Chapter One

Prologue

"Nottingham, get up! It's urgent."

Grumbling and groaning, Sterling untangled himself from his sheets and the slender limbs of three gorgeous women–actresses all that he'd coaxed back to his bed after a smashing rendition of Shakespeare's A Midsummer's Night Dream –to sit up and glower at Lord Fieldstone.

"London better bloody well be on fire," he growled, "if you're waking me at this godforsaken hour." Squinting, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes and peered through the thin gossamer curtains lining the windows of his opulently appointed Mayfair townhouse. He'd another, larger home in Grosvenor Square, but this was closer to the theater and besides, his sister was visiting.

As a general rule, Sterling did not abide by any rules.

He drank to excess.

He slept with whomever he pleased.

He caroused all hours of the night and stayed in bed all day.

But a few of the multitude of benefits that came from being the second son of a duke, a title that now belonged to his older–and much less fun–brother, Sebastian.

Some might have bemoaned their lot at having been born the spare, and thus denied the opportunity to inherit a dukedom. But not Sterling. He liked his life. In fact, he damned well loved it. There were no responsibilities. No high expectations. No expectations at all, really.

However, there was one rule that he tried to follow amidst all the debauchery. And that was no orgies at the house when his little sister was present. Thus, when he'd stumbled out of the theater with Titania, Hermia, and Helena, he came to Mayfair to protect Sarah's delicate sensibilities.

Which explained what he was doing here.

But not Lord Fieldstone.

"Did you leave something in the carriage?" he asked, scratching his unshaven jaw where he'd allowed five–or was it six?–days of stubble to grow, much to the dismay of his personal valet who insisted on clinging to the vain hope that one day Sterling would wake up and decide to make a gentleman of himself.

"No, no. I mean I might have, but–" Fieldstone cut himself short and raked an agitated hand through his short blond hair. "It's Sebastian."

Sterling grimaced. "Is he downstairs? Damnit, I thought he was at Hanover Park until tomorrow. Does he have that glint in his eyes? The judgmental one." He sighed. "I hate that glint."

Fieldstone stared at him. "Your brother is in London. We spoke with him last night after we left the theater. You insisted on it."

"Did I?" Now he frowned. "That doesn't sound like me."

"I told you it wasn't a good idea, that it should wait until morning, but you were adamant. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Jumped right out of the carriage when you saw him walking by."

"That does sound like me." He started to grin, winced when the inside of his skull gave an answering throb. "Did you bring any scotch with you, per chance?"

"Sterling, this is serious ."

"Only if you didn't bring any scotch. Whiskey? Gin?" he said hopefully when Fieldstone gave a curt shake of his head. "You mean to tell me you've come knocking on my door at–what time is it, anyway?"

"Half past five. Sterling–"

"At half past five in the morning to talk about my perfect older brother, and you didn't bring so much as a bottle of cheap gin? For shame, Fieldstone. For shame. "

Titania sat up, her delightful breasts on full display and her mouth curved in a pout. "Come back to bed," she implored, patting the mattress. Her gaze slid to Fieldstone and turned coy. "You too, handsome."

"Another time," Fieldstone said distractedly.

"Are you feeling all right?" Sterling asked his friend with great concern. "Should I call a doctor?"

"Yes, yes you should call a doctor! Have him sent immediately to Wimbledon Common."

The throbbing in Sterling's head abruptly ceased as everything inside of him went very still and very cold. Comprised of a thousand acres, Wimbledon Common dwarfed Hyde Park in both size and notoriety. While not a popular destination for flaunting a new curricle or a mistress, it was renowned for one thing: dueling.

Such an act had been outlawed in England for longer than Sterling had been alive. But a recent, highly publicized duel between Colonel James Boswell and the Earl of Grenville over a dispute involving a horse had brought it into favor again.

Dueling was still against the law.

Very much so.

But when had that ever stopped the nobility from doing anything?

