Prologue

London

Four-ish Years Earlier

"Allow me to introduce you to Viscount Clayton's daughter, Miss Eustacia Martin," Lady Crowley said, beaming at the Marquess of Shelton.

Lord Shelton smiled at Stacia, took her hand, and bowed over it. "It is an honor to meet you," he said, smiling down at her, the skin crinkling delightfully at the corners of his unearthly blue eyes.

The air left Stacia's lungs in such a rush that she felt as if he'd punched her. She was vaguely aware that her mouth was agape but could not shut it. An elbow in her side reminded her to drop a shaky curtsey. She said, in a voice that was all but inaudible, "It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord."

But the glorious golden god had already released her hand and moved on.

"And this is Lady Louisa, the Earl of Cumberland's daughter," Lady Crowley continued, introducing yet another of the four wallflowers the poor woman had been engaged to chaperone that Season.

The loss of Lord Shelton's attention—brief as it had been—left Stacia with a chill, as if clouds had covered the sun.

The Marquess of Shelton had arrived at the ball so late that Stacia and her friends had given up hope that he would make an appearance. He had scarcely entered the ballroom when a clutch of chaperones and marriage-minded mamas had fallen upon him like crows flapping around a corpse, although the simile was a poor one. The chaperones actually looked more like tropical birds and there was nothing whatsoever corpselike about the Marquess of Shelton.

He was without a doubt the most beautiful man Stacia had ever seen. He towered above her—although that was not so unusual given that she was barely over five feet—and possessed hair that really did look like spun gold. His face was classical perfection with a chiseled jaw, lips that were firm and shapely, and eyes that defied description. And then there was his figure. Stacia swallowed as she yanked her hungry gaze from his face and stole a quick but thorough look at his broad chest and shoulders before moving down to his skintight pantaloons which displayed his muscled thighs and calves in a way that should have been illegal.

Not only was he physically stunning, but whenever she saw him socializing—usually from afar, unfortunately—he was always smiling and laughing, emanating warmth even beyond the fortunate female he might be speaking to.

As if that was not enough, he was also a highly decorated officer and heir to the Duke of Chatham.

It hardly seemed fair for one man to be so blessed.

Stacia was still ogling his magnificent body when it moved on to the next clutch of debutantes awaiting an introduction.

"He is even more perfect up close," Lady Louisa said in a breathless voice.

"A person or thing cannot be more perfect, Louisa," Miss Edith Barkley chided.

"If anyone could be more perfect, it would most certainly be Lord Shelton," Stacia felt compelled to say.

"He is so perfect that he does not look real," Miss Sarah Creighton said.

All of them nodded at the truth of her statement.

Lord Shelton did not dance with any of them that night. Indeed, he didn't dance at all. After he'd been introduced to upwards of forty young women a collective sigh of disappointment went up in the ballroom when he disappeared into the card room and was not seen again.

A week later, at yet another ball, Stacia happened to be standing with two different girls and their chaperone when the older woman introduced her charges to Lord Shelton.

Stacia opened her mouth to say they had already met, but Shelton graced her with the same glowing smile and crinkled eyes, bowed over her hand, and said, "It is an honor to meet you," before moving on to the next girl.

Stacia could scarcely manage a curtsey and mumbled a response in such a quiet voice that even she could not hear the words.

He had forgotten her. She was forgettable .

Did she cry a little that night when she was in her bed and re-living the night? Yes, just a little.

Fine. More than a little.

Four nights later Lord Shelton did something even worse. He looked through Stacia yet again—and most of her other friends—but this time his brilliant gaze snagged on one of them.

Sarah Creighton.

"Will you do me the honor of dancing this waltz with me, Miss Creighton?"

Sarah's cheeks pinkened and she stammered, "Y-yes, my lord. I have—I have permission to waltz."

His full lips twisted in gentle amusement. "It is my lucky night."

Sarah cast a stunned, almost apologetic glance at Stacia as she was borne off on the golden god's arm to join the other dancers.

She knew that Sarah's hasty glance had been meant kindly. After all, Sarah knew just how terribly infatuated Stacia was.

Rather than soothe her, however, her friend's pity was like a knife in her breast.

Stacia turned to see if the other wallflowers had witnessed the exchange. But they were staring in open-mouthed bafflement at Sarah and Lord Shelton.

