Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Westmore Hall

Whitehaven

Christmas was a time of miracles, when one should be prepared for an event that defied logic and the laws of nature. Yet the handsome gentleman entering the drawing room had been summoned by the devil, not the Divine.

Gwen clasped her trembling hands in her lap and willed herself to wake from her nightmare.

She'd heard Simon Garrick was dead. Shot by marauders in the Americas or forced off the plank of a pirate ship in the Indies. Someone said his wife found him cavorting with his mistress and drove a blade through his black heart. Mrs Berridge seemed convinced he'd gambled away his fortune and downed enough port to pickle his liver.

The tales were untrue.

Because, much to the horror of the other guests, Simon Garrick had just marched to the drinks table and poured his own brandy.

Flanders tried to intervene, but Mr Garrick shooed the butler away like one would an annoying fly. He tossed back the amber liquid, hissed to cool the burn, and quickly poured himself another drink.

All the men watched and muttered between themselves, their voices tight with disapproval, yet no one dared approach him.

Why would they?

They were staring at a ghost. A mesmerising and somewhat angry ghost who looked ready to drag their poor souls to Hades.

"So, Mr Garrick isn't dead," Mrs Astley said, relaxing beside Gwen on the sofa. She patted her vibrant red hair as a pleasurable hum left her lips. "That man is like fine wine. He gets better with age. How old is he now? Thirty?"

Gwen feigned disinterest. "I'm not sure."

He would be thirty in February.

Despite every effort to ignore him, Gwen let her gaze slide southward over Mr Garrick's impressive physique. The sight had her heart thumping hard against her ribcage. Broad shoulders filled his dark blue coat. Muscular thighs filled his buckskin breeches. His skin had a golden hue, and she imagined him stripping off his clothes against the heat of a tropical sun.

Five years had passed, yet she remembered everything.

The arousing smell of his cedarwood cologne.

The honey highlights in his sandy-brown hair.

Eyes as blue as a Mediterranean sea.

Lips that had devoured hers in a kiss that left her body aching. A kiss that ruined her for any other man.

"Did his father not own the neighbouring estate?" came Mrs Astley's curious question. Everyone knew the widow wanted a new gentleman to warm her bed, and had come to Westmore under the guise of playing chaperone to her sister Miss Netherwell.

"Whitney Grange is a short walk from here." Memories flashed into Gwen's mind. The secret picnic with Mr Garrick in the woods bordering his property. His hand moving gently between her thighs. "The house has been empty since his father died last year."

Mr Garrick had not returned for the funeral.

Confirming the claim he was dead.

Gwen looked up from her lap to meet Mr Garrick's intense stare. The power of it stole past her defences, sending her pulse skittering.

He studied her over the rim of his glass, disdain marring his fine features, yet he was the one who had kissed her passionately and left England hours later without uttering a word.

Struggling beneath the weight of his observations, Gwen stood. Her legs wobbled as if the boards beneath her feet were made of quicksand. Mr Garrick's arrival had shaken her very foundations.

She needed air.

She needed space.

And she needed answers.

Keeping the drawing room door in her sights, she put one unsteady foot in front of the other and crossed the room.

Don't look at him.

Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing you're ruffled.

She walked past him, the force of his magnetic pull thrumming in the air between them. Simon Garrick made her feel alive. Just being in his presence did strange things to her insides.

"Gwendolyn," he whispered in the low, husky voice she often heard in her dreams.

Gwendolyn.

An exceptional woman needs an exceptional name.

But she didn't stop to acknowledge the man who had hurt her so cruelly. Words could not mend a broken heart. Excuses could not erase the five years spent lost and alone in utter confusion.

With a renewed sense of purpose, she strode across the hall to her brother's study. The door was ajar, and she knocked before marching inside and closing it behind her.

Oliver sat perched on the edge of the desk, rubbing his jaw as if the action might atone for the fact he'd welcomed Lucifer into their home.

"Did you know Mr Garrick had returned to Whitehaven?" Blood charged through her veins but she fought to maintain a calm tone.

"No. He was the last person I expected to see when Flanders called me to the door. Garrick is in Whitehaven on business. The heavy snowfall means he's stranded." Oliver gritted his teeth. "He's to stay here until the roads are passable."

"Stay here?" Sleep mere feet from her bedchamber? "But Whitney Grange is a ten-minute walk. Why can't he stay there?" Because he was leaving again and planned to ruin Gwen's life for another five years.

"The house has been empty since his father died. There are no servants, no provisions. How could I refuse him?"

"Is that why you're so agitated?"

"I'm not agitated."

Gwen grinned. "You're nibbling your nails. You only nibble your nails when there's a problem."

"I'm not nibbling my nails." Oliver motioned to the door. "I wanted things to go smoothly, and Garrick is too uncouth for my liking. He's bound to rile the guests."

There was nothing uncouth about Simon Garrick.

Yes, he took what he wanted without compunction. He dominated a room, made every other man seem weak and insignificant. And he did it all with an air of grace and sophistication.

"I hoped you'd choose a husband this week." Oliver spoke as if she were baggage he needed to offload. "You said you would consider all the eligible men I've invited."

Gwen pursed her lips to stifle a sigh.

Lord Bancroft was ten years her senior and a frightful bore. Mr Payne was obnoxious. Sir Robert Harris possessed an affable countenance and fell over himself to shower her with compliments.

None of them looked at her like Simon Garrick had. Like they wanted to devour every inch of her naked flesh. Like they could hear the sweet callings of her soul.

"I agreed to spend a week in their company, Oliver, nothing more." The thought of marrying anyone filled her with dread. She should leave tonight, take the stage to the nearest convent and take a vow of chastity. "Do not force the issue."