"Sebastian is due to arrive there at any minute," Fairfield went on. "He's challenged the Marquess of Aston to pistols at dawn. Lord Henwick is standing in as his second. It's all been arranged, and word has already gotten out. The papers are getting ready to print as we speak."

" Why? " Sterling managed through the tightness in his throat.

"Because you told him to. Last night. Don't you remember?" Fairfield gave an exasperated shake of his head. "You were goading Sebastian into winning Lady Beatrice back after she chose Aston over him."

Vaguely, through the thick curtain of a whiskey-soaked night that had involved a quick dip into an opium den, Sterling recalled teasing his brother about losing Lady Beatrice to Lord Aston. Sebastian had been sweet on the curvaceous little brunette for years , but he'd been too focused on his duties as duke to do anything about it. Which was probably why the poor chit had finally given up waiting on Sebastian's proposal and had accepted Lord Aston's.

As it was one of the rare–if only–times that Sterling's perfect brother had failed at something, of course he had given him grief over it. That's what siblings were for. But he'd never actually thought that Sebastian would call for a duel, of all things! Good God, his brother never drove his carriage on the wrong side of the road for fear of setting a bad example. Now he was calling for pistols at dawn?

"How fast can we get to Wimbledon Common?" he said grimly.

"I've two horses waiting outside. But Sterling–"

"What?" he snapped over his shoulder as he strode towards the door.

"You're naked."

He glanced down.

So he was.

"Here," Titania called, holding up his shirt from the night before.

"You'll need these," added Helena, brandishing his breeches.

"And these," Hermia said, holding up his boots.

Sterling threw on his clothes and sprinted out of the house with Fieldstone right behind. They mounted their horses and tore off down the quiet lane as if the devil himself was at their heels, which he very well could have been.

Sterling's tongue was dry. His stomach was in knots. He felt as if he were going to be sick, and, for once, it wasn't because of pure overindulgence. He and Sebastian may not have always seen eye to eye, but they were brothers first and foremost. Bonded by blood, and the mutual loss of their parents in a boating accident five years prior.

If he lost Sebastian as well…

No.

He couldn't even think it.

They would get there in time to stop the duel. They had to.

And they almost did.

Almost.

The sound of the pistols exploding caused Sterling's horse to sit back on its haunches and rear. He grappled for control, then gave it up completely as he sprang from the saddle. With a toss of its head, the horse galloped away. He paid it no heed, his gaze locked with slowly dawning horror on his brother wrapped in a plume of dark smoke.

His brother, falling to his knees.

His brother, keeling over onto his side.

His brother, lying motionless, one hand still clinging to his pistol as an uneven red circle began to spread across his chest.

For several precious seconds, Sterling could only stare. He was too stunned to move. Too shocked to fully comprehend what had just happened. His brother, his mentor, his hero…fallen. Then he was shouting, and running, and sliding onto grass already slicked red with blood.

"I'm sorry," Lord Aston gasped as he came stumbling over, completely unharmed. "I–I meant to hit his arm. I swear it. I–"

" Go ," Sterling snarled, as savage as any feral creature that had ever lived. "Get out of my sight before I beat you to death with my bare hands, you bastard. Go!" Then he bent over Sebastian, whose eyes were already beginning to glaze over. Eyes that were blue, like their mother's had been.

Trembling, shaking, he cradled his brother's head on his lap, stroking his hair, lightly tapping his pale cheek. "It's all right," he said hoarsely. "It's all right. The doctor is on his way, and he'll fix you right up. Do you hear me? Right up. You'll be on your feet and pestering me about honoring the family name in no time at all."

"Sterling," Sebastian rasped. "Is that you?"

"Yes." Hope flared, bright and brilliant and blinding. "Yes, it's me."

