Chapter One

1818: Ten years later

Catherine turned over in bed and stared at the window. The snow was still coming down, just as it had been yesterday, when they had found shelter at the White Rose Inn. She had been returning from a visit to London to see her mother and sisters and should be home by now at Winstanton Castle. Instead, she was a prisoner of the weather, and her feelings about that were ambivalent.

On the one hand, she was longing to see her son, Jack, who was five years old. He was waiting for her at the castle and there was no one in the world she loved more than Jack. On the other hand, the weather had given her a brief reprieve from a life she had grown to hate. Winstanton had been her home for the past ten years, but it had never really felt like her home, and being away for even a brief time had reminded her just how true that was.

The Winstanton Estate was mostly moor and crags, the castle a grim piece of architecture from the 1600s. Built to keep the Scots out and the family in, as her late husband, the Duke of Winstanton, used to say. She had hated it from the moment she’d set eyes on it. And even now that she was the Dowager Duchess of Winstanton she could never leave that depressing place, because her late husband had written a specific clause into his will stating that if she did leave to make a happier life elsewhere, then she could not take Jack, his only heir, with her.

My estate and monies go to my son, Alfred Algernon Jonathon, in the guardianship of my sister Ellinor. He will live at Winstanton until he turns twenty-one, when he will assume control of said estate and monies. My wife, Catherine, may remain at Winstanton with my son, but only if she continues in a single state. If she remarries, then she must leave. Furthermore, if she makes her home away from Winstanton, she can neither take my son with her nor can he visit her. In short, Catherine cannot remove my son from Winstanton. If she ignores my wishes, then my son will no longer inherit my estate and monies, which will be given over to the British Museum.

It had been a terrible shock when Catherine was informed of the late duke’s stipulations regarding her future. The marriage had not been a happy one, but she had tried to be a good wife to him. She’d helped Ellinor run his household and had seen to his care as he’d grown more feeble. Had that counted for nothing? He still could not let go of her, keeping her his prisoner even after death.

Ellinor had not been surprised. The duke’s sister had lived her whole life at Winstanton, so she expected the same of Jack and Catherine. She was some twenty years younger than her brother, and a quiet mouse of a woman, intent upon obeying her dead brother’s wishes to the letter. Catherine would get no support from her if she tried to rebel against the will.

Tired of her depressing thoughts, Catherine pushed aside the covers and sat up. The floor beside the bed was cold and her toes felt like ice. She shivered as she slipped her feet into her slippers. Where was Maggie, her maid? Probably chatting with the inn’s groom—the two of them seemed to hit it off when they arrived last night, and Maggie was an unrepentant flirt. Catherine didn’t mind. Maggie might have her faults, but she was full of the joy of life and lifted Catherine’s spirits whenever she was down in the dumps.

And Catherine could forgive her anything when she remembered first arriving at the castle, feeling frightened and alone, only to be greeted by Maggie’s warm, compassionate smile. It had been like a balm to her aching heart.

“Never you mind,” Maggie had crooned as Catherine lay sobbing after the duke had paid another visit to her bedchamber. “It won’t always be like this. One day you’ll find a man to make your heart sing.”

Catherine had yet to find that man. Her ten years of marriage had definitely not been the stuff of romance novels. And now she was a widow at nine and twenty years, alone with her young son in their icy fortress, and uncertain how she was ever going to escape. During her visit to London, her mother had talked of Catherine making another marriage. Adding another glittering coronet to the one she already had.

“Pooh! What matters it if you lose Winstanton?” she had said. “There are plenty of other prospects, and you are still beautiful. And Jack will thank you for helping him to escape that awful place.”

But would he? As Ellinor had pointed out to her when the will was read and Catherine had protested, Jack would still be a duke, but the title would be an empty one. And what would he think as he grew older and understood what his mother’s selfish actions had stolen from him? His birthright, a fortune, and a castle. Catherine doubted he would thank her, and how could she be happy if Jack hated her?

But it was pointless trying to explain that to Ellen Mallory. She only believed what she wanted to and thought that Catherine’s happiness had been a fair trade for a coronet. But the truth was that one miserable marriage was enough. As bleak as Winstanton was, Catherine would prefer to live in that castle in the north rather than alienate her son for the sake of some man who may be no better than her late husband.

With a huff of impatience—why was she wallowing in yet more dismaying thoughts?—she reached for her fur-lined cloak and wrapped it over her nightgown. She needed to find flirtatious Maggie, and then partake of breakfast. Perhaps if the road wasn’t as bad as it had been yesterday—impassable the innkeeper had called it last night—Catherine might still be able to complete her journey. It was only another two days to Winstanton, or probably three when one considered their antiquated coach.

The stairs creaked as she descended. She could smell wood fires and food cooking, both adding to the stuffy, smoky atmosphere. There was a murmur of voices toward the back of the inn, and she hesitated in the passage at the bottom of the staircase, wondering if she should just go back to her room and wait. The duke had often accused her of behaving thoughtlessly. But why, a year after he had died, was she still listening to his reproving voice in her head?

