediately. Or she would completely lose the plot. Which was unacceptable. She was seducing the man against his will, not mooning over him like some milksop, for heaven’s sake!

Taking advantage of their position near the French doors, Millie broke free of his dance frame and escaped onto the stone veranda. Hopefully, he followed her.

Or, hopefully, he does not. And then I can abandon this entirely horrendous idea. I shall tell the duchess we must create a new plan. I could always sail to Australia.

The idea of absconding to an island populated by criminals shouldn’t seem safer than seducing the Earl of Tetly. But there it was.

Millie leaned against the balustrade and took a healthy breath of wintry air as she gazed across the grounds. The oak trees were naked of leaves. Their limbs reached into the moonlight like skeletal fingers coated in a light dusting of snow. Frost sparkled over the frozen landscape; a thousand trapped raindrops scattered like diamonds over the manicured lawns. Christmas was still a month away, but a cold snap embraced London reminding Millie that Patricia had promised she would see her married by Yuletide.

Not bloody likely.

Major General Drake approached from behind. For such a large man, he moved with the stealth of a jungle cat. But her senses were attuned to him. She felt his heat warming her back, and she couldn’t bear the vulnerability.

Turning to face him, she leaned against the cold stone. ‘I imagine you will regret this moment for the rest of your life, sir.’

Major General Drake’s light eyebrows drew together, forming a vertical crease above his scarred nose. He took a step closer. ‘What do you mean? Are you quite all right, Miss Millicent?’

Millie’s gaze dipped to his lips. For such a hard man, his mouth was unabashedly sensual, his bottom lip obscenely full. She wondered if he would taste of cloves and smoke.

‘I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing this because I must.’ Millie’s voice hummed low and husky in the quiet night. She almost believed herself, if not for the delicious flutter low in her belly calling her a liar. She wanted to kiss him.

His sense for danger must have engaged because Major General Drake’s entire person hardened.

Fascinating.

A Viking warrior caught in silver moonlight. His aristocratic features bordered on beautiful, save for the savage scar transforming him into something far more dangerous.

If Millie wasn’t committed to her task, she would have turned and fled. She couldn’t possibly seduce such a lethal man. But fear wasn’t causing the tremors throughout her body. Something far more treacherous rushed through her blood, sparking nerve endings long dormant in the tips of her breasts, the apex of her thighs, the soft skin just behind her ear.

‘Miss Millicent, I believe we should return to the ballroom.’

It was now or never. She couldn’t lose her chance at freedom, all for the cost of a kiss.

Millie leapt forward. Gripping Major General Drake around his thick neck, she pulled his head down. It was lucky she was so tall and strong or he would have had time to resist her before she crushed her mouth against his.