"I..." Blood gurgled in Sebastian's throat, then spilled out the side of his mouth in a trickle of crimson. "I…"

"Don't speak," Sterling ordered. "You need your strength for when the doctor arrives. He'll be here any minute." He looked helplessly at Fieldstone, who stood off to the side, his face as white as the clouds passing lazily overhead. "Where is the damned doctor?"

Fieldstone hesitated, then gave a slight shake of his head. "I don't know. Sterling…Sterling, even if he gets here–"

"Don't say it. By God, don't you say it!"

His brother, dead?

It was unfathomable.

Sebastian was…Sebastian was invincible.

Except he didn't feel invincible in Sterling's arms. He felt cold, and stiff, and heavy .

Like a corpse.

More blood spurted onto the ground.

It was everywhere.

Who knew a body had so much?

Still, he clung to his brother with the desperate determination of a sailor hanging on to a sinking ship. Waiting for a miracle that was never going to come. Waiting for help that was never going to arrive. Because somewhere in the tortured fragments of his grief, Sterling knew that Fieldstone was right. Even if a doctor did come, it would be too late. His brother was dying. There was nothing anyone could do. Nothing he could do but hold on. So that when Sebastian did pass from this world into the next, he wasn't alone.

Sterling didn't want him to be alone.

"I'm sorry," he said raggedly. "I'm so damned sorry, Bastian. For so many things."

Sebastian made a wet, choking sound. "Look–look after S-Sarah."

"I will. I swear it. She'll want for nothing."

"And H-Hanover Park. You are the duke now, S-Sterling." The ghost of a smile touched Sebastian's bloodstained lips. "Whatever you do, d-don't gamble her away."

"I won't. I–Bastian? Sebastian! " he cried when his brother's eyes closed and his breathing quickened.

A last, shuddering gasp…then he was gone.

And Sterling was the one left alone.

Six years later

Hawkridge Manor

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a pet squirrel was not soon to be in possession of a husband.

And that suited Miss Rosemary Stanhope just fine.

Sir Reginald may not have had a title, or wealth, or even opposable thumbs, but he made for an excellent companion. The little red squirrel that she'd rescued as a baby when he'd fallen from his nest had never pestered her to dance, did not judge her when she snuck a second piece of cake (as long as she shared it with him), and never made her feel foolish or awkward. Which was why, during the past six weeks she'd spent as a guest at Hawkridge Manor, she had missed his presence terribly.

The decision to leave him behind at the London townhouse that she shared with her grandmother, Lady Dorothea Ellinwood, had been a difficult, but necessary one. Sir Reginald did not care for long carriage trips and, besides, Rosemary was only going to be away for a short while.

But then her grandmother's gout had flared up, and what was meant to be a brief house party had turned into something much longer. Long enough for the party to end, the guests to depart, and Rosemary and her grandmother to become semi-permanent residents. At least, that was what it felt like.

With the Earl of Hawkridge and his sister, Lady Brynne, in London, the massive country estate–ten thousand acres in all–was nearly vacant. It was just them, the staff…and the deplorable Duke of Hanover, whom she'd have gladly traded for Sir Reginald if the opportunity ever happened to present itself.

It continued to baffle Rosemary that in a residence of this size, the duke would continue to cross her path with alarming regularity. The first few times they found themselves in the same room, she'd chalked it up to sheer coincidence. Maybe he really had wanted to eat an early dinner, and the rear terrace was a lovely place to sit as the sun was setting.

But that had all changed yesterday, when he'd found her in the library reading…and what had begun as a more or less pleasant exchange of words between two people trapped in the same house together had ended–quite unexpectedly–with a kiss.

Sterling Nottingham, Duke of Hanover, had kissed her .

Miss Rosemary Stanhope, Squirrel Keeper Extraordinaire.

It went without saying that it had been her very first kiss. While her peers had escaped their chaperones and flitted out to the gardens to indulge in moonlight trysts with handsome suitors, Rosemary had remained behind in her corner of the ballroom, Sir Reginald peeking out of her reticule and a book firmly placed upon her lap.