Her gaze went to the front door. It was closed, though she could see the bolt had been drawn back. What she needed was a lungful of crisp, cold air. Catherine hurried to the door.

It was solid and heavy-looking, and she had expected to have difficulty in opening it, but instead it swung open so easily on its oiled hinges that she was forced to step back.

Just as someone pushed through from the outside in a flurry of snow-dusted clothing and collided with her.

Strong arms wrapped around her to save her from falling, and she had the impression of a tall, muscular body. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders and puddled onto the floor. He must have taken off his gloves, because his hands felt warm on her skin through her thin nightgown. One of them was pressed into her upper back, and the other closed on her bottom, curving about one soft, rounded cheek.

Catherine gave a squeak of surprise. Briefly her face was squished against the rough wool of his coat, and her senses reeled from the scents of warm male and citrus pomade. Her hands flew to his chest, as she tried to push herself away, but lingered instead on a body comprised of flesh and hard muscle.

They were only in the doorway together for a moment, though it felt much longer. When she finally wrestled herself free of his supporting hands, her hair had come loose from its braid, and the straps on her nightgown had slipped, so that the tip of one breast was peeking over the neckline. She quickly righted herself, but he must have seen as he stooped to collect her cloak.

“There,” he said in a deep voice, unexpectedly warm with humor, as he wrapped it securely about her shoulders. “Now you are respectable again.”

Breathlessly, she looked up at the assailant.

Before her stood a tall gentleman in a many-caped coat, shoulders dusted with snow and hair so fair it was almost white. Appreciative pale blue eyes stared down upon her, fire from their encounter lingering in their depths. His face was strong and handsome, with a chiselled jaw and a bold, straight nose, while amusement twitched at the corners of a generous mouth.

And she knew him!

Shockingly, it was a face she recognized despite the years. He was older, and there were lines at the corners of his eyes, but he was in essence the same man. As if to put the matter beyond doubt, those long-ago words echoed in her head.

You could always run away with me.

The man in front of her smiled, and she wagered his lips would be as soft as they looked if she pressed her own to them. Before he devoured her. And he looked like he wanted to devour her right now.

“Apologies for manhandling you, madam. Are you harmed?”

He did not recognize her. Why was that so painful? Catherine managed a shake of her head, as with trembling hands she pulled her cloak even closer. His blue eyes slid over her in that same brash way she remembered, and her skin prickled. She was very aware of her nakedness beneath the nightdress. His hands on her body had left an imprint—the squeeze of her buttock, the press of her face to his chest.

“Is the road clear yet?” she asked, her voice oddly breathless.

He was watching her as he brushed snow from his shoulders and stamped it from his boots. “Unfortunately not. I was hoping for a room to wait out the worst of the weather.”

No, he didn’t recognize her. Why should he? Just because Viscount Albury inhabited her dreams, that did not mean he ever thought of her. As her husband had pointed out to her all those years ago, Albury was a rake, a gentleman with many conquests to his name. Why should he remember their brief conversation just because she did?

She looked up again to find that now he was frowning at her in a puzzled way. He opened his mouth but before he could say whatever he meant to say, heavy footsteps approached from the passage behind her, and the innkeeper’s hearty voice boomed out. “Welcome, welcome, good sir! Welcome to The White Rose.”

Albury caught Catherine’s eye with a lift of his eyebrows and an amused quirk to his lips, before stepping past her.

It was a relief to have his attention turned elsewhere, but Catherine’s head was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, and she needed to be alone to sort through them. As the two men spoke, she slipped through the front door, closing it behind her. There was a smart equipage sitting in the yard, a far more modern coach than her own, and one of the stable boys was holding the heads of the steaming horses.

Her body still tingled from contact with his. She had always known Viscount Albury was the sort of man who made sensible women behave in ways that were anything but sensible. Why else, after one meeting, had Catherine never forgotten him? She shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. Catherine had long dreamed of a man like him, one who knew how to give a woman pleasure. An expert in quenching a thirst for passion.

Ten years of longing welled up inside her and she stumbled to a halt, her hand clenched in her cloak, the cold air stinging her throat as she tried to breathe. She felt overwhelmed. The stables were to her left, the doors were open, and she could hear Maggie’s laughter, but she stayed put.

Meeting Albury here, again, after all this time, seemed... miraculous. Like a wish come true. She knew the road to the north would eventually open and she would go on her way, and so would he. They may be neighbors, but they would never meet again. She would stay in her castle, and he would return to London. But right now, right this moment, they were here. Together.

She had yearned for someone with whom to share her bed. A man who could show her all that she had been missing. And her dream man had always worn Albury’s face from that long ago evening in London. She hadn’t expected him to look the same, and he didn’t. He was older with a certain world-weary air about him. But instead of that dissuading her, it only increased her desire for him.

Catherine made a sound between a laugh and a sob and covered her mouth with her hands. For ten years she had been waiting for a moment like this, and now it was here.