1. Chapter One

March, 1882

Blythe swung into the small alcove, hugged her arms across her chest, and flattened her back against the wall. The flocked wallpaper hushed against her velvet gown as she slid to the floor. Her skirts billowed, and their slightly worn hems fluttered as air escaped from their volume. She crunched into a ball, sitting unevenly on the bustle padding, ignoring the awkward compression of her petticoats.

What had she done?

Forcing a slow breath, Blythe held it until her lungs protested, then released with a slow exhalation. Strings, tinkling glasses, laughter and merriment echoed in the distance as the first night of the house party swung into life. She grasped the corner of the alcove to steady her balance, then peeped out into the hallway. The soft light from the sconces cast timid yellow spots of light, but apart from the glowering portraits that stared haughtily across at one another, she was alone. Relief flooded her, and she slumped back against the wall, pressing her head against its hardness as she pinched her eyes tight.

Why wouldn't he leave her alone? How many times did she have to say no?

Carlson's insistent offer rang in her ears. Little wonder, given how loud he had been. Likely soused, it was a miracle the entire room hadn't heard. His wife, thankfully, had taken herself off to cards and had not been present to witness his bleary eyed fascination with her breasts.

‘I'll look after you. Both of you,' he had said, before dragging his gaze to hers. ‘I'm a good protector. Just ask Florence.' Then he hiccoughed, and in a rush, added, ‘No, don't ask Florence. She might not like that.' He grasped her hand. ‘Meet me on the balcony.' His whiskey-soaked breath roiled her stomach. ‘In twenty minutes. I'll show you how good it might be.'

A shiver ran through her, like her body was expulsing his touch. But still, she could not shake the fear that she had made the wrong choice.

It was a good offer, especially for a young woman like herself. With no family to support her, and no dowry to tempt even the humblest of men, she'd already prepared herself for a life alone, reliant on no-one. Carlson had said he would provide accommodations, an allowance, even a servant. But then, he laid down his conditions.

You will not work. What type of man allows his mistress to work?

And what had she done? She had spun a lie, and then, she had run.

‘Blythe? Is something wrong? Has someone upset you?'

She kept her eyes pinched shut, as if not looking might make her situation less real. Of all people, why him? Why now? ‘I am well, your lordship. Just taking some air.'

‘How many times do I have to say, call me Julian. You are Yvette's dearest friend. I want you to feel comfortable here.'

Blythe prised her eyes open just in time to watch Julian Ashford, Baron Moncrief, lower himself to the floor beside her. Immaculately dressed in a grey pin stripe suit with a black cravat, he looked every inch the lord of the manor. After all, he was the host of a house party weekend to celebrate his daughter's twenty-first birthday. Why wouldn't he appear as absolute perfection? His dark hair, flecked with grey, had been ruffled, and Blythe had to dig her nails into her palm to resist an urge to neaten it. Only his eyes spoke of an uneasiness within him. The most vivid cobalt blue, their slight downcast corners hinted at the anguish Yvette said he still carried for her mother, even after more than a decade. Not that she'd needed it pointed out to her. Blythe understood it because she saw it in her own reflection every day.

He made a hesitant reach for her, then clenched his hand into a fist and pulled back. ‘Why are you hiding?'

Blythe flicked her fingernails against one another, before quietening her agitation in her lap. ‘I am avoiding Lord Carlson. He keeps propositioning me.'

‘Son of a—' He put his palm on his knee and made to push himself to standing, but Blythe caught him by the wrist and pulled him down.

‘Please don't confront him, it will only make things worse. I'm accustomed to it, really. He isn't the first toff to try and tempt me.'

Almost every restoration she had helped her uncle with had involved some kind of suggestion of extra services, and Blythe had become adept at treading the fine line between professionalism and rejection. She moved through a man's world, and side-stepping men like Carlson while maintaining her position and their dignity was the tightrope she balanced in order to have her work.

Julian tilted his head in question. She still had hold of his wrist, and ever so delicately, he flicked his grasp to instead stroke her palm. The gentle comfort loosened the worried knot in her chest, and finding patience in his expression, she steeled herself to continue.

‘Carlson wants me to be his lover,' she confessed. ‘And I am a fool to reject him. He says he'll look after me, put me up in a house. It's a good offer, especially for someone like me. But he wants too much. He says I will not be able to work.'

‘Carlson is a cad, and you are right to refuse him. Are you sure you don't want me to wallop him?' He pinched her fingers with a light playfulness as his lips curled into a half smile. ‘I would enjoy it.'

‘No, heavens, no,' she said, allowing herself to laugh a little. She hadn't expected the extent of his outrage. She'd only been here three days, but so quickly she'd fallen into comfort with Yvette's father. ‘But I do have a confession to make. To try and deter him, I said that I was your…' She took a breath, and it stuck in her chest. ‘That I was your mistress.'