Other matrons envied Lady Ellinwood her obedient charge, but the truth was that Rosemary wasn't so much a rule follower as she was a reader. And how was one supposed to read if they were being kissed in the moonlight?

Or in the library.

Her cheeks burned as she recalled the weight of Sterling's mouth on hers. The hot, damp slide of his tongue between her lips which had parted not so much in passion as surprise. The tingling in her belly…and down lower, between her thighs, where she'd never dared explore.

His fingers gliding through her hair before anchoring at the nape of her neck, thumbs resting just beneath her earlobes, and who knew such a tiny, inconspicuous piece of her body was capable of such sensation?

He'd yanked her against him, causing her breasts to press against his hard chest. It was not, she'd noted with a spark of curiosity, the only part of his body that was hard.

The kiss had deepened.

The hand at her nape had tightened.

One of them–she was fairly certain it was her–had moaned.

Another–definitely him–had cursed.

Then he'd drawn back, his gray eyes as dark as a brooding storm cloud, and swiped a hand across his mouth, as if to erase the taste of her lips.

Which had, Rosemary could admit now, hurt her feelings.

But not quite as much as what he'd said next.

"That was a bloody mistake."

He wasn't wrong.

Obviously, a duke had no business kissing a wallflower.

But did he have to say it out loud?

" You kissed me ," she reminded him, lest he'd forgotten that this certainly wasn't her idea. She had been happy reading her book in peace and quiet, thank you very much. He was the one who had walked in on her. And he was the one who had put his tongue in her mouth . Heaven knew she hadn't even known such a thing was possible!

Although now that she did, she rather liked it.

She rather liked it quite a bit.

"A mistake," he'd repeated before he raked a hand through his glossy mane of black, gave her one last, searing glare, and then quit the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

That was the last Rosemary had seen of Sterling. He hadn't appeared at dinner that night, nor breakfast the next morning. He wasn't in the parlor passed out on the sofa where she'd found him thrice before. Nor was he in the library, or the music room, or the gazebo.

"Not that I am looking for him," she told Posy, a young pet lamb that belonged to her American cousin, Evie Thorncroft, as they went on their daily walk around the pond. Evie had attended the house party, too, but had left abruptly for London, leaving Posy in Rosemary's care. A duty that she'd gladly taken on as she really did miss Sir Reginald, and it gave her someone to talk to. Never mind that Posy didn't talk back. At least, not in so many words.

"It's just that it would be nice if he offered me an apology. That is what a gentleman would do."

Snatching a bite of yellow buttercups from a clump of wildflowers growing in the marshy wet beside the pond, Posy tossed her head and quickly spat them back out.

"I know, I know," she said with a sigh. "I'm sure the word isn't even in his vocabulary. And Sterling may be a duke, but I doubt very much that anyone would ever mistake him for a gentleman."

It was probably a passing fly, but Rosemary could have sworn the lamb bobbed her head in agreement.

"I simply imagined my first kiss being different, that's all. And at the end of it, the man did not call it a mistake ." She nibbled her bottom lip, a nervous habit from childhood that she'd never been able to quell no matter how many times her grandmother had slapped a thin birch rod across her knuckles whenever she'd caught her granddaughter doing it. "Sterling took something from me. An experience–a moment of note–that I'll never get back. The least he could do is tell me that he's sorry for ruining it. But I suppose I won't endeavor to hold my breath." Another sigh, this one more forlorn than the last. She patted the lamb between her floppy ears. "Come along, Posy. Let's get you home."

But no sooner had she turned onto a winding stone path that would lead them back to the manor than Sterling came sauntering out from behind an oak tree, arms linked behind his back and a dark brow arched in curious amusement.

