Chapter Two

Honoria had practiced the art of fainting countless times.

To deliquesce with the perfect blend of grace and drama, there was a proper way to arrange one's limbs to minimize injury.

Bruising was inevitable, but one must suffer for one's art, after all.

And yet, as she let her bones fall slack and sank to the floor, she never felt herself hit.

Instead, she was gathered up into someone's arms. His arms, to be precise. There was no mistaking that strong, secure hold. No mistaking that evocative scent that transported

her to a single night in Paris in one heady rush. And no mistaking the moths.

Those pesky little insects were back.

She'd tried to keep them dormant, locked in a jar... but they suddenly took flight.

A frustrated sound rumbled in her throat.

She heard a low chuckle in response before he murmured in her ear. "Did you miss me, Signore? Is that why you were longing

to be in my arms again?"

At once, her eyes flew open. Then she shut them abruptly before anyone else saw through her pretense.

But the glimpse was long enough for her to catch the smirk on his mouth and for her to realize that she'd been wrong about one thing in Paris.

Flint's eyes weren't dark. They were a shade somewhere between ethereal blue and slate gray. The color of the sky as a storm approached. She wondered what tempest he was about to unleash into her life.

A shiver of foreboding snaked down her spine.

Roxana Hartley fretted and fussed, directing the stranger to carry her poor, overwrought child into the morning room. But

Honoria had little doubt that Mother was up to something. After all, she'd taught her daughters everything she knew about

commanding a stage.

"Just lay her down here, on the sofa, my lord. And Mr. Mosely, would you send to the kitchens for a ewer of fresh water? I'm

afraid that a fly has fallen into this one. Thea, fetch your sister's favorite pillow. We want her to be comfortable. And

Olympia, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, would you accompany me while I search for a vial of smelling salts?"

"I believe I have a vinaigrette in my reticu—" Lady Broadbent broke off when Mother cleared her throat. Then, with an amateurish

exclamation, she continued on haltingly. "Oh... dear. It seems I was mistaken. Such a pity."

Inwardly, Honoria rolled her eyes.

Flint lowered her body effortlessly onto the gold damask cushions. She paid no attention to how weightless she felt in the

sturdy strength of his arms. None whatsoever. Nor did she acknowledge that her every inhale was filled with amber, sandalwood

and him .

She had far more important matters on her mind at present... like how to be rid of him.

"My lord, we'll be back in a snippet for a more proper introduction after her recovery," Mother said an instant before the

graceful, unhurried patter of her retreating footsteps echoed along the corridor.

And just like that, they were alone.

"Damn," Flint muttered under his breath, sliding his arms out from beneath her. And she did not, absolutely not, miss his

warmth. "I was afraid of this."

Honoria's eyes flew open to see him standing over her, his dark brows furrowing into a scowl. Which was not the typical reaction she received from men. "Of what?"

"That you weren't lying about all of"—he gestured with an irritated sweep of his hand from her forehead to feet—"this."

Understanding at once, her lips curved in a self-satisfied grin. "Told you I was pretty."

She rose sinuously and stood before him. A surge of feminine power tingled beneath her skin when she saw a flare of male appreciation

in those eyes as she adjusted the fall of her dress, smoothing her hands down the trim waist of the apricot chintz and over

her hips. Take that, Mr. Flint.

A muscle jumped in his cheek. Then he abruptly turned on his heel and stalked away from her, crossing the brightly lit room

to stand in the angular shadow beside the parted drapes.

"Why couldn't those mustachios have been yours? And why weren't they hiding a hairy mole the shape of Australia? It really

isn't fair otherwise," he said as if to himself as he stared toward the garden, his profile etched in stone.

She narrowed her eyes. "What isn't fair ?"

"I don't want to be distracted by you again. Your little adventure into the world of highfliers cost me more than two thousand

pounds. In fact, I barely escaped Paris with my head."

"You can hardly blame me for the fact that someone wants to be rid of a man like you. I should think that would be a daily

occurrence."

He cast a glare over his shoulder. "I may be a gambler, but I pay my debts. Until you, that is. Ever since I had the great

misfortune of meeting you, my luck has apparently run out. So I'm here to take back what's mine."