Sarah, the daughter of a country baronet, was neither gorgeous nor an heiress, and yet Shelton had not only singled her out— and remembered her name—he had asked her to dance. This from a man infamous for appearing at a ball and departing half an hour later without leading even a single partner onto the floor.

Stacia and Sarah had been schoolmates, and she had always liked the other girl, who was sweet and unassuming. Sarah was passably pretty but utterly unlike the sort of beauty who usually attracted the attention of England's most eligible, handsome war hero.

Lord Shelton's choice of Sarah was the ultimate irony as she had never seemed as slavishly smitten by gorgeous marquess as the rest of them.

Indeed, of all the girls who languished together at every ball, she would have said that Sarah was the one who was least interested in finding a husband. She would have gone so far as to say that Sarah pined for her home and family.

And yet Sarah had somehow managed to do the impossible and attract Lord Shelton's interest. What had she done to make him notice her?

What you really mean is, why can't it be you?

Yes. That is exactly what she meant!

Have some pride! He doesn't even remember who you are. How many times does he need to forget you before you stop yearning for him?

The voice of self-preservation was right and Stacia debased herself daily—hourly—by worshipping at Shelton's altar, even if he never learned of her adoration.

But she could not make herself stop.

Watching him bestow his attention on Sarah—dancing and laughing with her—was like quaffing acid and she felt something very close to hatred for the mild, inoffensive woman.

Stacia took comfort—albeit slight—in the fact that she was not the only woman unable to control her unwanted reaction.

By the time Shelton asked Sarah to dance with him a third time—scarcely a week later—the small clique of wallflowers who had once been Sarah's friends were so bitter toward her that she no longer sat with them.

Stacia couldn't blame her. Neither could she stop herself from hating her.

The fourth time Stacia was introduced to Shelton and he didn't recognize her, she was no longer breathless with awe in his presence. Instead, she felt an almost irresistible urge to do something he would remember. Like club him over the head with her reticule.

"It is an honor to meet you," he murmured after Lady Crowley had made the introduction, his beautiful eyes aimed at somebody over Stacia's shoulder.

Irked beyond bearing, Stacia said, "We have been introduced before, my lord."

Lady Crowley gasped and Lord Shelton's gaze finally snapped to Stacia's face.

A slight notch formed between his jewel-like eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, we have been introduced before. " Stacia gave him a tight smile . Four times, she might have added. Which doesn't include the dozens of times you've stood as close to me as we are now and flirted with some other woman.

His gaze sharpened, like a man who'd just been stung by an insect he'd heretofore believed benign. His befuddlement gradually shifted into amusement. "I see. I beg your pardon, Miss, er…"

"It is Miss Martin," Stacia said after letting the silence drag out a few extra seconds. "However, I've learned to answer to Miss Er… ."

The golden god barked a laugh. If Stacia hadn't already girded herself against it, she would have been reduced to a quivering blancmange by the sheer splendor of such a sight. Fortunately, she had been subjected to his male beauty several nights a week at that point, although the full force of his attention had never been focused on her as it was at that moment. While her exposure to him had not inoculated her against his devastating looks, it had mitigated the severity of the symptoms and she no longer gawked and trembled.

"My dear Miss Martin," Lady Crowley murmured in a chiding voice, giving a nervous laugh. "Whatever has come over you?"

Stacia did not respond, her gaze locked with Lord Shelton's.

You look away first , she silently challenged.

"I apologize, my lord," Lady Crowley said. "I do not know what has got into—"

"I am the one who should apologize," Lord Shelton countered, still holding her gaze.

The ice around her heart began to melt, slightly, and her lips began to form a smile.

And then the cad's eyes flitted back to whatever he'd been looking at before!

You obnoxious, vile, insufferable—

"Miss Martin?" The Earl of Townshend's diffident voice interrupted her internal diatribe.

"What?" Stacia snapped, still staring at Shelton, willing him to notice her.

"Er, I believe this is my set."

"My dear?" Lady Crowley's hand settled on Stacia's shoulder and gave a slight squeeze. "Lord Townshend is here to claim his dance." The older woman barely lowered her voice and, when Stacia did not respond quickly enough, hissed, "Your only dance."

Shelton's eyes slid back to hers. Naturally, the odious heel had heard that. His perfect lips quivered faintly and his eyes glinted with amusement.

It was mortifying.

But at least he was looking at her.

Lady Crowley's fingers tightened painfully on her shoulder. " Stacia ."

Stacia gritted her teeth against the interruption.