Comprised of a myriad of walking trails, towering shrubbery, and sculpted gardens with a mixture of native trees, some of them as old as the estate itself, the grounds surrounding Hawkridge Manor provided ample opportunity for one person to sneak up on another. Which was why, when her heart pitched inside of her chest, Rosemary told herself it was due to the shock of Sterling's sudden appearance.

It definitely–absolutely–had nothing to do with how rakishly handsome he appeared in his linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a dusting of ebony hair on his forearms and his long, muscular legs encased in a pair of breeches that were so snug she doubted he'd ever be able to successfully bend his knee to mount a horse.

"Who the devil are you speaking to?" he drawled, his head canting to the side as he raked his gaze across her dress. "And why are you so…dirty?"

Defensively grabbing a handful of her skirts, which were rumpled and grass-stained from frolicking in the fields with Posy, she ducked her chin and muttered, "Nobody. I was…I was talking to nobody."

When she was a young girl, Rosemary hadn't understood why the other children had laughed at her and poked fun when she told them she could understand what animals said. Of course, she hadn't meant literally . She'd been an odd child, not a daft one. But she had known, more often than not, what they were thinking. To her it was obvious what a horse was trying to say when its ears turned in a certain direction, or that a dog needed quiet reassurance when its tail slipped between its legs. An animal may not have been able to form words, but there were so many ways to communicate beyond language.

As she had grown older and somewhat wiser to the barbed cruelty that her peers were capable of, Rosemary took to keeping such knowledge to herself. What seemed utterly natural to her–if a cat jumped on your lap, why wouldn't you ask it how its day was going?–was derided by others as foolish at best and lunacy at worst.

After a particularly humiliating event at a garden party that had left her in tears, she'd learned that some things were best hidden. It was bad enough that everyone knew she had a pet squirrel. If they realized she and Sir Reginald had conversations on a regular basis…well, maybe they would lock her in Bedlam. Then who would take care of her grandmother?

"You were talking to somebody ," Sterling insisted, those devilishly gray eyes of his watching her with an uncomfortable intensity that brought a rosy flush to her cheeks. "I could hear you chattering away like a magpie from all the way inside the house. Woke me up from my nap."

"Your nap?" she exclaimed, incredulous. "It's half-past ten in the morning!"

"I had trouble sleeping." For an instant, his gaze flicked to her mouth. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "If we are going to share the same quarters, it would behoove you to be more considerate."

Her , more considerate?

Even Posy snorted.

"I thought you'd returned to London."

He grimaced. "Go back to that bloody gossip pot? Not likely. I've run out of gin and need to go into town to procure some more. Can you drive a phaeton?"

Her lips parted. "I…"

"I'd drive it myself, naturally. But I've a splitting headache and would probably end up in a ditch somewhere. You don't want me to end up in a ditch somewhere, do you, Rebecca?"

"My name is Rosemary." Didn't he know by now? She'd only told him half a dozen times. He had no problem remembering her cousins, Evie and Joanna. But then they were far prettier, and thus more memorable. Except–to the best of her knowledge–he hadn't kissed either of them . "I've other things to do," she said sourly, even though she didn't. "Why don't you have a footman take you?"

Or better yet , not drink yourself into a stupor every night.

She'd heard whispers about the Duke of Hanover. As an outsider looking in, she wasn't privy to very much of the gossip circulating through the ton , but she would have to be deaf and blind not to have heard the rumors about Sterling.

Rumors that he'd come into his dukedom by nefarious means.

Rumors that he'd redefined the meaning of debauchery.

Rumors that he'd murdered his mistress.

The second, she could easily believe. Sterling was as much of a scoundrel as any she'd ever met. Not to say she'd met very many. Strictly speaking, he was her first.

Her first rogue…and her first kiss. Surely not a coincidence, and the reason her grandmother had shielded her from men like Sterling since her debut. But even though he was most certainly a rake and a ne'er-do-well (amongst other less polite terms), she had difficulty picturing him as a murderer . Or someone who had cheated his way into a title. Mostly because he didn't seem to enjoy being a duke all that much.