Honoria suddenly understood why he'd arrived on her doorstep. Unfortunately, the knowledge did nothing to ease her disquiet.

"How did you find me?"

"An old friend. The same one who saved my neck." His hand reached up to smooth the folds of his cravat in an absent gesture

as he turned away from the window and began toward her again. "When I let it slip that a woman swindled me out of a fortune—"

" Swindled ," she scoffed.

"—he naturally wanted to know how such a thing was possible. So after sharing a few pints, I told him."

"You told him?" She blanched, wondering how many people had heard of the woman who pretended to be Signor Cesario. There were bank

accounts in his name. Properties. Her entire future. The discovery of her alter ego would ruin everything.

"Not everything," he said. "After all, I firmly believe that some secrets are sacred and should only be revealed when it's

of the best advantage to me."

"Be still my heart. You're a veritable prince charming."

He flashed a grin at her withering glance. " Viscount , if you'll recall."

"But we both know you are not."

"Do we? Strange, but after relaying a portion of your tale, my friend took it upon himself to look into this Vandemere fellow.

Since you and my friend are part of the same society, he had heard mention of the name. Though, he was surprised to have never

met him. Then he discovered some rather interesting information."

Honoria kept her expression impassive. She would not reveal her cards. Not to him.

"Apparently," Flint continued, "there are many tales of the world-traveling adventurer, painting Vandemere as a heroic figure of mythical proportion. If this saint isn't plagued by the need to aid the downtrodden, he is inescapably driven to conquer the next mountain. Due to these circumstances beyond his control, his trek homeward has been delayed, leaving his faithful betrothed forever waiting." He arched a sardonic brow. "In the meantime, he writes letters to her. They've passed through different port cities over the past four years. And yet, no one seems to recall ever meeting Vandemere. Though, by a strange coincidence, there happened to have been a certain merchant sailor—a man by the name of Hawk Hartley—who was in those very ports at the same time."

She swallowed down a rise of dread.

Hawk was her older brother's sobriquet. Truman had been given the pet name when he was young and his unruly brown and gold hair

had stood up like ruffled feathers.

When Honoria had asked if he would keep her secret and help her with her ruse, Truman had agreed without question. Never in

a thousand years had she imagined that someone would make the connection.

Flint waited for that to sink in. "My friend was intrigued by this. He just happened to know of a family by the name of Hartley

and a certain scandal that ruined the fortunes of many members of the haut ton ."

"My father was proven innocent," she said, hiking her chin a notch higher.

"Yes. I recently read about it in the newspaper. And yet, even with an exoneration in print, there will always be those who'll

harbor doubts." A cunning gleam lit those stormy eyes as he stopped a single pace in front of her. "And wouldn't it be just

dreadful for your family to be embroiled in another scandal? Even a small one... perhaps involving a daughter and a make-believe

fiancé? That would certainly cast a rather unfavorable light on the Hartley name. Again."

"You and I both know that you aren't Viscount Vandemere," she hissed, keeping her voice lowered.

"The same way that we are both aware that you aren't Signor Cesario?"

She glanced over her shoulder to the open doorway, grateful to find it vacant. "If you think to blackmail me, then you'll be sorely disappointed. My family wouldn't care a fig to learn that I've dressed in costume. In fact, they've seen me wear one on countless occasions over the years. If you had done your due diligence, then you would know my family is rather famous for our dramatic ability."

Flint didn't even blink. "Be that as it may, I shudder to think what society would presume about a young woman's character

when they learn she flits about unchaperoned, immersing herself in a world of men and gambling and... whatever else she

might fancy during those midnight escapades."

He made it sound so sordid. And the results would be ruinous. One whisper was all it would take, and her entire family would

be outcasts once more.

Conchobar Hartley had worked hard to repair the damage done by the scandal. Even though he hadn't been guilty, he'd felt responsible

for being the unwitting voice of the true culprit.

It began one afternoon at Tattersall's, with an investment opportunity whispered in her father's ear by a friend. And it wasn't

long before his silver tongue proceeded to gain more interest in this speculation.