He brushed a hand through his mop of black hair. "You're five and twenty, Gwen. You cannot afford to wait any longer." Feeling a little guilty for his blunt manner, Oliver stepped forward and captured her hand. "You're beautiful and charming. I don't want you to waste away waiting for Mr Perfection to walk through the door and offer his hand."

She closed her eyes briefly against an image of the handsome Mr Garrick. "I don't seek perfection. I just want someone to love me. Someone I can love in return." Someone who made her forget about perfect kisses and broken promises.

Oliver snorted. "Our kind cannot afford to wait for love, Gwen. Besides, love is nothing more than infatuation. Such emotions fade with time."

And yet, five years felt as little as five seconds. The sad reality was little had changed for Gwen during that time.

A sudden knock on the door brought light relief.

Flanders entered, his bushy grey brows drawn in consternation. "Forgive me, my lord, but Mr Garrick is demanding someone show him to his room. He's tired after the long journey and finds the insufferable fools in the drawing room tedious company."

Gwen suppressed a gasp.

The gentleman had the cheek of the devil.

Was he not grateful for their hospitality?

Oliver muttered something foul under his breath. "Tell Garrick I'll be along in a moment. I'm sure he can bear them for a few minutes more. If all else fails, give the man brandy."

Flanders gave a discreet cough. "I believe he has downed three glasses in as many minutes, my lord."

"Good. Hopefully, the reprobate will be so sotted he'll leave and freeze to death in the snow. I find myself thankful for the plummeting temperatures."

Gwen blinked in disbelief. Oliver rarely lost his temper. But why permit Mr Garrick to stay? Why not throw him out? And what made Mr Garrick think he could ride roughshod over a viscount?

"I'll tell Mr Garrick we have no rooms available," Gwen said, though she would need every ounce of courage she possessed to face him.

"No!" Oliver recovered quickly from his sudden outburst and straightened his coat. "I'll deal with him. I'll not see you upset. Not when you had every hope of making a match this week."

There was more chance of her marrying Flanders than any of the insipid men warming themselves in the drawing room.

"Why would I be upset? Mr Garrick means nothing to me."

Oliver clearly doubted her word and reeled off reasons why he should deal with the problem. "Wait here until the coast is clear. Flanders will fetch you once Garrick has retired to his chamber."

A flush warmed her cheeks.

Did Oliver know of the intimate picnic? He knew she had developed some affection for Mr Garrick, knew his absence had left her heartsick for months. But five years had passed. Why was he so anxious?

"I'm not afraid of Mr Garrick," she said, striding from the study. Oliver called to her, but she ignored his irrational plea and returned to the drawing room.

Mr Garrick stood alone, his arms folded over his broad chest as he stared at her portrait. If he felt an ounce of remorse for mistreating her, it was not apparent. He was so lost in a dreamlike state he failed to notice her approach.

"Mr Garrick." Gwen fought to keep the tremble from her voice. Being so close opened a Pandora's box, the sudden plague of unwanted feelings leaving her lightheaded. "Might we speak privately?"

The man's magnificent blue gaze moved slowly from the painting to her person. It did not come to rest on her lips—he used to stare at her mouth like a parched man in need of sustenance. "Where do you suggest we go? Not the orangery, or the woods, or the stables?"

Images of every kiss they'd shared filtered through her mind. Mr Garrick meant to provoke her temper, yet he left her awash with confusion. What had she done to deserve his censure?

"I thought the hall."

"The hall?" he scoffed as if offended.

Deciding the matter called for directness, Gwen lowered her voice. "We have no rooms available. You cannot stay here."

His heavy sigh breezed over her. It took effort not to breathe deeply and inhale the essence of the man she had never forgotten.

"The matter is not open for negotiation. Send one of your admirers away. I'm staying here, Gwendolyn, and you have no choice but to suffer my company."

Heaven help her! When had he become so insufferable? Worse still, why did she experience a delightful shiver at the sound of her given name?

Sensing something was amiss, the ever-obnoxious Mr Payne approached. He'd barely opened his mouth before Mr Garrick growled, "Bugger off, Payne, before I shove my fist down your throat."

"Now listen here, Garrick. The ladies?—"

"Step away. I'll not warn you again."

Oliver appeared. "That's enough, Garrick. Flanders will show you to your room. I pray you're in a more congenial mood tomorrow. We're here to celebrate the festive season, not squabble amongst ourselves."

If anyone should berate the man, it was Gwen.

She deserved answers—a detailed explanation as to why he had promised her the world, only to disappear as quickly as smoke up the chimney.

Yet, despite everything, her heart softened. The need to defend him against a barrage of criticism forced her to say, "I'm sure Mr Garrick is merely tired after his long journey."

The gentleman met her gaze, the power of it throwing her off kilter. "As you say, Miss Caldwell, I wouldn't want the guests to mistake my intention. All warfare begins with deception."

And after that cryptic comment, he left.

While Oliver agreed to join Mr Payne in a game of cards, and made light of the incident to calm the guests, Gwen stared at the door.

Mrs Astley approached and thrust a glass of sherry into Gwen's hand. "Good Lord. There's nothing more appealing to a woman than a dangerous man. Mr Garrick's disregard for propriety has left me all hot and flustered."

Gwen could not disagree. Her body glowed. Her heart had not thundered in her chest since Mr Garrick laid her down on the picnic blanket and touched her intimately.

But these ripples of lust were the least of her worries.

A troubling emotion took precedence. Despite a five-year separation, she feared she was still in love with Simon Garrick.