Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess

Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess Jenni Fletcher The virtuous Miss Fairclough Now faces ruin! When Amelia Fairclough had sought refuge in a blizzard, a brooding stranger had given her warmth and shelter. She’d even tried to soothe him of his demons in return. But as she scurried home at dawn she was spotted! Now he’s in the parlour, offering to do the honourable thing. Surely she’d be a fool to turn down the new Marquess of Falconmore!? The virtuous Miss Fairclough… …now faces ruin! Part of Secrets of a Victorian Household. When Amelia Fairclough had sought refuge in a blizzard, a brooding stranger had given her warmth and shelter. She’d even tried to soothe him of his demons in return. But as she scurried home at dawn, she was spotted! Now he’s in the parlor, offering to do the honorable thing. Surely she’d be a fool to turn down the new Marquess of Falconmore! JENNI FLETCHER was born in the north of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire, with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally getting past her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted on Twitter @jenniAuthor (https://www.twitter.com/jenniAuthor?lang=en) or via her Facebook author page (https://www.facebook.com/JenniFletcherAuthor/). Also by Jenni Fletcher (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) The Warrior’s Bride Prize Reclaimed by Her Rebel Knight Whitby Weddings miniseries The Convenient Felstone Marriage Captain Amberton’s Inherited Bride The Viscount’s Veiled Lady Secrets of a Victorian Household collection Miss Lottie’s Christmas Protector by Sophia James Miss Amelia’s Mistletoe Marquess by Jenni Fletcher And look out for the next books Mr Fairclough’s Inherited Bride by Georgie Lee Lilian and the Irresistible Duke by Virginia Heath Coming soon Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk). Miss Amelia’s Mistletoe Marquess Jenni Fletcher www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) ISBN: 978-1-474-08959-3 MISS AMELIA’S MISTLETOE MARQUESS © 2019 Harlequin Books S.A. Published in Great Britain 2019 by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental. By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher. ® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries. www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Note to Readers (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings: Change of font size and line height Change of background and font colours Change of font Change justification Text to speech To Andy, my best chum. Also thanks and love to my other partners in fictional crime, Therese, Rachael and Jeev. Contents Cover (#u590111af-8a2f-5473-aa90-35df2996f1e6) Back Cover Text (#uc8571150-5e65-5959-bd65-88b70c8aca2a) About the Author (#u202b4847-259c-52c9-94e2-38cd868c04e6) Booklist (#uf85d7017-a407-5445-aae8-b24ce1655989) Title Page (#uf51e24b5-f88e-5273-91bc-416d9337df9f) Copyright (#u0ba913b3-1932-5d6c-b50f-3d8e977bd12e) Note to Readers Dedication (#uaed44c73-5a9f-5af0-bd40-55e8a86c84d2) Chapter One (#u4288a6be-be49-5384-9a35-04cb6fa76beb) Chapter Two (#u66558844-5b25-5e9c-8728-ea204d498549) Chapter Three (#ub377f555-a5a7-5bed-86c7-d318bc1837da) Chapter Four (#u9a4de82b-2911-594c-aee1-f9cccfb7d0a2) Chapter Five (#u1e146bc4-615d-5f42-b7b5-5d9d64a8ddea) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Extract (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) December 1842 Forty-five minutes! Millie Fairclough stared at the enamelled bronze carriage clock above the fireplace in astonishment.She would never have imagined such a feat of verbosity were possible, but apparently it was. Lady Fentree and her five middle-aged companions really had been talking about bonnets for forty-five minutes. Not to mention fifteen before that on hemlines and almost a full hour on sleeves! ‘Personally…’ Lady Fentree intoned with the air of a woman about to make some momentous pronouncement ‘…I favour a wide peak. Poke bonnets are far too restrictive. I tried on one of Vanessa’s the other day and I could barely turn my head!’ ‘Oh, I agree completely.’ The woman on Millie’s left nodded her head so vigorously that her lace cap flopped forward over one eye. ‘But you know young girls like to follow the latest fashions and your Vanessa would look charming in anything.’ ‘True…’ Lady Fentree smiled complacently ‘…and I suppose we were the same once. Only one learns to appreciate practicality over appearance at our age.’ Millie looked down at her hands as half-a-dozen ladies laughed, somewhat surprised and faintly chagrined to be included in the latter category. She could only presume that their hostess had forgotten she was there, given that she hadn’t uttered more than a few murmurs of agreement for the past hour and a half. It wasn’t that she didn’t like bonnets, or hemlines or sleeves for that matter. On the contrary, she had a keen and, she was afraid, somewhat sinful interest in fashion. It was her guilty pleasure. She couldn’t afford to buy new clothes very often, no more than a pair of new gloves or a few ribbons anyway, but she could still look at and appreciate the sartorial choices of others. Truth be told, she knew a quite shameful amount about bonnets. Straw bonnets, cottage bonnets, spoon bonnets, drawn bonnets… She had an opinion on each and every one of them—maybe not forty-five minutes’ worth—but still, more than she cared to admit. There were certainly things she might have contributed to the conversation, but the whole subject seemed far too shallow compared to her everyday life at the Fairclough Foundation, the institute for down-on-their-luck women her parents had founded more than twenty years before. Now, no matter how hard she tried to relax and enjoy the evening party, she found herself unable to indulge in a little light-hearted discussion. She was a serious person with a serious reputation to uphold and serious matters to consider. Whatever would people say if they discovered that the dutiful, virtuous and, above all, self-sacrificing Miss Amelia Fairclough had opinions on bonnets? Not that there was anything inherently sinful about the subject, she reminded herself. After all, people needed clothes even if they didn’t necessarily need fashion. That was the reason she gave sewing lessons at the Foundation, as well as weekly tutorials in embroidery and crochet. It was thanks to those very skills that she’d managed to transform her best dress, now in its seventh year of service, into something vaguely fashionable for this evening’s outing. It had taken all of her ingenuity, but she’d finally succeeded in reducing the gigot sleeves into short puffed ones, even fringing the cuffs with a layer of white lace and adding a matching trim to the hem. It wasn’t perfect. The bodice was too high and the overall shape nowhere near full enough, but she’d thought it had looked reasonably presentable. Less than a minute inside Lady Fentree’s imposing Georgian mansion had been sufficient to destroy that illusion. All of the other young ladies were dressed in the very height of fashion, in off-the-shoulder silk gowns with bell-shaped skirts and low, pointed waists, as if they’d come to the party straight from their modistes. As a casual observer Millie thought she might have enjoyed the spectacle, but to be seated amid so much splendour made her feel like a gaudy weed in a flowerbed full of lilies. It was hard not to feel a little bit jealous, especially when the new vogue for pastel shades was far better suited to her pale skin and auburn hair than the recent craze for bright colours. Even harder not to feel self-conscious when everything about her, from the sensible, unadorned bun at the nape of her neck to the practical ankle boots poking out from beneath her skirts made her feel hopelessly dowdy. ‘What do you think of Pamela hats, Miss Fairclough?’ Lady Fentree’s voice penetrated her thoughts suddenly. ‘Me?’ Millie flushed, embarrassed to have been caught with her attention wandering. ‘Oh, I like them very much, especially the ones with wide ribbons.’ ‘Indeed. They’re so flattering, especially when one wears the back of one’s hair in ringlets. It stops them getting flattened.’ ‘Yes, I suppose it does, although I’m afraid I’ve never worn ringlets.’ ‘Never?’ Lady Fentree sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Well, how extraordinary.’ ‘Is it?’ Millie looked around the group in dismay, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, after all. Judging by the looks being exchanged, everyone else thought it extraordinary, too. As if she’d needed another way to prove how drab and boring she was! Which was nothing but foolishness and vain self-regard on her part, she chided herself, sitting back in her chair as the conversation moved on without her. There was no cause to feel jealous of the other young women either. Clothes were simply the external trappings of a person and not a reflection of the soul beneath. Self-sacrifice and duty were the things that really mattered in life and she for one could survive perfectly well without new gowns or elaborate hairstyles. It was only being in society that made her feel this way and she’d be back out of it soon enough, as soon as she and her mother returned to the Foundation, where nobody had forty-five minutes to waste in idle chatter about bonnets. For once, however, the idea of noble self-sacrifice failed to provide its usual consolation. Looking around a room filled with smiling, chattering faces, she still couldn’t help but feel just a little bit…well, boring. Was she boring? She didn’t want to be, but compared to everyone else, her impulsive younger sister Lottie especially, she couldn’t help but suspect that she was. Lottie wasn’t there, of course, having stayed behind in London with a cold while she and their mother came to spend Christmas in the country, but Millie still knew what she’d say. She’d tell her to stop behaving like an old maid and just enjoy herself for once. That was the whole point of this holiday, after all, even if Millie suspected their mother had ulterior motives. They were staying at the house of her father’s cousin, Lady Alexandra Malverly, the only member of his family who hadn’t disowned him after his marriage to her bluestocking mother, Lilian. Despite rigid opposition, the two women had become close friends and remained so even after his premature death from typhoid ten years before. Since then, Alexandra had issued regular invitations for them to visit, but her mother had generally refused, being unable to make reciprocal offers herself. This year, however, she’d said yes, claiming that she needed a change of scene and a rest. Given how worried they were about Millie’s twin brother, Silas, that was hardly surprising, but it was still out of character enough for Millie to wonder if there was something else behind it. ‘I really think you ought to try ringlets, Miss Fairclough.’ Lady Fentree’s fan tapped her knee, startling her anew. ‘A little more width at the sides would make your face look rounder. Yes, indeed, you must try ringlets and with a Pamela bonnet, too. I shall advise your mother to purchase one.’ ‘Oh, no.’ Millie lifted a hand in protest. The last thing her mother could afford was a new bonnet for her. ‘I’m perfectly happy as I am. There’s really no need to trouble yourself.’ ‘It’s no trouble…’ ‘But I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’ ‘Well, I’m sure I was only trying to help!’ Lady Fentree tossed her head and gave a loud, affronted sniff. ‘In any case, it seems that your mother is otherwise occupied.’ Millie followed the direction of her gaze across the drawing room to where her mother was deep in conversation with a strikingly handsome, dark-haired gentleman. Now that she thought of it, she’d been talking to him the last time she’d looked and the time before that. Which was…surprising. Even more so the fact that her mother was actually laughing, something she rarely did at the Foundation. Or at all any more. In fact, in the decade since her mother had been widowed, Millie didn’t think she’d ever seen her talk to any man, family members excluded, with anything other than polite interest. ‘She does look rather engrossed.’ The woman on her left tittered. ‘I’m sure bonnets can wait.’ ‘My mother has far more important matters to concern herself with than bonnets.’ Millie stiffened defensively. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Malverly told me all about your Foundation.’ Lady Fentree looked pointedly around at her companions and gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘Mrs Fairclough and her husband set up an institute for women of questionable virtue a number of years ago. I understand that Miss Fairclough here assists in its running.’ ‘I do, but it’s for women in need,’ Millie corrected her, ‘virtuous or otherwise. In particular, it’s for women with nowhere else to go. Our Foundation provides them with a place to stay and helps them get back on their feet.’ ‘Very laudable, but I don’t think I’d like my Vanessa to involve herself in such matters. A young lady ought not to know too much about that side of life.’ ‘No, far better to learn about bonnets,’ Millie heard herself snap, ‘but I’ve been raised to believe that we can’t just ignore things—or people—that we might prefer not to notice. We have a duty to help others.’ ‘But surely we can do both?’ Her cousin Alexandra appeared at her side suddenly, wearing a placatory smile. ‘Personally I’ve never understood why we can’t help those less fortunate than ourselves and wear the latest fashions.’ ‘Quite!’ Lady Fentree’s voice had the force of a small cannon. ‘Although I might suggest that this Foundation teach a few lessons in manners as well!’ ‘What a splendid idea.’ Alexandra placed a restraining hand on Millie’s shoulder. ‘I’ll suggest it to Lilian later, but now I’m sorry to say we must leave you. It seems the weather is conspiring against us.’ ‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ ‘It’s snowing. Quite heavily, too. If we don’t leave now, then I’m afraid we might become stranded and I wouldn’t want to trespass on your hospitality overnight.’ ‘No indeed.’ Lady Fentree narrowed her eyes at Millie. ‘I prefer not to share my roof with revolutionaries.’ ‘But we’ve had a perfectly lovely evening, haven’t we, Millie?’ Alexandra’s grip on her shoulder tightened. ‘Yes…thank you.’ Millie rose to her feet and bobbed a dutiful curtsy. ‘Please forgive my bluntness, Lady Fentree. I meant no offence.’ ‘Mmm.’ The look on the other woman’s face was anything but forgiving. ‘In that case, I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in the country, Miss Fairclough, though I very much doubt that our paths will cross again.’ Millie gritted her teeth as she followed Alexandra and a few other guests from the village out into the hall. They’d all travelled together to save the need for individual carriages, but now the thought of sitting in a constricted space and reviewing the evening’s entertainment made her want to scream. ‘Millie dear…’ Alexandra’s voice was gently chiding. ‘I know. I was unforgivably rude.’ ‘Not without provocation. It might do Lady Fentree good to be reminded that there are other people in the world, but perhaps it was a little tactless to do it under her roof.’ ‘I’m sorry, Cousin.’ ‘Never mind.’ Alexandra patted her arm sympathetically. ‘It’ll be forgotten soon enough, but it’s not like you to be so sensitive. Are you feeling all right?’ ‘Yes… No.’ Millie looked down at the floor in consternation. ‘Not really. I thought Mama might have told you I received an offer of marriage last week.’ ‘She did mention it, yes…’ Alexandra paused tactfully. ‘From the local Curate—although I understand it’s not a love match.’ ‘No. It’s not romantic for either of us. Gilbert’s a good man and he says he wants a wife who can work alongside him, but we’re not in love.’ ‘But you’re thinking of accepting him?’ ‘I suppose so…yes.’ Millie drew on her gloves with a sigh. Yes, she was considering it, although considering was as far as she’d got. Practically speaking, it was an advantageous offer. Gilbert was good and intelligent and serious. A little too serious perhaps, pedantic even, and a little over-zealous on occasion, but still…good and surely that was the quality she ought to want most in a husband? Only she couldn’t help but worry that two serious people together might become a little too serious. Which would make her even more boring… ‘I believe your mother is afraid you might accept him simply to alleviate her current financial difficulties.’ Alexandra’s gaze was a little too focused. ‘Our financial difficulties. Her problems are mine, too.’ ‘Ye—es, but the last thing she wants is for you to sacrifice yourself to a loveless marriage just for her sake. Or the Foundation’s, for that matter.’ ‘I know.’ Millie glanced back towards the drawing room. ‘I think she hoped I might meet someone else, but it seems unlikely. All the men here tonight could talk about were the newest inventions and how much money they might make from them.’ ‘You didn’t give them much of a chance, dear.’ ‘No, but why would they look at me anyway?’ She bit the inside of her cheek at the words. She hadn’t meant them to sound quite so self-pitying. ‘I can think of a lot of reasons, but I think what you need more than anything else at this moment is a rest. You look exhausted.’ ‘Do I? I don’t feel tired. I usually do much more in a day.’ ‘I didn’t say tired, I said exhausted. There’s a difference and you, my dear, are the latter. You work far too hard at the Foundation.’ ‘I don’t mind. It’s too much for Mother to manage on her own.’ ‘Perhaps, but she wants you to be happy more than she wants your help.’ Alexandra touched her chin gently. ‘Self-sacrifice is all very well, but not if it causes you to make foolish decisions.’ ‘I’m not…’ ‘In any case,’ Alexandra spoke over her, ‘you’re staying with me for a fortnight. There’ll be plenty of time to think about the future and make a decision after Christmas. In the meantime, I want you to rest.’ ‘Yes, Cousin.’ Millie smiled half-heartedly as they put on their bonnets and capes and went out on to the front steps of the mansion into a world transformed. The moon was full and high, making the sky shimmer with snowflakes that danced and spun like falling stars all around them. It was hardly like night-time at all, Millie thought, catching her breath in wonderment. It was beautiful, as if a white cloak had been draped over the landscape. Even the air tasted different. Crisp and clean, utterly unlike that of London. ‘Here we are.’ Alexandra put an arm around her shoulders as three carriages rolled alongside the front steps. ‘You go ahead with the others. I’ll wait for your mother.’ ‘No, you go.’ Millie looked at her pleadingly. ‘If you don’t mind, I don’t think I can bear any more conversation tonight. I’ll wait for Mama.’ ‘Are you certain?’ ‘Yes…’ she smiled ruefully ‘…and I promise to go straight to bed when I get back.’ ‘All right. If that’s what you want, then I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, dear.’ Millie waved goodbye, waiting until the first two carriages had rattled away before turning back into the house. Her mother had made it as far as the hallway, though she seemed in no hurry to leave, still engrossed in conversation with the handsome gentleman. Something about the way they were standing made her avert her face again quickly, too, struck with the distinct impression that she was interrupting something private. She looked up at the falling snow again, wondering what to do next. She could climb into the last carriage, she supposed, but she didn’t want to shut herself up inside just yet, not when the world looked so breathtaking. And surely a quick stroll through the gardens wouldn’t hurt? She threw a swift glance over her shoulder and then hurried down the mansion steps, over the gravel drive and across the lawn. It was positively luminescent, she thought delightedly, the snow beneath her feet making soft crumpling sounds as she wandered into a small grove where a line of willow trees obscured any view of the house. It was like a fairy-tale grotto, secret and silent and peaceful, the trees all bedecked with sparkling crystalline pendants. A memory popped into her mind, of throwing snowballs in the park with Silas and Lottie as children. They’d charged around like hoydens while their parents had watched arm in arm from the path. It was a happy memory, but bittersweet, too. She’d been so much more carefree and adventurous back then, always running about and getting into scrapes. What had happened to her? As a woman, she obviously couldn’t expect the same freedom allowed to her brother, but Lottie still managed to be fun. Why—when?