He didn't know at the time that he was being swindled. Didn't know that every person he'd spoken with would also be cheated

out of their fortunes and would soon cast the blame on him. And he most certainly didn't know that the resulting scandal would

cost the lives of two men he'd known since boyhood.

Leander Warring, the late Duke of Longhurst, was one of those. Because of that, his son and heir, Magnus Warring, had sworn

vengeance against the Hartleys.

At least, until he fell in love with Verity seven years later.

Then, the Fates interceded once again when the true culprit behind the swindle was revealed a few months ago, thus slowly beginning the process of removing the tarnish from the Hartley name. Not only that, but Truman—who'd been driven away by the scandal and forced to earn his fortune as a merchant sailor—was now returned to the bosom of their family. Both he and their father were in London, finding him lodgings as he moved forward to finally begin his life as an architect.

As for her overly romantic mother, who wanted nothing more than for her children to find love, she would be heartbroken to

learn that the reason Honoria prepared for a future alone was that she never intended to marry.

But this man—this stranger she had met only once in her life—was backing her into a corner yet again. And this time, she couldn't

see her way out.

"You seem to know a great deal about me," she said coolly, refusing to reveal the anxiety roiling inside her. "And yet I don't

even know your name."

"You may refer to me as Lord Vandemere, my lord husband, darling, dear heart..."

"Blackguard, charlatan, devil."

"Such lovely, sharp claws you have, Signore," he said with a grin as he reached out and grasped one of her hands.

An instant shock of sensation trampled through her, rooting her to the spot. The touch caused her pulse to sprint on a haphazard

path through her veins, reminding her of the time a squirrel had fallen through the parlor chimney and darted around the room

in a frenzy, looking for the nearest exit.

Reflexively, she tried to snatch her hand away. However, his hold was deceptively gentle, those long, tapered fingers encircling

her wrist.

He was not about to let her get away. Not this time.

Honoria refused to think about the sensations he caused or the way the pad of his thumb moved in slow, sinuous circles over

her harried pulse. And when she met the challenge in his gaze, she ignored the sudden, sharp clench in the pit of her stomach.

"Just tell me what you want."

One corner of his mouth curled like the tip of a snake's tail when it was ready to strike. But instead of telling her, he did something she never expected.

Still imprisoning her hand, he sank on bended knee. This time, when he looked at her, his expression was so tender and open

that it stole her breath and robbed her of speech.

"Just you, Honoria Hartley," he said. "In all the time we've spent apart, I've only been living a half life, searching for

something I could not name. Yet, from the very moment we met, a sense of certainty filled me. I saw the rest of my days unfold

in the heavens reflected in your eyes, and I realized that my life could never be whole without you by my side."

Her pulse started rioting again. An entire family of squirrels zigzagged through her, knocking over the jar of moths in her

midriff and sending them all aflutter. And her brain was caught in quicksand, unable to make sense of this declaration.

They were just words, she told herself. A prepared speech. A soliloquy. She'd heard hundreds of them throughout her life.

And yet...

She knew his tell, knew the way his thumb absently drifted to the ring on his little finger. But his hold remained steady,

his gaze unswerving and no longer mocking.

Had he, too, felt that uncanny shift that seemed to click something into place when their lips had met in Paris? She had tried

not to think about it. Had tried for a year to keep her thoughts away from him. Away from that night, that moment, that...

kiss.

She hated to admit it, even to herself— especially to herself—but ever since, she had compared all other kisses to that one. It had irritated her beyond belief. But now? Well,

now she felt rather—

Her mother squealed from the doorway.

In an instant, Honoria's senses cleared. Someone might as well have dashed cold water in her face. Dimly, she heard Lady Broadbent sigh and Thea hum with delight, her pencil scratching on a page of her pocket ledger.

A coldness seeped into Honoria's veins as she caught the triumphant gleam in Flint's eyes. The liar had only been performing

to his audience. She, of all people, should have known better.

But he was more skilled at the game than she'd given him credit for. And when the great pretender slipped the onyx ring from

his finger and held it up to her, she concluded that the stone was as black as his diabolical heart.

Clearly, she'd allowed her thoughts to run amok. But she wouldn't make that mistake again.

So, the gambler wanted to play the role of Viscount Vandemere, did he?

Well, she'd just see about that.