‘Mistress?' He looked at her with curiosity, his expression incredulous, before he gave a low chuckle. ‘Most women would invent a fake fiancé. Not a protector.'

‘He is too well connected to make such a statement. If the directors at the gallery hear that I am engaged, I will need to give up my position before I have even started. I've tried to tell him no, but it only seems to make him more determined. He won't listen to a woman's wishes, but he will keep his distance from another man's…' Blythe swallowed hard as the word lodged in her throat. ‘From another man's property.'

‘That does sound like him,' Julian muttered. ‘He not long married his mistress, less than a year after his poor wife's death. Which in his mind, creates a vacancy.'

‘It is only for a few days, then I am for London, to take up my position. I just want to celebrate with Yvette. She's been such a good friend.'

‘Yvette said you were extraordinary. You've been a support to her. An inspiration, even, as she tries to figure out who she is. She's become more comfortable in her own skin since she's known you.' His jaw stayed tense, while uncertainty wavered in his eyes. Then he raked her with his gaze, a hesitant flick followed by a glint of light stained with something else, and before she could decipher it, it had died, and his grey cast returned. He gave an exasperated huff. ‘Fine. If Carlson asks, I'll tell him you're my mistress.'

Blythe bit her lip. ‘It's not so simple. I'm… I'm not sure he believed me. In fact, he laughed and said he'd thought you'd forgotten…' Her cheeks burned as she clutched her skirt. ‘He said he thought you'd forgotten how to use… it.'

‘It?'

‘Your…' Was he going to make her say it? ‘Your…'

‘I know what you mean,' he snapped, but she could tell by his tone, his ire was not directed at her. ‘Crude arse.'

‘I think it might help convince him if he saw us sneaking around. Isn't that what happens at these parties? Trysts and liaisons?'

‘How can you be sure we'll be seen by him? What if someone else sees us? It would damage your reputation. And mine.'

‘Which is why we have to be careful. We can only be spotted by him. Thankfully, I know where he'll be. And I think we've got just enough time to get there.'

It had been over twenty years since Julian had snuck into the garden to meet a woman for a private rendezvous, and despite his reluctance, as he wove his way between the knotted roots and ducked to escape a willow's trailing vines, he couldn't deny the delicious flush of excitement that shivered inside him.

But it wasn't because he was headed to a lover's tryst; it was a ‘put that arse Carlson in his place' tryst. The man was entirely too cocky, and flaunted his position, and moved on from his wife's death with all the subtlety of a peacock flaunting his feathers.

Away from the rock lined gravel paths and hidden by the fresh spring foliage, Blythe pulled aside a veil of leaves and peered up. Above, the lights from the ballroom spilled onto the lawn, casting sharp shadows over the grass.

‘He told me to meet him on the balcony. Said he'd give me a sample of his protection.' She shuddered.

Julian smothered an urge to find the man who had made her feel so uncomfortable and pulverise his teeth into grains of sand. Instead, he exhaled between his lips. Knocking Carlson's ego to the floor while helping Blythe would be far more satisfactory than any blow he could wield with his fists.

‘We should look as if we are… entangled.' Blythe hesitated, then reached for him. Even through his coat, he felt the warm rush of her hands as they slid around his shoulders to intertwine around his neck. ‘If he sees us like this, do you think he'll be convinced?'

‘He should see you first.' Julian clasped her waist and swung her so that her back was to the balcony, his palms pressing into the firm curve of her hips.

She laughed, like she did when they played cards, or on her first night when they'd met over dinner, and he'd been enraptured by her stories about her work with her uncle. ‘He will not recognise the back of my head. He needs to see my face.' And she gripped his shoulders and spun him in a half-circle. The glittering lights from above danced in her eyes, and a slash of light between the leaves caught the turned-up corner of her mouth. Such a pretty mouth, with little brackets at the edges and a kiss of a dimple on her left cheek.

‘I will obscure you. I am a dark-haired gent with a valet. My hair is neat and close cut. More than half the men here fit my description. No other lady has golden hair as beautiful as yours. He will recognise you instantly.' And he spun her, casting her face into the shadow.

‘Yours is not completely dark. You have a little silver through the coal.' She brushed her fingers across his forehead. ‘But only a little.'

‘Shhh.' Julian caught the shift of a form across the balcony. ‘I think he's stepped outside.'

Carlson's swaggering shadow came first, casting arrogant splotches that stretched down the side of the house and spread across the lawn. He inhaled a cigar, puffed out his chest, then wheezed out the smoke, slightly coughing at the end of his exhalation.

‘Is it him?' Blythe asked. Her entire body had gone tense under his fingers.

‘It's him. He's watching the ballroom. Now he's scanning the trees. He's seen me. I think he recognises me. I think…'

Julian dipped his head as his palm cupped Blythe's head and drew her closer. Less than an inch from her lips, he paused. ‘Yvette did not tell me you had a position.' Her hair curled between his fingers, each silken strand a caress against his skin.