You are a detestable cad , she silently flung at Lord Shelton.

But his attention had already drifted away. This time, Stacia could not help but follow it.

He was smiling across the room at Miss Sarah Creighton—who was fluttering and blushing. And why shouldn't she?

Stacia's foot twitched to kick him in the shin.

"Am I mistaken, Miss Martin?" the Earl of Townshend asked.

"You are not mistaken," Stacia said, her words so clipped that the timorous peer flinched. She took the earl's arm, cut a last withering look at Shelton—not that he noticed—and loudly said to the underside of his chin, "I beg you will excuse me, my lord."

And then she all but dragged the earl onto the dance floor.

Townshend led her into a waltz, his jerky motions bringing to mind an automaton.

"I'm sorry, Miss Martin—but did I interrupt something?" Townshend asked after they'd waltzed—badly—for a moment.

She dragged her attention from the man behind her to the one in front of her and smiled, because the gentle earl did not deserve a scowling dance partner. "Not at all. I apologize if I appeared distracted."

Townshend didn't look entirely convinced, but the subject held little interest for him, so he raised another topic, this one dear to his heart. "Have you seen Lord Buckley's newest acquisition?"

It was all Stacia could do not to run screaming from the ballroom.

But Townshend was a kind young man, if boring and pedantic, and she needed to remember that, even though his obsession with illuminated manuscripts—an interest he shared with Stacia's father—was not a subject she cared to discuss in the middle of a ballroom.

"I have not yet seen it, but my father has." That sounded too abrupt, so she added, "He believes it may be the work of Gerard Horenbout."

Lord Townshend became as illuminated as one of the manuscripts he loved so much. "It is the most beautiful work I have ever seen. One hundred and forty pages. Just imagine that, Miss Martin!"

Stacia didn't have to imagine it; her father had spoken of the newly discovered prayerbook until she felt sure she'd start bleeding out of her ears.

As always when the subject of illuminated manuscripts was raised, Lord Townshend nattered on quite happily without any contribution from her, leaving Stacia to her own thoughts.

Thoughts which were, unfortunately, still fixated on Lord Shelton.

She had no right to mock Townshend's mania for ancient manuscripts when she was so obsessed with the Marquess of Shelton.

It was always easy to spot the marquess, no matter how crowded the function. All one had to do was follow the yearning gazes of at least half the young ladies in attendance.

Tonight was no exception, and Stacia easily located her quarry in the tightly packed sea of humanity.

Predictable, corrosive jealousy churned in her belly at the sight of Shelton dancing with Miss Sarah Creighton.

Stacia was heartily sick, not to mention ashamed, of how badly she wanted to be in Sarah's slippers. But she could not make herself stop.

The only thing that kept her from going mad was the fact that so many of her peers were watching the pair dance and suffering from the same affliction.

Misery was not the only thing to love company. Jealousy appeared to be fond of it as well.

"—the scrolling alone is unparalleled!" Townshend's joyous voice broke into her jealous musings.

Stacia nodded and smiled vaguely, which was enough to keep her dance partner chattering happily.

Bitterness churned in her belly. Sarah is not that much prettier than I am. Why can't he laugh and smile at me? Why doesn't he seek me out to honor with a dance? Why, why, why?

Infatuation, Stacia decided unhappily, was exhausting.

Five weeks later, after Lord Shelton had destroyed Sarah's reputation and future by spending an entire evening with her alone and then refusing to marry her, Stacia tried to convince herself that she had been fortunate to have avoided such a scoundrel's attention.

But jealousy and envy far outpaced any relief she experienced. Sarah, for all that she could never show her face in public again, would at least have some pleasant memories to reflect on when she was old and gray.

That was more than Stacia would ever have.

A month later, when the ton gossipmongers discovered that Sarah Creighton was with child, Stacia felt certain that no vestige of adoration for Shelton could survive such damning news.

And yet…

And yet her yearning for a man she barely knew—and which the intellectual part of her despised—was in no way attenuated by his atrocious behavior.

So, who really was the greater fool? Sarah for capitulating to Lord Shelton's wiles, or Stacia for wishing it had been her?

How could infatuation be so tenacious? How could she want him so desperately even though he was, in every way that mattered, so unworthy?

The thought obsessed her for weeks, ruining any chance of enjoyment for what remained of what would be her first and only Season.

Ultimately, the only thing that managed to put a stop to Stacia's obsessing was the unexpected and devastating death of her father.

