Chapter 2

Rhys Davies was excellent at evading things, especially punches and marriage.

He'd learned to dodge the punches at his twice-weekly boxing sessions, not merely because he didn't enjoy pain, but because the ladies seemed to love his face just the way it was. Not ruining it with a broken nose was reason enough to stay sharp as the blows flew his way.

He'd avoided marriage because the idea of settling down with just one woman had seemed extremely restrictive, despite the obvious happiness of his three siblings, who'd all tied the knot in the past few years.

Rhys was a rational man. He put no store in the ridiculous idea that some mystical force kept throwing Davies and Montgomerys together. The fact that both his brothers and his sister had ended up with members of the rival clan was purely incidental—an interesting anomaly, but one that could easily be explained by the inherently perverse, stubborn and competitive natures of both families.

If someone told a Davies not to do something, it—naturally—became the very thing that Davies most desired to do. Rebellion was in their blood, and had been since some distant ancestor Davies had fought by the side of Llewellyn ap Gruffud, the last Prince of Gwynned, in his unsuccessful quest to drive the invading English from Welsh soil, back in the twelve-hundreds.

Now, six hundred years later, it was clear the English weren't going anywhere, and since killing each other with swords was frowned on in a civilized society, both families had relished coming up with less violent but ever-more-sneaky ways to annoy the other.

Ergo, if a Davies knew the last thing they should do was to provoke a Montgomery, it became an irresistible quest, a source of both enjoyment and deep satisfaction.

The Montgomery family felt precisely the same way, and it was no surprise to Rhys that conquering their rivals on the field of love had surpassed beating them on the battlefield. Sleeping with the enemy was the ultimate forbidden fruit, and it wasn't at all incredible that all the years of mutual taunting had produced several successful marriages, those of his three siblings included.

Rhys had been adamant that he wouldn't succumb to the fatal charms of some Montgomery siren, however. Even so, he'd been feeling oddly relieved at Morgan's wedding, believing all the available Montgomery girls had been taken.

He was in the clear. The Davies Curse, as he'd started to call it, couldn't touch him.

And then he'd spoken to the two meddling Montgomery great aunts, Constance and Prudence, who'd gleefully informed him that three more Montgomery chits were sailing back from Madagascar.

That news had been enough to make Rhys break out into a cold sweat, even though he'd told himself quite firmly that there could be a dozen Montgomery women in London and he wouldn't fall for any of them. It was not pre-ordained. It wasn't his destiny. Such thinking was ridiculous.

But when their ship had been wrecked off the coast of Madagascar (and once he'd heard that nobody had died), he'd actually laughed in relief, knowing their arrival would be delayed.

And when Aunt Prudence casually mentioned that they'd finally docked in London, he'd breathed another sigh of relief to learn that the eldest of the three sisters, Caro, had already married one of their fellow castaways, his old school friend Max Cavendish, the Duke of Hayworth, on board the ship.

That still left the twins, Lucy and Lenore, and Rhys knew he'd feel a lot better once the two of them were taken out of commission, too.

Not that he put any store in the idea that he was in danger from falling for a Montgomery. Of course not.

But better safe than sorry.

He'd deliberately stayed away from London for the first few months after their arrival, lurking about at Trellech Court in Wales, but he'd been bored and lonely and itching to get back to town and the many diversions of the city during the social season.

News that Lucy, one of the twins, had married Will Arden, one of the aristocratic investors of the Drury Lane Theater, had been music to Rhys's ears, and he'd decided to throw caution to the wind and return to the capital.

How hard could it be to avoid Lenore, the last remaining twin? He'd just make sure their paths didn't cross until she was safely engaged to someone else, and then he'd be home and dry.

His plan had worked splendidly for several weeks, mainly due to the fact that Lenore was, apparently, spending most of her time down at Kew Gardens, advising on setting up a new hothouse for tropical plants and butterflies, her specialty.

He'd been introduced to both Caro and Lucy, and while he'd found them remarkably attractive females, there had been no lightning strike of infatuation, no hint that he was in any danger.

The fact that Lucy was Lenore's twin gave him great confidence, even though it was impressed upon him that they weren't identical, and that men usually found Lenore to be the most striking of the two.

Still Rhys hadn't been worried. He'd met scores of fabulously beautiful women, and had affairs with several of them, and he was no callow youth to be blinded by a pair of fine eyes and a well-turned ankle. Beauty was more than skin deep, and it usually didn't take him long to see past the outer layers of a woman to their innate character. If they were mean, or bitchy, or avaricious, then he was immediately repelled, no matter how pretty the outer packaging.

And then had come the fateful night he'd encountered Lenore Montgomery.

He'd been in Lady Carrington's rose garden, teaching a salutary lesson in manners to the boorish Gordon Burton, who'd tried to grope Carys's friend Annabelle on the terrace. He'd just pushed the ill-mannered sod into the fountain, when he'd turned and lost his mind.

At first, he'd thought she was a hallucination, the result of Burton's one lucky punch that had caught him on the jaw and split his lip, but when she didn't disappear in a dramatic puff of smoke, he'd realized that the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life really was just standing there, just a few paces away.

The moonlight had been bright enough for Rhys to see the utter perfection of her features; wide eyes fringed with long lashes, a small, straight nose, and a slightly-too-wide mouth with the most kissable lips he'd ever seen. Her brown hair had been styled half up, half down, and the single curl that trailed over her shoulder made his fingers itch to trace it down over the snowy perfection of her breasts, which rose and fell beneath the deliciously low-cut neckline of her gown.