"A footman?" he said dryly. "Now why didn't I think of that? Oh, that's right. Because Brynne, interfering busybody that she is, banned them from driving me into the village lest I go there to purchase more spirits and launch myself into a despairing pit of my own making." He gave a vague wave of his hand. "Or something like that."

"If Lady Brynne didn't want you going into town, I don't think I should take you," Rosemary said uncertainly. "She's been very generous in letting me remain at Hawkridge until my grandmother's health improves, and I wouldn't want to upset her."

"Brynne isn't even here," he pointed out. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"But I'll see her once I return to London. What would you have me do?" Rosemary's brows jutted together in bemusement. "Lie?"

Sterling blinked. "Yes. Of course. What else would you do?"

"Tell the truth?" she ventured.

"The truth." For some reason, that caused him to laugh. "By God, Renee. You really are as innocent and na?ve as you seem, aren't you? What a quaint little mouse you are. Destined for spinsterhood already, I'd gather."

"It's Rosemary," she said through gritted teeth. "And I'm not that innocent."

Once again, his gaze dropped to her mouth where it lingered long enough to cause her to face to heat all over again. "Aren't you?" he said in a rough, husky voice that did strange things to her belly.

"No." In a rare fit of rebellion, she lifted her chin. "To prove it, I will take you into the village. And I won't tell Lady Brynne about it."

Probably, she added silently.

I probably won't. But then, I most likely will.

Sterling clucked his tongue. "Well, well, well." A glint of approval shone in his eyes. Approval…and something else. Something darker. Something that even Rosemary, in all of her innocence and sexual naiveté, recognized as sensuous. "In that case, I'll have the phaeton brought round."

If Sterling had an honorable bone left in his miserable body, he'd have steered miles clear of Miss Rosemary Stanhope. Sweet and good and kind, she wasn't for the likes of him. He was a blackguard of the first order. A depraved sinner who, on his best day, wasn't fit to lick her shoe. And even though the rumors surrounding his mistress' disappearance were wildly exaggerated (he hadn't accidentally strangled Eloise to death while they were making love, nor had he chopped up her body in a fit of passionate rage and tossed the pieces of it into the Thames), he was still a killer. Sebastian's death was proof of that.

An excellent reason why he never should have given in to impulse and kissed Rosemary in the library. And he most definitely shouldn't have been sitting within inches of her in a tiny little racing carriage on their way into town. Just the two of them. With nary a proper chaperone in sight. But having sunk this far into depravity, there was nowhere for him to go but further down in the hope that eventually he'd hit the bottom.

If Sebastian could see him now…

Sterling's hands clenched into fists, nails biting forcefully into the palms of his leather gloves as he cut the thought short. His brother couldn't see him because his brother couldn't see anything on account of being dead. Shot in a duel that he'd been goaded into by his own brother. Betrayed by his own blood. And if Sterling found himself trapped in a hell's cape of misery and darkness, it was no less than what he deserved for what he'd done.

"Why do you need more gin?" asked Rosemary, slanting him a quick sideways peek before her gaze returned promptly to the dirt lane in front of them. Lined with trees, it required a steady hand to navigate the various twists and turns. Especially in a curricle, wheeled conveyances notorious for tipping over if they took a corner at a high rate of speed. But despite those two impediments, Rosemary handled the buggy with ease, enough so that Sterling–who was never impressed by anyone or anything–found himself secretly admiring her from his side of the velvet seat cushion that they both shared.

What a strange little bird Evie Thorncroft's cousin was.

At first glance, he'd likened the chit to a common brown sparrow. Plain, boring, and ordinary. But upon closer inspection, he'd discovered that she was more like a hawfinch. Still somewhat plain, but with sufficient variation in the feathers to catch the eye.

His mother had loved birds. She used to leave seed for them on the nursery windowsill and point out the different types to him as they flitted in and out in a swirl of changing colors.