Her grief at the loss of her kindly, absent-minded parent was compounded by the horrible discovery that she'd been left with a legacy that was scarcely enough to keep body and soul together.

Her cousin Geoffrey, the new Viscount Clayton, made it clear there would be no home, at least nothing long-term, for her under his roof.

Stacia would have to work for a living and her choices were simple: companion or governess.

And then—two weeks after her father's death—a third choice presented itself.

The Earl of Townshend called on her and the shy, tongue-tied lord haltingly proposed marriage.

Here was a chance to escape a life of servitude!

Townshend was a kindly man and wealthy, besides. He possessed more than enough money to pursue his only passion—illuminated manuscripts—and also support a wife in luxury.

He believed, erroneously, that Stacia shared his passion.

If she accepted him, she would need to continue lying for the rest of her life.

If she accepted him, she might have children to satisfy her need for love. After all, what was romantic love when compared with that of a child?

If she accepted him, she could continue to move in society—to socialize with the only people she knew.

If she accepted him, she could continue to see Lord Shelton, who had already returned to London after destroying Sarah Creighton's life, unabashed and unashamed of his infamy.

It was that last thought that tipped the scales and cut short her one avenue of escape. How could she marry a man when her mind—and perhaps even her heart—was always on another? It would not be fair to the earl, and it would not be fair to herself.

And so Stacia politely declined Lord Townshend's offer.

A week later, she accepted a position far away from London—somewhere a man like Shelton would never be caught dead: Bath.

Two Years Ago

Stacia smiled and nodded to numerous people as she navigated the crowded Pump Room, a glass of the famous healing water in her hands.

In the months that she'd worked as a companion for the very elderly Lady Hamilton, Stacia had come to the Pump Room five days a week, rain or shine—excepting the few days earlier in the year when her employer had been bed-bound with a head cold.

Her employer was a kind lady who was easy to work for—certainly when compared to some of the other employers she'd seen.

And if Stacia's days were boring and all blurred together with daily visits to the Pump Room, cards at Lady Lydia's on Monday and Mrs. Markham's on Thursday, and a half dozen other routinized activities? Well, boredom was better than the alternative, which was serving as a governess to an unruly brood of brats.

That's what she was telling herself that morning as she performed the same ritual for what she calculated to be either the 199 th or 200 th time.

And then, in the midst of the predictable tedium, a face she had only seen in her dreams for almost two years appeared before her.

Time seemed to slow, and the glass began to slide between her limp fingers as she stared, gaping, at what surely had to be an apparition.

A hand closed around hers and a familiar, jocular voice boomed in her ear, "Careful, Miss Martin! You almost lost your precious burden."

She wrenched her gaze away from the Marquess of Shelton and turned to Colonel Kelley, who grinned down at her.

"Oh, thank you, sir," she murmured, taking the glass back.

He clucked his tongue. "What is this sir business?"

"I am sorry…Richard."

Colonel Kelly smiled, the genuine expression making his handsome, weathered face even more attractive. "That's better, my girl."

But no matter how attractive the colonel was, her eyes slid toward where Lord Shelton stood talking to Lady Hamilton and her friend, Lady Lydia Gregg, who seemed to be leaning on Shelton's arm, almost as if she had some claim to him. Were they related? Stacia's employer visited Lady Lydia every week—sometimes twice—so why hadn't Stacia heard of this connection? What was Shelton doing in Bath at this time of year? What—

Colonel Kelley leaned close and tried to whisper—something that wasn't possible for a man who'd spent thirty years barking orders at subordinates. "Shelton will have all the doves in a flutter, the rascal." He gave an indulgent chuckle.

"You sound as if you admire the man."

The colonel had the grace to appear sheepish. "Oh, I know he has done some things of late that do not reflect well on him, but—"

"That is certainly one way of putting it. A mild way, I must say."

The colonel looked pained. "What you need to understand, my dear, is that Shelton is one of Britain's most highly decorated soldiers."

"Are you saying that excuses his reprehensible behavior?"

"No, of course not. However, it does not erase his heroism, either. He"—the Colonel shook his head, visibly conflicted— "Shelton did things for this country that not many men would, or could, make themselves do. I cannot think of a braver man."

Stacia frowned and turned back to find Lady Hamilton gesturing for her to come closer.

The colonel offered his arm and for once, Stacia was glad of her elderly admirer's presence.

"My dear Miss Martin, you must come and meet Lady Lydia's nephew. And you too, Colonel."