"Who are you?"

The question had slipped out of his mouth without conscious thought, and he'd almost been too lost in her eyes to listen to her answer.

And then he'd heard, "I'm Lenore," and his stomach had dropped in absolute dread.

His next question was almost pointless, since his body already knew what his brain was frantically trying to deny, but he asked it anyway.

"Not Lenore Montgomery?"

"The very same."

Oh, shit.

His heart was pummeling his ribs as if he was being punched from the inside, and a horrific feeling of inevitability was sweeping over him, a sense of soul-deep recognition, as if he'd been waiting his whole life for this woman, without even being aware of it. That thought was immediately followed by another; that nothing was ever going to be the same, ever again.

Bollocks.

Rhys had never imagined he'd be thankful for Burton's presence, but his timely interruption had been most welcome. Rhys's mouth seemed to have forgotten how to frame words. Even when Lenore dismissed Gordon, he still hadn't been able to think of anything to say. He'd just gazed at her like a simpleton, his usual quick-wits gone begging as she'd muttered something about getting back to the party.

His knuckles were still stinging from the punches he'd thrown at Gordon, but Rhys had clenched his fists against the ridiculous urge to catch her wrist and stop her leaving. To keep her there so he could . . . what?

He shook his head. He had no idea what. Gaze at her some more? Demand to know where she'd been his whole life? Kiss her, right there in the moonlight? Cave to the inevitable, get down on one knee, and just say, "Marry me?"

God, no. There was no such thing as Fate. He was concussed. That would explain it.

Except Gordon had caught his lip, not his temple.

Rhys chose to ignore that pertinent piece of logic.

No. His reaction had been a momentary aberration. He'd been taken unawares. Hadn't had time to brace himself. Now that she'd gone, he could be reasonable and admit that Lenore Montgomery was a remarkably beautiful woman. In fact, if she'd been anyone other than a Montgomery, he'd have been striding back toward the house intent on making her his next conquest. He knew how to charm, how to flirt. How to seduce.

Bloody Hell.

Why couldn't she have been one of the scores of merry widows looking for a lover, or a courtesan seeking a new protector? Why did she have to be the very thing he'd absolutely promised himself he wouldn't have?

He would not be a cliché, the reason society laughed and whispered behind their fans because another Davies had been conquered. He hadn't survived three years in the Hussars, fighting Napoleon's finest, only to be vanquished on home turf by a pair of flashing eyes and the most splendid bosom he'd ever—

Not the point.

She might be gorgeous, but she was probably vain and shallow along with it, and no doubt desperate to marry a title now that she was back in civilization. With looks like hers, she'd have her pick of suitors. She'd be a duchess or a countess in no time.

In fact, Rhys's lack of title would exclude him from consideration. He might have a handsome face, but his fortune, thanks to his remarkable success on the stock market, was something only his family was aware of. Lenore wouldn't be interested in him. Not when she could accept a duke or a marquis.

He had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was stay away from her until she'd chosen someone else. He had too much honor to dally with someone else's wife and she'd be regretfully, but firmly, out of his reach.

It had been an excellent plan, except for the fact that Rhys hadn't been able to stay away from her.

He'd tried. He really had. But London society was surprisingly small, and the intermingling of their two families meant that he and Lenore regularly attended the same party or fete.

Even then, Rhys had attempted to keep his distance, spending hours in the card rooms instead of watching her with hungry eyes as she swirled around the dance floor with any number of besotted partners.

But every time he tried to avoid her, there she would be, inflaming his senses with her laughing green eyes and her coppery-brown curls. Making some sly, teasing comment that showed she was not just pretty, but witty and clever as well.

She was a natural seductress, charming men without even meaning to, and by the end of her first season she'd left a trail of broken hearts in her wake.

Rhys had ignored the gnawing feeling in his gut when he'd heard that the Duke of Andover had offered for her. She'd already turned down eight other suitors, including three earls, but Andover was the most eligible bachelor on the market. He was rich, affable, and almost as handsome as Rhys himself, and Rhys had been absolutely certain that Lenore would accept his suit.

She did not.

Rhys had drunk himself into a stupor in frustration. The girl clearly wasn't right in the head. Maybe she'd spent too much time in the sun on her travels and fried her brain. Who refused a duke? Didn't every girl dream of being a duchess? Andover wasn't even old. Or ugly. Or bankrupt. What possible other criteria could she have for choosing a husband?

The answer, when he'd grumpily posed that same question to his sister, Carys, had made his heart stop in his chest. Lenore Montgomery had determined to marry for love.

She'd stated as much in public, apparently, and instead of mocking her aspirations as foolish and unrealistic, society had wholeheartedly agreed that a woman as beautiful as Lenore Montgomery should be allowed such a radical view.

Ordinary girls should be glad of whatever offers they received, but a diamond of the first water, like Lenore, could apparently indulge in whatever romantic notions she liked.

Rhys's brain hadn't stopped burning for a week.

Lenore wasn't holding out for a title. She didn't want a duke. She wanted a man who loved her. A man she could love in return.

The solution settled in his chest with an absolute sense of rightness.

That man could be him.

The past few months had been torture, holding himself back, pretending he had no interest in her. Enough was enough. He was interested. Drawn like a moth to the flame. The idea of marriage, so unappealing before, was perfectly palatable if it was with a woman like Lenore. In fact, she was the only woman he could ever imagine committing himself to.

It was time to take action. To see if there could be more between them just scorching attraction.