She looked up at him, slightly closing the gap between their mouths. ‘I only received the letter yesterday. I can scarce believe it. For so many years, it's all I've wanted. I loved working with my uncle, but when he passed, everything went to a second cousin. I was not even allowed to take the client register. I barely left with my toolkit. But now, I can do the unimaginable. I will make magnificent artists live forever. Give them eternal life.'

‘Eternal life? I thought you restored paintings. Have they let women become priests?'

Her chuckle, light and earthy, tickled his skin. ‘Not at all. And while it is a calling that at times feels divine, it is, in reality, far more practical. Restoring paintings, removing the dust and grime, replacing the lacquer, stretching the canvas, or reapplying gilt to frames, it seems so small but it's so important. I will not usher anyone into the afterlife. I will keep death at bay.'

‘That is a gift. It sounds like magic.' Julian had never bothered to hire a conservator for the family collection, and he felt an unwelcome flurry of remorse at the realisation. He had banished so many of the artworks to obscurity, like his memories, and his happiness. Only his pain he had kept close.

‘It's really only cleaning,' she said, slightly dipping her face so that her forehead glanced his lips.

Julian checked the balcony. Carlson, gripping the marble balustrade, tipped forward in inquiry. Blythe watched Julian intently, likely reading him for signs of success or failure. All her earlier worry had left her, and she seemed to share his excitement at the clandestine nature of their deception. Close, he noticed the slightest of gaps between her front teeth. Adorable. Her hair had been piled into some ornate style, likely by Yvette's maid, and a few curls had bucked themselves free of restraint. Julian slid his thumb over her hips and found a slight wear in the velvet, and with a sink, he wondered how much of her meagre funds she had spent on a wardrobe for the weekend. Despite her well-worn clothes, she emanated the most magnetic radiance and energy, and he saw what Carlson wanted to possess. A young woman full of life, determination and resilience, she was the sort of person that drew others to her orbit simply through her captivation with the world, and the way she helped them to see the everyday as beauteous, as if they had not seen it before.

‘Do you think he's convinced?' she asked, and the breath of her whisper skated over his lips. And before logic could intrude, he said, ‘No, I don't,' and closed the space between them.

She tasted of champagne and plump raspberries. She didn't respond to him, just stayed stiff in his arms. For a stumbled heartbeat he regretted his impulse, but then her lips parted, and she cupped the back of his neck and squeezed as her body arched into his.

He twisted their posture a little, and flicked his gaze to the balcony, and with immense satisfaction saw Carlson's wide-eyed astonishment, then his retreating back. They were alone. They should stop. But instead, he licked the seam of her lips. His tongue a question, he teased at her, and when she opened her mouth, he lost all sense of reality and restriction and instead allowed himself to be consumed by her heavenly taste.

A slight gasp escaped from Blythe as they separated. She kept her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Julian repressed a brutish thought to grip her chin and claim her mouth again, this time harder and more passionately.

Blinking fast, she opened her eyes, as a mix of shock and fear circled in their jade depths. But also, he recognised what had confused him earlier. Want and wretched, gaping need. While it was only there for a flash, he knew it completely because he felt it writhing to life within his own body, a dormant beast that had been asleep for too long, and now lolled itself upright and realised that it wanted to eat very, very badly.

Not just eat.

Feast.

‘Have we fooled him?' she asked, the words coming out in a slight pant.

‘If that didn't persuade him, then nothing will.' He released her and stepped back. His coat caught on a tree branch. Julian swivelled, trying to catch the offending twig, but then another low hanging limb glanced his face, narrowly missing his nose. ‘Blast it,' he muttered. ‘I should return to my… to my…'

Blythe caught his arm. She walked her fingers along his chest, to the edge of his coat, then slipped them between his, working lightly at the caught folds of fabric. ‘To your guests?'

‘Yes. I am a host. I should see to them. You should…'

‘Rest. I think I would like to retire.' As she spoke, the branch sprung free. Blythe looked up at him, then quickly away. The slightly shifting leaves cast haphazard patterns over her, and little prisms of moonlight momentarily highlighted different features. The soft hollow where her jaw and earlobe met. The small bump of her chin. The shadow cast by her lashes. Her plump bottom lip. The turmoil in her eyes.

‘Let me escort you. There are always leachers in the gardens at these things, looking to pounce on unsuspecting…' He spun on his heel, his shoe sinking into the soil and making him wobble, before he steadied himself on a trunk and plunged through the shrubbery, toward the house. They walked in silence until they reached the side door. Julian opened it just wide enough for her to slip through. She kept her head bowed, focusing on the floor. ‘I will take a different door. To avoid suspicion,' he said.

Just before she disappeared from view behind the wood panelling, she caught his hand. ‘Thank you, Julian.' She looked up to him, and he was sure he saw a playful glint in her eyes. ‘For being my fake protector.'