Stacia had a moment to collect her wits as Colonel Kelley pushed forward, as eager as any debutante to meet one of England's foremost war heroes.

"A pleasure to meet you, my lord," he gushed.

Shelton smiled politely. "Colonel Robert Kelley? You were with Fletcher, weren't you?"

The Colonel's ruddy face darkened with pleasure. "By Jove! You've heard of me, have you? That is a treat, sir! Yes, I did serve under Fletcher." He nodded enthusiastically and opened his mouth, no doubt to continue gushing, but Lady Hamilton had other plans.

"And this is my companion, Miss Stacia Martin, Viscount Clayton's daughter," she said, thrusting her way into the conversation.

Lord Shelton turned away from Kelley, took Stacia's reluctantly proffered hand, and bowed over it. "It is an honor to meet you, Miss Martin."

Stacia stared up into his eyes, disbelief and fury breeding like rabbits when she realized that—yet again—the blasted man did not remember meeting her.

It felt as though she stared into the blue depths for at least a minute, but it couldn't have been longer than a few seconds. Shelton, obviously accustomed to women gazing at him fatuously, gave her a faint smile—nothing that could be misconstrued as encouragement, of course—released her hand, and then turned to answer something his aunt was asking.

All the way home from the Pump Room her employer chattered happily about Lord Shelton's unexpected visit to his great aunt and what treats Lady Lydia was planning for his visit.

Over the following two weeks and four days that Lord Shelton remained in Bath—feted by all and sundry, his deplorable treatment of Sarah Creighton completely forgotten, as if the denizens of Bath had collectively suffered amnesia—Stacia was at no fewer than nine functions with the man.

Not once at any of those dinners, parties, assemblies, and yes, one picnic, had Lord Andrew Shelton exhibited any indication that he recalled meeting Stacia in London.

She hated him.

When he finally left town, she breathed a sigh of relief, her muscles unclenching for the first time in weeks.

Good riddance to bad rubbish!

That is what Stacia told herself.

And yet…

And yet when Colonel Kelley offered Stacia marriage—and a life of leisure with a man who if she did not love, at least she liked and respected—Lord Andrew Shelton's beautiful face rose up in her mind like a specter.

For the second time in her short life Stacia found that she could not accept an offer of marriage, and at least part of the reason could be laid at the feet of Lord Shelton. Oh, not because she loved him—she did not even like the man. And certainly not because she held out even the faintest hope that he would ever notice her.

No, the reason she could not tie herself to one man, while so mindlessly infatuated with another, was because she would not be able to bear it if somebody did the same thing to her.

Six-ish Months Earlier

Somewhere on the Great North Road

Andrew Derrick, the Marquess of Shelton, looked from his cousin the Duke of Chatham, to Baron Angus Fowler—the man who had just blackened Andrew's eye—to Lady Hyacinth Bellamy, who was apparently the brand-new Duchess of Chatham.

All three were regarding him as if he were an especially noxious toadstool that had sprung up in their midst.

"Where is my sister?" Her Grace demanded through clenched teeth.

Andrew dabbed some blood off his lower lip and winced—there would be swelling in addition to his black eye—and then looked up at the new duchess and smirked in a way he knew made people want to hit him. "Congratulations on your nuptials, Your Grace. No hard feelings, I hope?"

"You tried to blackmail me," she seethed.

"If we are being precise, it was Chatham I blackmailed." Andrew smirked. "And I didn't just try; I succeeded."

The duchess took a step toward him.

Chatham hastily placed his body between Andrew and his tall skinny wife, a woman currently, and convincingly, garbed in men's clothing.

The duchess was not a pretty woman, nor even a handsome one, but she was distinctive looking with her bright orange hair, pale as milk skin, and gaunt, tall body. Her most attractive feature by far was her eyes which were not only a striking pale green but also broadcast her keen intelligence to anyone who bothered to look.

Andrew met his cousin's gaze. Sylvester, the Duke of Chatham, was a man he'd known since Chatham's father, the old duke, had taken Andrew into his home when he'd been orphaned at the tender age of four.

For a good chunk of his life, Andrew and Chatham had been as close as brothers. Andrew had idolized and worshipped the other man up until the day Sylvester had married Mariah, the woman Andrew loved.

That had been eleven years ago, and Andrew had hated his cousin with a passion every day since.