"There's a robin," she'd say, looping her arms around his scrawny torso and resting her chin on the top of his dark head. "You can tell by the red on its breast. And that one there, that's a goldfinch. Do you see how yellow it is?"

At seven, Sterling hadn't had much interest in birds. He'd liked ships and soldiers the best. But he'd loved his mother, and in those quiet times, when it was only the two of them, he had leaned against her and drank in every word with the instinctive knowledge that there'd come a time–fairly soon–when young boys had to grow up and leave the innocence of childhood behind.

If only he'd known how horribly fast that day would arrive.

"What's that one?" he'd asked once, frowning at an unfamiliar bird with a dusky golden cap on its head and blue on its wings. "It's different from the others."

"Well done, Sterling!" his mother had said excitedly, kissing his cheek. "That's a hawfinch. They usually prefer the countryside, and even then it can be hard to spot them in the dense underbrush. I don't know if I've ever seen one this far south, and never in the city. They were my favorite to look for when I was a girl because they are so difficult to find. Do you see its curved beak? It uses that to crack open cherry stones."

"Cherry stones! But they're so hard and the hawfinch is so small."

"Small things can be strong, too, Sterling. It's the size of the heart that matters most. Remember that, my darling boy."

"I will, Mama," he'd vowed, and as he stared at Rosemary, he realized that some part of him really had remembered.

How wretchedly maudlin.

"Why do I want more gin?" he said brusquely. "So that I can drink it, obviously."

Another peek in his direction, this one even more fleeting than the last.

She bit her lip.

He rolled his eyes.

"Out with it, Regina."

"I wasn't going to say anything. And it's Rosemary. Rose. Mary." She gave an agitated toss of her head that sent the hideously ugly bonnet she'd jammed over her hair before they'd departed Hawkridge Manor sliding forward onto her face. A muffled squeal, a startled pull on the left rein, and the curricle would have sailed off into the ditch had Sterling not covered her hands with his and straightened them out at the last possible second.

" Oh ," she gasped, hauling the buggy to a shuddering halt right in the middle of the lane. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. How frightening! I didn't mean–"

"I blame this potato sack on your head," he interrupted before he grabbed the bonnet and threw it unceremoniously in the bushes.

"That was mine!" she cried. "My grandmother had it made for my birthday."

"Trust me. I did you a favor." He paused. "I take it your grandmother selects all of your clothes?"

"Not all of them."

"The dress you wore to breakfast on the last day of the house party. The pale blue with the violet ribbon. It wasn't completely awful," he allowed.

"I borrowed that gown from Evie."

He nodded sagely. "That explains it, then."

"My clothes…my clothes should be none of your concern, Your Grace."

"I have to look at them, don't I?" Absently, he glanced down to see that his hand was still wrapped around hers in an intimate grip that was no longer necessary given that they were stopped. Scowling, he withdrew his arm and draped it across the back of the seat instead, fingers idly drumming on the wood trim.

It was the lack of gin, he decided. The bloody stuff had gone to his head and without it…without it he had started to do all sorts of crazed things, like kissing Rosemary in the library and holding her hand and recalling the exact dress she'd worn nearly a fortnight ago. If he didn't get liquor into his bloodstream soon, he'd do something truly out of character, like telling her that in the dappled sunlight her hair held glimmers of gold amidst all the silky tendrils of brown and her eyes were the color of a soft fog rolling in over the field right before sunrise.

"We need to go," he said abruptly.

"But my bonnet–"

"Leave it. I'm sure the forest animals will give it the proper funeral that it deserves."

She pressed her lips together as she adjusted her grip on the reins. "Has anyone told you that just because you can say anything you want and not suffer repercussions due to your rank doesn't mean that you should ?"

"No," he said after he thought about it for a moment. "Never."

"That explains it, then."

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes. "Just drive, Rosalie. And do try to keep us out of the ditch."