"Married, hmm?" Andrew met the older man's gaze and sneered. "Congratulations, Syl."

An explosion of white sparks and a crack of pain were Chatham's answer.

Andrew, suddenly flat on his back, blinked up at his cousin through stars.

"I told you not to call me Syl ," the duke said in a cool voice.

Lord Fowler gave a hoot of laughter. "I have been waiting for you to plant him a facer for years, Chatham."

The duke ignored his friend's cheering and held Andrew's gaze.

Andrew shifted his jaw from side to side to make sure it still worked before saying, "You wouldn't have got in that hit if both my eyes were working."

"Where is Lady Selina?" Chatham asked, extending a hand to help Andrew up.

Andrew considered stringing his cousin along for a bit—he'd not gotten under Chatham's skin so effectively in years, and it wasn't for a lack of trying, either—but he was bloody exhausted and, quite frankly, the jig was up.

He disregarded his cousin's hand and pushed to his feet without any assistance. The room tilted, but he managed to not embarrass himself by falling onto his arse for a second time.

"I don't know where she is," he admitted. "But wherever she went, she emptied my pockets first."

Fowler sneered. "She wouldn't have got far if she'd been forced to rely on that. But she emptied mine, too, and I had enough money in my purse to get her to Moscow and back."

Fowler was a bloody mountain of a man—outweighing Andrew by at least three stone—and Andrew felt a burst of pride when he noticed the giant baron had swelling over one eye and a nasty cut on his cheek from their little set-to.

Any pride he felt, however, was dashed when he recalled just why they had been fighting.

Andrew was used to being viewed as a villain—hell, he cultivated it—but this time he was truly ashamed of his behavior. He had abducted Lady Selina Bellamy and would have ruined the woman—maybe he already had—if Fowler hadn't stumbled onto the two of them at this inn and commenced to thrash Andrew for the woman's honor.

While they had been fighting like a pair of street curs, Lady Selina had rescued herself by robbing them both and absconding, leaving Andrew to face the wrath of his cousin and Selina's sister.

Was he ashamed?

Yes. But not because of what he'd tried to do—elope with Lady Selina—but because of why .

If he had loved Lady Selina as he had pretended all Season, then abducting her would have still been scandalous, but not cruel. Instead, Andrew had absconded with her to get back at Chatham because he had mistakenly believed the duke was in love with Lady Selina.

The moment Andrew had been scheming toward for years—depriving his cousin of a woman he loved—had finally presented itself. And Andrew had seized the opportunity with both hands.

It turned out he'd been right about Chatham being in love, but he'd mistaken which Bellamy sister his cousin had lost his heart to.

Somewhere between sitting in the carriage with Lady Selina and listening to her disparage his character, and getting knocked unconscious—briefly—by one of Fowler's Christmas ham sized fists, Andrew had accepted what a complete and utter arsehole he was for using Lady Selina in his ongoing war against Sylvester.

Selina had done nothing but behave with kindness toward him, and Andrew had abused her trust and friendship horribly.

Why he suddenly understood that now was beyond him. Perhaps he had needed to be struck in the face repeatedly by a massive fist before coming to his senses?

In any event, Andrew was ashamed. Deeply.

But he had no intention of allowing Chatham or Fowler to see that.

"If she took our money, it is a fair bet that she left on the stage that stopped here," he said when it was obvious the other three were not finished glaring. "Have you asked any of the ostlers if she bought passage? She is not exactly easy to forget."

Fowler's scowl deepened. "I'm not a fool. That is the first thing I thought about. Unfortunately, none of them recall anything about who got on or off the stage."

"Let me guess. They were too busy watching us fight?"

Fowler's hands flexed at his sides and Andrew readied himself for another punch.

The duke turned to his friend. "Go to the next stop, Fowler. And the one after that. Keep going until you find out where she is bound."

Fowler wrenched his glare from Andrew nodded. "Aye." He hesitated and gave the duke a sheepish look. "Er, but I'll need some blunt since—"

"Yes, of course," Chatham said. He reached into his coat, pulled out his notecase, and took what looked to be half the money and handed it to his friend.

Fowler took the notes and shoved them into his pocket. "I'll send word—you'll be in London?"

The duke looked at his wife.

"I want to help look for Selina," the duchess said.

Sylvester hesitated only a few seconds before nodding at his wife and turning to Fowler. "Send any news to Chatham House. They will know how to find me."

"Aye," Fowler said, clearly eager to get on his way. But then he paused, a look of anguish on his face as he turned to the duchess. "It is my fault that she left. She didn't want me to fight. If only I had listened to her and taken her back to your aunt then—"

"Just find her, Fowler," the duchess said quietly. Her pale green eyes slid to Andrew. "We can assess blame later."

Once Fowler had gone, the duke turned to Andrew and held out his hand. "This should get you back to London."

Andrew looked at the money in his cousin's palm. "I'm going to help you look for—"

"I don't want him with us, Chatham," the duchess said.

Andrew's face heated at her scorn. "I thought the aim was to find your sister? Or is venting your spleen more important than her well-being, Your Grace ?"

"Do not speak to my wife in that tone," the duke said, taking a step toward him.

Andrew closed the gap between them, until they were chest to chest. "Do not think to hit me again, Chatham," he said, every bit as coldly as his cousin. "I will not be caught unaware a second time."

Chatham opened his mouth, but the duchess spoke first.

"You are right, Shelton. Finding Selina is the goal, and we should accept all the help we can get." She left the words even yours unspoken. "I will be in the carriage, Chatham." The duchess pivoted on her heel and headed for the door, moving too quickly for either the duke or Andrew to open it for her.

When she had gone, Chatham sighed, his shoulders slumping. "This needs to stop, Drew. How many more people need to get hurt? Enough is enough."

The duke had not used Andrew's pet name in over a decade. If he thought that would endear Andrew to him, he was sorely mistaken.

Fury crackled through him at the other man's words. "I will decide when and how much is—"

"I am sorry, Drew," the duke said quietly.

"For what?" Andrew demanded through clenched teeth.

"I am sorry about Mariah. I am sorry I was selfish and cruel. I am sorry that you both paid the price for my behavior. I am sorry I did not do the right thing all those years ago and set her free. I am sorry it has taken me so long to admit just how awful I was to you both. I am sorry for all of it. Everything. And I am even sorrier that I cannot go back and do the right thing. But I cannot, Drew. I can never fix the damage I caused. Not only to you and Mariah, but to Sarah Creighton and Lady Selina and anyone else who has been caught between us. How many more people need to get hurt?"

Andrew stared into the eyes of the man who had once been a brother, best friend, mentor, and idol to him.

The man who had married the woman Andrew loved.

And then allowed her to die in childbed.

With your child.

The quiet accusation sent a shudder through his body and Andrew's vision turned blurry.

Mariah and your son. You were the one who got her pregnant, not Sylvester. It was because of you that she was weak and sick with worry and brought to bed a month early. You are the one who killed her.

A hand landed on his shoulder and Andrew jolted at the touch. He tore himself away from grief that was old—ancient—and yet as sharp as the day the blade first cut.

He met Sylvester's anguished gaze.

"I am so sorry, Andrew, and I will never stop regretting what I did. But I don't want to spend another decade hating you. Or being hated. Is there no way we can salvage… something? You were closer to me than my own brother. We might never be able to rebuild that bond, but must we go on hating?"

The words were like the first cracks in a dam. The anger and despair behind the crumbling edifice took so much effort to keep in place.

Andrew was tired—exhausted. So bloody sick and tired that he ached from it, body, mind, and soul.

Chatham's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Andrew?" His cousin leaned closer, concern in his eyes. "Are you—"

"I am fine," he said, sounding less than convincing to his own ears. He gave a small shrug, and the duke removed his hand. He swallowed several times and then spoke before he could stop himself. "What you just said—what you admitted about M-Mariah?"

"Yes?" Chatham prodded.

"Your apology means something to me—I—Christ," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair and then wincing when he encountered a goose egg from his fight with Fowler. He cleared his throat. "I am mindful of what it took to say those words, Chatham. And—and I agree with you." Andrew was momentarily stunned by his own admission. Had those words really come out of his mouth?

He swallowed down his amazement and then said, "It will take time. Time to—" He stopped, not sure how to phrase what he meant, the enormity of this sudden shift in his world overwhelming.

"I agree," the duke said. "You will come stay with me at Chatham Park…after this?"

Andrew hesitated and then nodded. "I will come."

"Good. We will need time to repair this breech."

Again, Andrew nodded.

"We will take that time. All the time we need, Drew. But that is for later."

Andrew was almost weak with relief that the time wasn't now.

He jerked his chin toward the door the duchess had just used. "Let us go and find Lady Selina. I have some apologizing of my own to do."