—had she become so dull? She didn’t have time to think of an answer, whirling around at the muffled sound of wheels and hooves coming from the direction of the driveway. Catching up her skirts, she ran back out of the grotto just in time to see the last of the carriages roll away from the house. ‘Wait!’ She started to run and then stopped. Even without the snow slowing her down she doubted she’d be able to catch it. Obviously her mother had thought that she’d left with the others and taken the carriage by herself. Which was a reasonable assumption, given the weather and the fact that, foolishly, she hadn’t told anyone except Alexandra that she was waiting behind. It was her own fault for straying so far from the house, but surely once her mother got back to the village and discovered her mistake, she’d send the carriage back? Unless her mother assumed that she’d gone straight to bed…and if Alexandra assumed the same thing…and she’d told the maid not to wait up for her… Well, then there was a very real chance that no one would realise she was missing until morning. Millie closed her eyes in mortification, weighing up the choices before her. The thought of throwing herself on the mercy of Lady Fentree and begging a room for the night made her shudder, as did that of admitting her mistake and asking for another carriage. No, those alternatives didn’t bear thinking about, which meant the only other thing she could do was walk. Which, since she was wearing practical boots, didn’t seem like too much of a hardship. It was only a couple of miles to the village, after all—three at most—and the snow wasn’t so heavy, nothing to worry about anyway. She turned her feet in the direction of the gate and started purposely towards it. The more she thought about it, the more appealing the idea of a walk became. It wasn’t what sensible and boring Miss Amelia Fairclough would do, but it was right up the alley of her previous incarnation, Millie Fairclough, intrepid twin and plucky explorer. She loosened the strings of her bonnet and tugged at the pins of her bun underneath, letting the auburn tresses unravel about her shoulders. There, she didn’t have to be so strait-laced all of the time. Alexandra was right, there was no need for her to think about the future just yet. Tonight, she wouldn’t think about the future at all. Tonight she would forget the rest of the world even existed, stick her tongue out at the Fentree mansion and be Millie again. And a moonlit walk in the snow sounded like a perfectly wonderful idea. Chapter Two (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) Cassius Whitlock, the thirteenth Marquess of Falconmore, stretched his legs out in front of the fire and refused to open his eyes. It was the only way to pretend that the knocking he could hear on his front door was a figment of his imagination and not what—or more precisely who—he suspected it was. The blasted woman had followed him. After half a minute or so the knocking stopped and he slid deeper into the comfort of his armchair, breathing a sigh of relief and ruthlessly suppressing any feeling of guilt. There was no need to feel guilty, after all. The chances of Sylvia walking any distance on foot were about equal to those of her flying. She could simply take the carriage she’d doubtless commandeered back to the hall. And who was to say that he hadn’t dreamed the knocking sound anyway? He’d been dozing beforehand so perhaps it really had been a figment of his imagination, although what that implied about his current mental state he didn’t want to consider, not tonight anyway. He’d already drunk far too much port to come up with anything coherent, let alone helpful. No, overall it was far better to leave thinking until tomorrow and then find another reason not to. Delaying, deferring, dragging his heels—those were the things he’d become good at over the past year. Avoiding subjects he didn’t want to think about had become his speciality. Why else would he be hiding away like some frightened schoolboy in an empty property on the edge of his estate rather than confronting his problems face to face? At least the gatehouse was warm and dry, two of the most important considerations on a foul night like this one. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees just in the half-hour it had taken him to walk up the drive. Now that he was firmly ensconced in his armchair with the aforementioned bottle of port, however, he felt quite cosy. Frankly it was worth the effort just for the peace and privacy, both of which qualities were becoming signally elusive at Falconmore Hall. Given a choice, he might actually have opted to live here instead, but then he hadn’t been given a choice. Not about any of it. He scowled as the knocking started again, even louder and more insistently than before. This time he definitely wasn’t imagining things and he could hardly pretend not to hear it either. A herd of cattle outside his front door would have made less commotion. He surged to his feet, muttering a stream of the most obscene words he could think of. What in blazes was wrong with the woman? Didn’t she have any pride? It was bad enough hounding him out of his own house, but to pursue him here in his refuge was too much! This time she’d gone too far. This time he’d tell her exactly what he thought of her and her all-too-obvious intentions. Maybe he’d tell her what his cousin would have thought of her behaviour, too. That ought to be enough to send her and her daughters running away from Falconmore Hall once and for all. To the other end of England preferably! He grabbed a candle, took one last fortifying swig of port and then strode out into the hallway, an inadvertent glimpse of his reflection in the hall mirror revealing a wild visage and untidy apparel. Which was hardly surprising really. He’d changed into some old clothes in order to clean out and rebuild the fireplace and hadn’t bothered to change back, even after he’d smeared coal across the front of his shirt. All the better, he thought sardonically, running a hand through the dust and then deliberately ruffling his hair to coat the thick, blond strands in black. He was through with behaving like a gentleman. Since Sylvia failed to appreciate subtlety, maybe she’d understand rugged and dishevelled instead! ‘What?’ He flung open the front door, bellowing the word before his port-addled senses had a chance to take in the woman before him. It was…not Sylvia, though as to who else it was… He blinked a few times, searching his memory and failing to find any answer… No, he had no idea who she was. Only she looked somewhat like a snowman. A pretty, red-cheeked and slightly desperate-looking snowman. ‘I apologise for d-disturbing y-you.’ Her teeth chattered as she spoke. ‘But I’m l-lost.’ He looked past her into the night, too surprised to answer. There was no horse, no trap, nobody else in sight, only a raging blizzard and what appeared to be a foot of snow. When had that happened? It had been cold earlier, but he hadn’t noticed any flakes, at least not before he’d drawn the curtains… ‘Would you m-mind letting me inside for a f-few minutes? Just to warm up? P-please?’ ‘Yes… Of course.’ He remembered his manners at last, stepping aside to let her into the hallway. ‘Oh, dear.’ A flurry of snow fell from her skirts as she passed him. ‘I should have shaken myself off outside.’ She looked down at the rapidly swelling puddle in dismay. ‘If you have a mop, I’ll clean it up for you.’ ‘There’s no need.’ He closed the front door against the freezing air. ‘I’ll deal with it later.’ ‘Thank you. I’m s-sorry to barge in on you like th-this. I was on my way to the village, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.’ ‘You mean Rayleigh?’ ‘Yes.’ She rubbed her hands vigorously over her arms as if she were attempting to restore circulation. ‘Is it f-far?’ ‘About a mile down the road. You turn left out of the gate.’ ‘Oh.’ A look of chagrin crossed her face. ‘Well, at least I was going in the right direction. Only I didn’t think it was so far and the snow was lovely at first, but then it got so heavy I couldn’t see the carriage tracks any more.’ ‘I see.’ He looked her up and down incredulously. ‘Do you mean to say that you were out walking in the dark on your own?’ ‘Yes. Not intentionally, but there was a misunderstanding with the carriages and…well…’ she scrunched up her pink-tipped nose and lifted her shoulders, sending a fresh flurry of snow tumbling to the floor ‘…here I am.’ ‘Indeed. Here you are.’ He set down his candle on the hall table, mentally reviewing the amount of port he’d consumed over the course of the evening. Surely not enough to make him hallucinate, although the whole situation seemed unlikely. Incredible. Downright unbelievable, in fact, but here she was, his very own damsel in distress, standing shivering in his hallway, asking for help. Which, as a gentleman, he ought to give her. Only, as a gentleman he really ought to have a chaperon, too. ‘Perhaps I might speak to your wife?’ The thought seemed to occur to her at the same moment. ‘So that I can explain to her?’ ‘Unfortunately not.’ He folded his arms behind his back. ‘I don’t have a wife, or a maid for that matter. You find me all alone here.’ ‘Completely alone?’ Her eyes flickered back to the door, though her expression was conflicted. ‘Then perhaps I should…’ ‘Perhaps you should, but considering the weather it might be somewhat foolhardy.’ He tapped his foot on the tiled floor, considering what to do next. However extraordinary the situation, it was hard to be irritated with someone who looked quite so thoroughly bedraggled and he could hardly send her back out into the night. On the other hand, letting her stay didn’t seem like a particularly judicious idea either. She was a young and presumably unmarried lady, though he couldn’t see her ring finger, and he was a bachelor, and they were alone together in a house that contained a bed, at night. Not that society generally required the presence of an actual bed to think the worst, but still the situation could hardly have looked any more compromising. A suspicious man might have thought her arrival some kind of scheme to entrap him, but the way that she’d been shaking definitely hadn’t been play-acting and surely no one, not even Sylvia, would have put themselves into such a perilous situation deliberately. Besides, whoever she was, she had an honest as well as a pretty face and he had enough on his conscience without adding anything else, especially another dead body. Which meant that he had no choice but to let her stay. Damn it. No choice. Again. The realisation made his voice gruffer than he’d intended. ‘You’d better give me your wet things and come into the parlour.’ ‘Thank you.’ She looked somewhat taken aback by his tone, pulling off her gloves and cape to reveal a conspicuous absence of wedding band and a lithe, willowy figure dressed, somewhat incongruously, in an evening gown. Both of which details paled into insignificance as she removed her bonnet to reveal a cascade of long, lustrous and, more surprisingly, loose hair. ‘Oh, dear.’ She put one hand to her head self-consciously and then started to rifle in her reticule. ‘I must have dropped my pins somewhere.’ ‘Under the circumstances, I believe unbound hair may be the least of our worries.’ He cleared his throat and then gestured for her to precede him into the parlour, trying not to stare at the way the auburn tresses seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a painting by Titian. ‘Take the armchair.’ ‘Oh, no, that’s yours.’ She sank down on to her haunches in front of the fire and held her hands out to warm them instead. ‘This is wonderful.’ ‘I can’t just allow you to sit on the floor, Miss…?’ ‘Millie. Just Millie and I’m more than happy here, honestly. I feel as if my insides have been frozen, Mr…?’ ‘Whitlock.’ He paused in the act of draping her damp cloak across a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner, taken aback by the question. No one had asked who he was since he’d come back to England. Young ladies especially seemed to know his identity without introduction. It made a refreshing change to meet one who did not. Liberating even, as if her words had just freed him from the constraints of the past year. It made him feel oddly grateful. ‘Cassius Whitlock at your service, although I’m afraid I ought to apologise for my reception. It’s not much of an excuse, but I thought you were someone else.’ ‘I guessed.’ She peered up at him through her lashes, her gaze faintly ironic. ‘You looked quite ferocious.’ ‘It was ill mannered of me.’ ‘Perhaps, but it would be churlish of me not to forgive the man who just saved my life.’ ‘I merely opened a door.’ ‘Which probably saved my life. Please accept my gratitude. It was silly of me to even think of walking back to the village in this weather. You’ve no idea how relieved I was to see the smoke from your chimney. I don’t think I could have managed another step.’ He harrumphed and sat down on the edge of his armchair. ‘You’re not from this area, I take it?’ ‘No, I live in London. My mother and I are staying here for Christmas with a relative.’ ‘Won’t they be worried about you?’ ‘Ye—es.’ Her expression turned anxious. ‘If they’ve realised I’m gone, that is. Only there’s a good chance they won’t notice until morning.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Not that I make a custom of wandering around in the dark on my own, but…it’s complicated.’ ‘I see.’ He looked from her to the fireplace and back again. ‘Can I fetch you anything? Some soup, perhaps?’ ‘Thank you, but I’ve already inconvenienced you enough.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘Are you a gamekeeper?’ ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘A gamekeeper?’ She pointed towards the painting of a stag above the fireplace. ‘Or a gardener, perhaps? Only I notice you like pastoral scenes.’ ‘Ah…yes.’ He threw a swift glance around the room. In all honesty, he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the decor before. The fact that the house was habitable had been enough for him, but on closer inspection he noticed a veritable profusion of stags and pheasants, somewhat at variance with the spartan furnishings. It was no wonder she assumed he was a gamekeeper, especially considering the somewhat weathered state of his attire. He certainly didn’t look much like a marquess. ‘Estate manager.’ He decided to stretch the truth rather than lie directly. After all, he was an estate manager of sorts, even if he employed someone else with the same title. ‘How fascinating.’ She looked duly impressed. ‘Is the estate very large?’ ‘About fifteen hundred acres. Falconmore Hall is at the other end of this drive.’ ‘Really?’ She sat up hopefully. ‘Then perhaps I ought to seek shelter there?’ ‘I’m afraid it would be quicker to walk back to the village.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ She sighed and sat back again. ‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I think I’d like to avoid halls for a while. I offended the hostess at the one we visited this evening.’ ‘Indeed? Who was that?’ She glanced sideways, as if she were questioning the wisdom of telling him. ‘Lady Fentree.’ ‘Fentree?’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘It doesn’t take much to upset that old battle-axe, believe me. She was probably just annoyed at you for overshadowing the Honourable Miss Vanessa.’ ‘Me?’ His companion looked genuinely shocked. ‘I don’t think I overshadowed anyone.’ ‘Then you don’t give yourself enough credit, Just Millie.’ He surprised himself with the comment, aware of an unfamiliar tingling sensation in his chest as their eyes met and held. Hers were a bright summer-grass green, he noticed, uncommonly clear and direct with pale lashes that made a striking contrast with her hair. The more he looked, the more he thought that she overshadowed almost every other young lady he’d ever met, or could think of for that matter. Even when she’d looked like a snowman there had been something appealing about her. Something intriguing… Unless it was just the port making him think so. Or the fact that she didn’t know who he was. Or that any woman was preferable to Sylvia. Whatever the reason, he was finding it difficult to look away. Fortunately, she did it instead, her cheeks reddening slightly as her gaze drifted towards the bottle on the table beside him. ‘My father used to say port was the best way to warm up on a cold night.’ ‘I’m inclined to agree. Certainly better than soup. Would you care for a glass?’ ‘Me?’ She looked even more startled, her mouth forming an O shape as if she were about to refuse, then changed her mind. ‘Maybe just a small one…if you’re sure that’s all right?’ ‘I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.’ He poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her, refraining from taking a glass for himself. Given how much he’d already drunk, the effects of which he hoped weren’t too obvious, it was probably wise to abstain. He was having trouble believing the evidence of his own senses as it was. ‘Well, then, Just Millie…’ he watched, the tingling sensation in his chest intensifying, as she lifted the glass to her lips ‘…after you’ve finished that I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Given the depth of the snow, I’d say we’re stranded here until morning.’ ‘I suppose so…’ She sounded anxious. ‘But what if my mother sends out a search party? I’d hate for people to be out in the dark searching for me.’ ‘How long were you out walking?’ ‘An hour, perhaps.’ ‘Then I’d venture to suggest that if your relatives were going to come looking, they would have done so by now.’ ‘Yes.’ Her brow creased. ‘You’re probably right.’ ‘Of course we could fashion some kind of sign, hanging your bonnet from the gatepost, for example, but it might be prudent for us to be a little more discreet.’ She drew her knees up to her chest and took another mouthful of port. ‘I suppose if anyone knew I was here it would look a little compromising.’ ‘More than a little.’ He shifted in his seat, distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, soaking up the last of the liquid. ‘Fortunately, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little harmless deception.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘There’s a disused cottage in one of the fields between here and the village. If, theoretically speaking, you were to have taken shelter inside it, it would be entirely plausible if I, again theoretically speaking, were to find you there in the morning. Then I could take you back to the village without anyone being any the wiser.’ ‘I see.’ She nodded slowly. ‘That does sound like a good idea, but there’s no need for you to escort me anywhere. I’m sure I can find the way on my own.’ ‘More than likely, but I can hardly just wave you goodbye and hope for the best. You’ve already admitted you were lost this evening.’ ‘Only because it was dark.’ ‘None the less, I’ll escort you. My conscience won’t be easy otherwise. In the meantime, you can sleep in my bed.’ ‘Then where will you sleep?’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly do that.’ ‘But I’m afraid this time I have to insist, especially since you’ve already refused my armchair. Which is surprisingly comfortable, I might add. I won’t suffer at all.’ She looked hesitant for a moment and then gave an appreciative smile. ‘That’s very kind of you and I confess I am tired. I never realised that walking in the snow was so exhausting.’ ‘Yes,’ he murmured in agreement, only half-aware of what he was saying as the warm sensation in his chest seemed to escalate by a few degrees and then spread outwards through his body. As smiles went it was extraordinary, lighting up every part of her face and making her look quite exceptionally pretty. Captivating, in fact. In all his thirty-two years, he could honestly say that he’d never seen another smile like it. Not once. Not ever. Not even in his dreams. Back when his dreams had been pleasant ones, that was. ‘Then I hope you sleep well, Just Millie. I’m afraid that I don’t have any women’s clothing to lend you, but feel free to make use of whatever you can find.’ He inclined his head and then coughed as his voice turned unexpectedly husky, stirred by the thought of her in one of his nightshirts. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ She swallowed the last of her port and stood up. ‘Goodnight, Mr Whitlock. Thank you again for opening your door. I do believe that you’ve saved me from myself.’ Chapter Three (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) Millie jolted upright with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribcage at the sound of a shout, followed by glass shattering downstairs. In another instant, she was out of bed and on to the landing, so disorientated that she was halfway down the stairs before she remembered that she was only wearing her shift and petticoat and her situation was shocking enough without her running around in her underwear. But she still had to hurry. If Mr Whitlock was in some kind of trouble, under attack by the sound of it, then she had to help him as he’d helped her! Quickly, she returned to her room and fumbled around on the back of the bedroom door for the dressing gown she’d noticed there earlier and then ran down the stairs as fast as the moonlight streaming in through a pane of glass above the front door would safely allow. The parlour door was closed, but there were still noises coming from within. Not shouts any more, but angry, expletive-laden grunts and muttering. She looked around for a weapon, her gaze settling on an umbrella in one corner. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, enough to give someone a painful jab in the ribs if necessary. She hoped it wouldn’t have to be necessary. Gritting her teeth, she steeled her nerve, put on what she hoped was a suitably frightening expression, grabbed the door handle and burst in. ‘What the—?’ Mr Whitlock spun around at once. He was crouching down by the fireplace, picking up pieces of glass as she lunged forward, brandishing the umbrella like a sword in front of her. ‘Oh!’ She looked around the room in surprise. Everything was just the same as it had been when she’d gone to bed. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken windows and, apparently, no one else there. ‘Millie?’ He stood up, his expression almost comically confused. ‘I thought you were in trouble. There was a shout.’ ‘Ah.’ He deposited several shards of glass into the coal scuttle and then brushed his hands together. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. It appears I flung an arm out in my sleep and knocked the bottle over.’ ‘Oh.’ She lowered her arm, belatedly realising that she was still brandishing the umbrella. Now she thought about it, there was a distinct aroma of plums and alcohol in the air. ‘The port?’ ‘I’m afraid so.’ ‘Can I help?’ ‘It’s not important. I’ll deal with the rest in the morning.’ He dropped down into his armchair and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘You can go back to bed.’ Millie stood where she was. In all honesty, she was feeling slightly ridiculous, but he seemed…different. When he’d first opened his front door he’d looked positively thunderous, his nostrils flaring so wildly that she’d almost turned on her heel and run away into the snow, but now he seemed to have gone to the other extreme. With the candles all extinguished the only light came from the fire, but his features looked unnaturally pale and drawn, as if all the energy had been drained out of him, too. No matter what the impropriety, her conscience wouldn’t let her leave him like that. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ She put the umbrella aside and advanced a few steps into the room. ‘No.’ He gave an indistinguishable sigh. ‘Was it a nightmare?’ This time he moved his hand away from his face to look at her. ‘I suppose so. Although that suggests something imagined, doesn’t it? This was a memory.’ ‘You have bad memories?’ She crouched down on her heels in the same spot she had earlier. ‘One or two.’ His lip curled, though there was no merriment behind it. ‘But I won’t disturb you again, I promise.’ ‘Because you don’t intend going back to sleep?’ She tipped her head to one side, seeing the answer in his eyes. They were a bright and piercing blue, the very first thing she’d noticed about him on the doorstep, but now they looked haunted. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to for a while either. It’s hard to calm down after a shock, especially when you’ve been fighting imaginary assailants with umbrellas.’ He looked faintly amused, the barest hint of a smile softening the harsh lines of his face. ‘I do appreciate your coming to rescue me. Nothing scares intruders away like an umbrella, I understand.’ ‘Ah, but I was simply creating a diversion. I intended for you to do the rest. Unless you were indisposed, of course, in which case I would have hurled the umbrella at whoever it was and gone for the poker instead. I had it all planned out.’ ‘Evidently.’ He actually chuckled. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ ‘About what?’ A shutter seemed to slam down over his eyes, turning the blue into shards of silver, as wintery cold as the snow outside. ‘Whatever it is you were dreaming about. My younger sister used to have nightmares after our father died. We shared a bed so I always knew, but talking about it soothed her.’ ‘What happened to your father?’ The shutters lifted slightly, though he didn’t answer her question. ‘Typhoid. There was an epidemic in London ten years ago and he was one of the victims. Lottie was only twelve and it wasn’t easy for her to witness.’ ‘Or for you, I should imagine. I doubt you were much older.’ ‘No. I was fifteen, but I had to be strong for her and my brother and mother.’ She winced at the memory of that dark time. ‘My parents were devoted to each other, you see. They ran a charitable institution, but after he died, my mother couldn’t bear to face the world for a while. Someone had to be practical and keep things going.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ His gaze seemed very intense all of a sudden. ‘For all of you.’ ‘Thank you.’ She rocked back on her heels as they lapsed into a pensive silence, without so much as the crackle of a log in the fireplace to relieve the atmosphere of tension. Maybe she ought to go back to bed, after all, Millie thought. If he didn’t want to talk, then she didn’t want to push him, although for some reason she didn’t want to leave so soon either. Despite the tension she felt strangely comfortable with him. ‘What did you say to your sister after her nightmares?’ he asked finally, his voice softer than before. ‘How did you make her feel better?’ ‘I’d tell her that the pain would ease in time, that Father wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad and that we had to take care of each other the way he would have wanted us to. But mostly I just let her talk.’ ‘And that helped?’ ‘It seemed to.’ He nodded and stared down at the floor as if he were considering something, his brows contracted into a straight, hard line. ‘What do you know about the military campaign in Afghanistan?’ She blinked, taken aback by the change of subject. ‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers. It sounded awful.’ ‘It was.’ He looked up again, the muscles in his jaw and neck clenched tight. ‘I was sent there two years ago as a captain in the Army of the Indus, twenty-one thousand men sent to play “the Great Game”, as Melbourne and the rest of our politicians called it. It wasn’t a game for us. That was the real nightmare. Things happened that I wish I’d never seen, things done by both sides, but I was one of the lucky ones. I was sent back to India after a year. I wasn’t in the Khyber Pass.’ ‘Oh.’ She lifted a hand to her mouth, horrified by the mere mention of it. ‘That was terrible. Just one survivor.’ ‘Out of thousands of soldiers.’ He nodded grimly. ‘Our generals were over-confident and didn’t understand the terrain. They delayed the retreat for far too long, until winter. The whole campaign was a disaster. There were skirmishes on our march back to India, too. My unit was attacked several times.’ ‘Were you injured?’ For some reason the thought made her breath catch. ‘Not badly, but…almost.’ A muscle in his jaw seemed to spasm. ‘I had a friend who saved me from a knife in the stomach. Unfortunately it got him in the shoulder instead.’ ‘Did he recover?’ ‘We carried him back to India on a stretcher, hoping he’d somehow pull through, but…’ He dropped his gaze to the floor again. ‘I sat by his bedside for four days, telling him he’d been a damned fool to save me and doing whatever I could to repay the favour, but it wasn’t enough. All I could do was watch him die.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say. ‘So am I.’ ‘I’m sure he was glad to have a friend by his side.’ ‘I don’t think he was aware of much by the end.’ He ran a hand over his brow. ‘He was thirty years old with a fianc?e waiting at home and his whole life ahead of him. I was going to be the best man at his wedding. It was all such a waste.’ ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t argue with that. ‘What was his name?’ ‘Towse, Captain Edward Towse.’ He grimaced as he reached for the bottle of port that wasn’t there. ‘He was like a brother to me and I…’ ‘You blame yourself?’ She finished as his voice broke. ‘Yes.’ ‘It was his choice to save you.’ ‘But he shouldn’t have taken the risk. I didn’t ask him to.’ The look in his eyes was stark. ‘He gave up his life for mine. That’s not an easy thing to live with.’ ‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’ She shook her head sympathetically. ‘Is that what you dream about?’ He nodded. ‘Not every night, but often. I watch the whole scene in my head, only slowed down. I see the glint of the blade heading towards me, I see my own sword come up and then I see Edward push me aside. Then I can’t see anything because his back is in the way and then…then I see him fall. Over and over again, like I’m trapped in those few minutes. It’s as though my mind thinks if I watch it enough times then I’ll be able to change things somehow, to stop it all from happening, but I can’t. Nothing ever changes. Not the result or the guilt. Some nights I’m afraid to go to sleep.’ He gave a ragged laugh and shook his head. ‘A grown man, afraid of his own dreams.’ ‘They’re not dreams.’ She repeated his earlier words. ‘They’re memories.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘Is that why you left the army?’ ‘Part of the reason, but I was needed back in England, too.’ He shifted forward, bracing his arms over his knees. ‘A few days after Edward’s funeral, I got word that my cousin had taken a bad fall from his horse. By the time I returned to England, he was dead.’ ‘How dreadful. Were you very close?’ ‘Not so much in recent years, but as boys we were inseparable. We grew up together, you see, but after university our lives went in different directions. Magnus married and had children and I joined the army. I wish I’d made more of an effort to stay close to him.’ He stared down at the purple-stained hearth and made a face. ‘Now you see why I drink. Guilt is a terrible thing, Just Millie, but you’re quite right.’ ‘What do you mean?’ She drew her brows together. ‘I didn’t say anything.’ ‘Ah, but you thought it and you’re right. Edward sacrificed himself to save me and all I do to repay the favour is wallow in self-pity and alcohol. It’s downright ungrateful.’ ‘I don’t recall thinking any of that.’ She stiffened, offended by the implication. ‘Everyone grieves in their own way.’ ‘But I suspect that you wouldn’t behave like this. I ought to be practical like you were, don’t you think?’ ‘I still have emotions, Mr Whitlock. Just because I threw myself into work when my father died doesn’t mean I didn’t love or mourn him. A person can be practical and still feel.’ ‘Forgive me—’ he reached forward suddenly and caught one of her hands ‘—I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. It takes strength and courage not to let your emotions get the better of you, to carry on with life even when you’re in pain. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to move past what happened, that I’ll never find peace or joy again.’ His gaze burned into hers. ‘You have fortitude, Just Millie. I admire and envy you for that. On top of which, you’re an excellent listener. Your sister is very lucky to have you.’ ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at their joined hands. Hers looked so small and weak inside his, yet he said he envied her strength. ‘And things will get better for you, I’m sure of it. Even the memories will fade eventually. You’ll find peace and joy again.’ ‘Will I? Why do I deserve those things when he’s gone?’ ‘Because everyone deserves those things. And you will because wounds scar over.’ She strove to sound reassuring. ‘You were wounded that day you lost your friend, just like I was when I lost my father. They might not have been injuries anyone could see, but they were still real. Some wounds might be mortal, but the rest heal and scar over in time. You might not be the same person you were before, but you’ll be able to move on some day.’ ‘Move on…’ he repeated the words, his fingers tightening imperceptibly over hers. ‘I’m almost afraid you’re a part of some dream, too, Just Millie, only a good one this time. Are you sure you’re real and not a figment of my imagination?’ ‘I think so.’ She nodded, though she had to admit she was feeling somewhat light-headed. Probably because her pulse was accelerating to a positively alarming rate. She tried drawing in a breath to slow it down, but the room seemed unusually lacking in air. It made her feel as if she were panting instead. Desperately, she shifted her gaze away from their hands and then instantly regretted it. His shoulders were broad and muscular and the neck of his shirt was open, revealing the strong column of his throat as well as the top of his chest and a dusting of pale golden hair beneath. Her gaze continued downwards, as if drawn of its own volition, certainly against her own better judgement. He must have woken up in a sweat because his shirt was stuck to his skin in places, making the stomach muscles beneath as visible as if he were naked. She ran her tongue nervously over lips that felt bone dry all of a sudden. Their close proximity was utterly inappropriate, even more so than her being there was already, but his hand was still holding hers, his fingers warm and strong, and she felt an almost irresistible impulse to stroke the inside of his palm with her thumb. ‘I’m very real—’ she cleared her throat instead ‘—but I don’t deserve your admiration. Sometimes I feel trapped, too, not in the past, but in the present. I don’t compare my situation to yours, of course, but there are days when I want to scream at the very top of my lungs. If I hadn’t found your house this evening, I might actually have done it, just to see how it feels.’ ‘Go ahead.’ She looked up in alarm. ‘I’m not going to scream, Mr Whitlock.’ ‘Why not? It’s the perfect opportunity. There aren’t any other houses within hearing distance, just a lot of trees. You might frighten a few badgers and squirrels, but we can live with that.’ ‘I still can’t scream.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I don’t do things like that. It’s not who I am. Once maybe, but not any more.’ ‘Then who are you, Just Millie?’ ‘Who am I?’ The very question made her feel reckless. ‘I’m Miss Amelia Fairclough, teacher of sewing and housekeeping at the Fairclough Foundation. I’m practical, virtuous and self-sacrificing.’ She drew her fingers away from his to tick the qualities off one by one. ‘Which I know because everyone tells me so.’ His lips twitched as he lifted an eyebrow quizzically. ‘Aren’t they supposed to be positive qualities?’ ‘They are, but put all together like that they just sound so utterly boring.’ ‘Surely people don’t tell you that?’ ‘Not to my face, but it’s implied. Self-sacrificing, as if I don’t have a self!’ She dug her nails into her palms in frustration. ‘It’s not that I’m unhappy, at least not exactly. My work is very rewarding and it pleases me to know that I’m doing something useful and helping others, but I want to be more than just practical and virtuous! I used to be, only those things have become habits and now everyone expects them of me. I feel so…’ ‘Trapped?’ ‘Exactly! And boring. I feel as if I’ve become someone I didn’t want to be, someone I’m not even sure that I like. My sister and brother are both far more interesting than I am.’ ‘Are you the eldest?’ ‘Only by half an hour. Silas is my twin.’ She drew in a deep breath and then sighed it out again. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I was trying to be different and rebellious tonight and look what happened! I got lost in a snowstorm and ruined your evening.’ ‘You haven’t ruined anything. I’m glad to have met you, Just Millie.’ ‘You are?’ ‘Extremely.’ He sounded surprisingly genuine. ‘You’ve made me feel better.’ ‘I’m glad.’ She peered up at him. ‘Although in that case I probably shouldn’t tell you the most boring thing of all.’ ‘But now I’m curious.’ There was a hint of a smile in his voice. ‘Tell me.’ ‘All right…’ She sighed again. ‘It’s that at this precise moment, what I’d like more than anything else in the world is a cup of tea.’ She screwed her mouth up apologetically. ‘That’s not something an exciting woman would say, is it?’ ‘I don’t know. It sounds like a quite genius idea to me.’ He pushed himself out of his chair, started towards the door and then stopped, turning around to bob down beside her. ‘For what it’s worth I don’t think you’re boring at all. In fact, I think you might be the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.’ His gaze dropped. ‘And my dressing gown suits you, by the way.’ ‘Oh!’ She pressed a hand to the throat of the peacock-green-and-blue garment self-consciously. It swamped her slender shoulders and trailed several inches along the floor, looking more like a ceremonial robe than a housecoat, but it was soft and surprisingly comfortable, so much so that she’d forgotten she was wearing it. She even liked its musky smell. ‘I was rushing to get downstairs, but I didn’t want to do it in my unmentionables and this was the first thing that came to hand.’ ‘Well, that’s certainly a relief. We wouldn’t want any unmentionables on display.’ His gaze drifted to her mouth and then back to her eyes, his own glowing with some indefinable emotion. Only it brought the word smouldering to mind. ‘Now wait here and I’ll see what I can find in the kitchen.’ Millie waited until the parlour door had closed before swallowing hard. His face had been so close to hers that for the space of a few unsteady heartbeats she’d thought that he was going to embrace her. To kiss her. The idea ought to have been shocking, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, it had been quite decidedly tempting. She pressed her hands to her furiously blushing cheeks, feeling as if his gaze itself had scorched her. Ironically after her evening’s adventure in the snow, now the whole room felt too hot. She stood up and moved away from the fire, trying to distract herself from the fact that she’d just poured her heart and soul out to a man she’d only just met. It was outrageous! Though on the other hand, it had felt good to talk to someone about her feelings for once, and it wasn’t as if she’d done anything very wrong. She’d only told the truth and it was an unusual night, after all, a break from her real life of virtue and self-sacrifice, a snow-covered secret that no one else ever needed to know about. And he’d called her intriguing. That was the best secret of all. Chapter Four (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) ‘Tea is served,’ Cassius announced, lifting the pot and pouring out two cups of steaming amber liquid. ‘Thank you.’ Miss Amelia Fairclough, as she was apparently called, clasped her hands around the rim with a pleased-sounding sigh. ‘Sugar?’ ‘Two lumps, please.’ ‘Two lumps.’ He dropped them into her cup and stirred. ‘I’m rather good at playing mistress of the house, don’t you think?’ ‘Very proficient.’ Her lips—perfect, bow-shaped, rosy-red lips—spread into a smile. ‘All you need now is an apron.’ He chuckled and sat down on the hearth rug beside her, leaning against the armchair for comfort. It was strange how relaxed he felt in her company now. Positively serene, in fact. Since returning to England, he’d barely spoken about his time in Afghanistan and India to anyone, no more than was necessary anyway. He preferred that nobody knew how much the experience had affected him. Part of the reason he chose to sleep in the gatehouse was so that his staff, never mind Sylvia and her daughters, wouldn’t overhear his nightmares. He didn’t want anyone else to know that he had them at all, only Miss Fairclough had somehow guessed the truth. As to why he’d chosen to tell her the details, he had no idea. It wasn’t simply because she’d been there in a moment of weakness. It was her. She’d made him want to talk, to be listened to as well by someone who’d seemed like she might understand. She’d truly made him feel better. So much so that he wanted to help her, too. ‘Now I have a question for you, Just Millie, if you’ll permit me?’ ‘I will.’ She lifted her cup and blew across the surface of the tea to cool it. ‘But I’ve told you my full name. You’re permitted to use it.’ ‘But I prefer Just Millie. It suits you and Miss Amelia sounds far too formal. In my mind you’ll always be Just Millie, umbrellaed avenger!’ ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ She laughed. It sounded soft and soothing, like water trickling over stones in a brook. ‘Very well, then, what’s your question?’ ‘What do you want?’ She gave him a baffled look. ‘Pardon?’ ‘You said that you’ve become someone you didn’t want to be so…’ he opened his hands, palms upwards ‘…what do you want? If you could do anything with your life, what would it be?’ ‘Anything at all?’ ‘Anything. Be Queen of England if you want.’ ‘I believe the position is taken, but if I could do anything…’ She tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to be decadent, just for one day. I’d lie on a chaise longue, eat macaroons, read novels and have a cat.’ ‘A cat?’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did I mention that you could do anything?’ ‘Yes, but I don’t have any regal ambitions and I’ve always wanted a pet cat. My brother sneezes around them so it was never possible growing up.’ ‘So you’re saying that you want a cat more than you want to be Queen?’ She nodded her head firmly. ‘I’d call it Electra or Orestes, depending on whether it was male or female.’ ‘I see you’ve put a lot of thought into this.’ ‘I have.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I tried keeping a stray once. She was mewling so pitifully at the back door so I made her a little bed in the coal shed, but I must have carried her hair inside on my clothes. Silas still sneezed.’ She sighed plaintively. ‘Fortunately, I found her a home with an old lady on our street. They were both very happy.’ ‘And why the Greek names?’ ‘Oh, I’ve always liked Greek mythology. When I was little I had a book filled with stories and legends. I read it so much that eventually the cover fell off.’ ‘You don’t think that Electra and Orestes have somewhat bloodthirsty connotations?’ ‘They’re still nice names.’ ‘I suppose so.’ His lips twitched in bemusement. The conversation was so odd he half-wondered if he was dreaming again. ‘Well then, can’t you have a cat now? Or does your brother still live at home?’ ‘No.’ Her expression turned anxious. ‘He went to America to seek his fortune just over a year ago. He sent several letters at first, but now we haven’t had any word in seven months. We’re all worried.’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘I’m sure there are all kinds of good reasons why we haven’t received any letters, but if I were to get a cat, it would be like admitting he wasn’t coming back at all.’ ‘I see.’ ‘But maybe I’ll get one if—’ She stopped mid-sentence, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink colour. ‘If…?’ ‘If I marry.’ She lifted her teacup and held it at chin level. ‘A friend of the family, our local Curate, asked me to marry him last week.’ ‘Indeed?’ He felt a jolt in his chest, a reflexive stab of something like disappointment. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’ ‘Because he’s a friend. I know we could get along perfectly well together. He’s a good man and I respect him, but I don’t know if I could ever care for him in the right way. As a husband, I mean.’ ‘Have you told him that?’ ‘Oh, yes, and he said he’s had similar thoughts about me as a wife, but overall he considers friendship more important than love.’ She took a sip of tea and then looked up abruptly. ‘Isn’t that odd? If you were married, wouldn’t you want your partner to be more than just a friend?’ Yes. Unquestionably. Undoubtedly. Unequivocally. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them with a mouthful of too-hot tea. ‘I suppose so. Some people might even say it was integral.’ ‘He’s never even tried to kiss me.’ She murmured the words as if to herself and then blushed violently again. ‘Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that.’ ‘Why not? Kissing is another important aspect of marriage.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ Her eyelashes fluttered. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Only he doesn’t seem to want to and every time I even try to imagine kissing him, my mind just shies away from the idea. Last week I polished all the brass in the house just to avoid thinking about it! I know I oughtn’t to say it, especially to another man, but it just doesn’t feel right.’ ‘Then I believe you might have your answer to his proposal.’ ‘It’s not as simple as that!’ She sounded indignant. ‘I wish it were.’ ‘But surely if you don’t feel the right way…?’ ‘How I feel has nothing to do with it. My mother and sister and I are almost down to the last of our savings. Without my brother’s money coming from America, we can’t afford our rent, let alone food, at least not without taking money from the Foundation and Mother would hate to do that. If I don’t marry, then we could be destitute.’ ‘You can’t marry just for a place to live.’ ‘Says the man who’s allowed to make his own living.’ She gave him a scornful look. ‘Having a place to live is the reason why a lot of women marry. We have to be practical.’ ‘Can’t you strive for happiness, too?’ ‘Keeping a roof over my family’s heads will make me happy.’ ‘Even if it makes you want to go out into the woods and scream?’ She knitted her brows together, taking another sip of tea before answering. ‘Even if it does that, yes.’ ‘What about love? Your suitor might not think it important, but what do you think?’ If he wasn’t mistaken, her breath caught at the word love. ‘That would be another sacrifice, but I believe marriages without love are quite common.’ ‘Pardon my saying so, but you sound very cynical about it.’ ‘I suppose I am. Only I’ve met all kinds of women at the Foundation and I’ve listened to their stories. I know the real world isn’t romantic.’ ‘On the whole I’d agree with you, but you seem a little too young to give up.’ ‘I’m twenty-five.’ Her eyes shot to his and then softened. ‘Forgive me, you might be right. I know that true love exists because I saw it with my parents, but I can’t let my mother and sister be thrown out of our home just because I want the same thing. It would be selfish of me. Besides, what if I never meet a man I can fall in love with?’ ‘What if you do?’ ‘And what if we all starve or freeze to death in the meantime?’ ‘I still say that marrying this suitor of yours is a sacrifice too far.’ He felt suddenly determined to convince her. If she was so desperate for money, then he would be more than happy to help, though he could hardly make the offer at that moment without it sounding somewhat indecent. Perhaps what she needed was a different kind of convincing. ‘All right, Just Millie, tell me this.’ He leaned closer towards her. ‘Do you think you could ever love this man?’ ‘As a friend or a brother, yes. As a wife, no.’ ‘Because you can’t imagine kissing him?’ ‘In part.’ ‘Have you ever been kissed?’ ‘Mr Whitlock!’ Her body jerked so abruptly that tea sloshed on to his dressing gown. ‘Don’t worry about that.’ He reached for her cup, putting it aside as she started to wipe herself down. ‘I shouldn’t have put the question so bluntly, but have you considered that it might just be the thought of kissing itself that puts you off? If you’ve never tried it, perhaps you’re simply nervous?’ ‘Perhaps.’ She pulled her shoulders back stiffly and folded her hands in her lap, seeming to make a concerted effort to regain her composure, though her expression was still flustered. ‘Yes, I suppose it could be that.’ ‘In which case, maybe I can help.’ Green eyes widened like saucers. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that if you’d like to try then I’d be more than happy to oblige.’ ‘You would be…’ He hadn’t thought that her eyes could get any bigger, but apparently he’d been wrong. Fortunately, the expression in them was more bewildered than offended. ‘Are you offering to kiss me, Mr Whitlock?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because…’ He started and then stopped, considering for a moment. In all honesty, he was somewhat surprised by the suggestion himself. He couldn’t even blame it on the port since he’d sobered up a good hour ago. It wasn’t a gentlemanly offer. On the contrary, it was downright ungentlemanly, only now that he’d made it, he found himself somewhat ardently hoping she’d say yes. ‘Well, for a start, because you helped me earlier and now I’d like to help you. I admit that kissing isn’t something I’d usually suggest to a young lady, but we might consider it as a practical experiment, a way to work out how you feel about the whole process.’ ‘I see.’ She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him. ‘So kissing me would constitute your good deed for the day?’ ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I told you, I’m more than happy to do it.’ ‘How gallant of you to say so.’ ‘Forgive me—’ he couldn’t help but smile at her sarcasm ‘—I didn’t mean to imply any selflessness on my part. I’m sure I would enjoy the experience, too. It would just be one kiss, one single, solitary, utterly harmless kiss.’ ‘Something tells me Gilbert wouldn’t see it that way.’ ‘Gilbert? That’s the name of your suitor?’ ‘Yes.’ She blinked. ‘What’s wrong with Gilbert?’ ‘Nothing, only I’m Mr Whitlock.’ ‘Because we’ve only just met!’ ‘True, but since you’re thinking about kissing me, you might at least call me Cassius.’ ‘I never said I was thinking about kissing you.’ ‘But you are?’ ‘No!’ She shook her head so emphatically that auburn hair tumbled forward over her shoulders. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’ ‘Why not?’ He let his eyes follow the lustrous waves downwards. They reached to just below her breasts. If she were naked, the sight would be quite tantalising. His imagination was already running riot… ‘I don’t suppose you could shake your head again?’ She ignored his request. ‘How could I marry Gilbert after kissing someone else?’ ‘You wouldn’t have to tell him.’ ‘That would be even more wicked!’ ‘All right then, tell him the truth: that you needed to know what the experience was like.’ ‘Then he’ll say that I should have asked him to kiss me.’ ‘Exactly!’ Cassius grinned triumphantly. ‘Only he shouldn’t have needed to be asked. He should have done it already. That’s as good a reason as any for not marrying him, in my opinion. The man’s clearly insane.’ ‘Mr Whitlock…’ she pursed her lips, looking and sounding like an archetypal schoolmistress ‘…either you’re teasing me or you’re a Lothario.’ ‘Millie…’ he shifted closer, emulating her tone ‘…if I were a Lothario, then I wouldn’t have asked if you wanted to be kissed, I would simply have done it. Then I would have found us another bottle of port and made some excuse to escort you upstairs. You were the one who came down, remember? And I believe you were also the one who first mentioned kissing?’ ‘Oh, yes…’ her brow wrinkled ‘…so I did.’ ‘And, as for teasing, I assure you that my offer is entirely genuine.’ His leg brushed inadvertently against hers, though since it was there he didn’t bother to move it away. ‘The truth is I’d rather like to kiss you. Your lips look quite extraordinarily kissable, especially now.’ ‘Why especially now?’ ‘Because you look so surprised.’ He brought his face alongside hers, murmuring into her ear, ‘Is it really so inconceivable that I might want to kiss you?’ ‘Honestly?’ A small tremor seemed to run through her before she moved her head back to look him in the eyes again. ‘Yes.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Nobody’s ever wanted to before.’ ‘Only as far as you know.’ ‘Well, yes, but…’ She drew her bottom lip into her mouth and sucked, unconsciously, he was certain, though the gesture struck him as intensely sensual. ‘Just one kiss?’ ‘Just one and we’ll stop whenever you want. We don’t even have to talk about it afterwards. We can talk about something else entirely. The East India Company in China, for example. Personally I consider their behaviour reprehensible, but Peel and his government seem deter—’ ‘Cassius?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I think I’d prefer not to talk about the Prime Minister right now.’ ‘As you wish. I’m a Whig myself…’ ‘Cassius?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘You can kiss me. Just once…’ her pupils seemed to swell as she spoke ‘…and just as an experiment.’ ‘With pleasure.’ He lifted a hand to her cheek and drew her face gently, but steadily, towards him. Her eyes opened wide for a split second and then closed as his lips touched against hers, though she didn’t pull away as he’d half-expected she might. On the contrary, she swayed closer, actually increasing the pressure of the kiss as she let out a small, barely distinguishable sigh. The sound seemed to warm his insides, heating his blood and making his heart skip a beat and then start to pump at twice its usual speed. Her lips were just as kissable as they’d appeared, velvety smooth and tasting of hot, sweet tea. Perfectly delicious, in fact. He slid his tongue between them, stroking the inside of her mouth, also delicious, then brought his other hand up to slide through the soft red waves of her hair. She reached for his shoulders and a bolt of desire, startling in its intensity, shot through him with the force of a bullet. Damn it. He let his hand fall from her hair. This was a mistake. So much for one utterly harmless kiss. With this woman, he had a feeling that one kiss would never be anywhere near enough. He wanted more, much more, several hours’ worth of more, in fact. Which meant that he had to stop now before all the blood rushed to the lower half of his body and he lost the ability to make rational decisions. He broke away, clearing his throat to disguise the ragged sound of his breathing. ‘Well…’ He picked up his cup and drained the contents in a few short gulps, doing his best to adopt a suitably detached expression. ‘I think, as experiments go, that was quite satisfactory.’ ‘Ye—es.’ Her own breath emerged in shallow gasps as she looked at him dazedly for a few moments and then seemed to come back to herself, wrenching her hands away from his shoulders. ‘It was…illuminating.’ ‘Good.’ Apparently his throat needed clearing a second time. ‘Then I hope it helps you come to a decision.’ ‘A decision?’ She looked confused. ‘Oh, you mean about Gilbert. Yes, perhaps I’ve misjudged him, after all.’ ‘What?’ ‘Well, as you say, the experiment was quite satisfactory. Perhaps kissing him won’t be such a problem.’ ‘But that wasn’t the point!’ ‘Yes, it was. We were trying to establish if I liked kissing in principle.’ Cassius rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling unreasonably offended. Had they been trying to establish that? Now that he thought of it, he’d said something similar. Only he’d been so intent upon kissing her that perhaps he hadn’t thought the idea through… ‘Well, yes, I suppose. Or at least I was trying to prove that kissing can, should, be pleasurable, but kissing one person isn’t the same as kissing another.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because everyone is different.’ ‘Then why didn’t you tell me that before?’ Her tone was accusing. ‘You said that kissing you would help me to imagine kissing Gilbert!’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes!’ She blinked. ‘Didn’t you?’ ‘I’m not entirely sure I remember.’ He clamped his brows together. ‘Perhaps you should try imagining it now?’ ‘I can’t right now! It wouldn’t be right.’ ‘No, perhaps not. Here.’ He picked up her cup of tea and handed it to her. What was it his aunt had always said? Nothing like a cup of tea in a crisis. And if this wasn’t a crisis he didn’t know what was. ‘Drink up before it gets cold.’ ‘Thank you.’ She took a few sips, watching him warily out of the corner of her eye before putting the cup down again and standing up. ‘I ought to get back to bed. It’s very late.’ ‘Of course.’ He stood up, too, making a small, awkward bow. ‘I hope that you sleep well, Miss Fairclough. I apologise for the misunderstanding.’ ‘Not at all.’ She seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze. ‘It was my fault, too. Perhaps we should just forget it ever happened?’ ‘Consider it done.’ ‘Thank you.’ She started towards the door and then stopped, half-twisting her face back towards him. ‘When you say it would be different with Gilbert, how different exactly do you mean?’ ‘Well…’ He felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy. ‘I suppose that depends on how much you feel like polishing some brass right now.’ ‘Oh… I see. Well, goodnight then, Mr Whitlock. I hope that you don’t have any more bad dreams.’ Cassius waited until the parlour door had closed shut behind her before dropping into his armchair. No matter how bad they’d been before, he had a feeling his dreams for the rest of the night were going to tell a whole different story. Chapter Five (#u0f17f734-61f2-5372-babb-436a2dd8416b) Millie crept through the hall on tiptoe, tensing as she lifted the latch of the front door and then lowered it with a soft click behind her. The sun was just coming up over the treetops and in the early hush of dawn even that tiny sound seemed too loud. Pulling her cloak tighter around her, she hurried through the gates that stood next to the house and out on to the road, relieved to be away from the scene of her disgrace. Thankfully the snow had stopped some time during the night and the village was only a mile down the road, or so Cassius had told her when she’d first appeared on his doorstep. Now she just had to hurry before he woke up and came after her. Would he come after her? She glanced nervously back over her shoulder, a wave of heat washing through her body at the thought. He’d been fast asleep in his armchair when she’d crept into the parlour to retrieve her cloak, but she was afraid it was something he might do if he woke up and found her gone. He’d said that his conscience wouldn’t be easy until he’d escorted her to her door, but the thought of seeing him again made her feel mortified. After the scandalous way she’d behaved, she doubted she’d be able to look him or any other man in the face ever again. She hadn’t even dared look at herself in the bedroom mirror that morning. She was a scarlet woman! Or if not completely scarlet, then definitely pink. Salmon-coloured maybe. She’d kissed a man, a man she’d only just met! A man with hypnotic blue eyes that had seemed to peer into her very soul and whose lips had unleashed a torrent of new and extraordinary responses in her body, each more shocking than the last. For a few wicked seconds she’d surrendered completely to a feeling of light-headed, breath-stealing, almost painfully intense pleasure. And why? Because for one brief moment curiosity had got the better of her. Because she’d liked him and the way he’d talked to her as if she really were intriguing. But mostly because she’d wanted to know how it would feel to be kissed. Well, she’d certainly achieved that. She hadn’t been able to get a wink of sleep afterwards, her whole body wide awake and tingling all over. Now the problem was going to be trying to forget it. She shook her head, determinedly attempting to displace the memory. She wouldn’t think of him or his lips or eyes, hypnotic or otherwise, ever again. She wouldn’t think of him at all. She only hoped that he wasn’t invited to any of the festive events her cousin had planned… Her steps faltered at the sight of a young woman, bundled up in a woollen shawl, trudging towards her from the direction of the village. ‘Good morning.’ Millie nodded her head as she passed, doing her best impression of a woman out for an entirely plausible jaunt in the snow. ‘Morning, miss.’ The woman’s gaze darted quickly to her face and then away again. Seized with an even greater sense of trepidation, Millie pulled her bonnet forward and increased her pace, making her way as quickly as her impractical evening gown would allow through the snowdrifts. Fortunately, she didn’t meet anyone else before she reached her cousin’s red-brick manor on the outskirts of the village. ‘Millie!’ Lilian Fairclough came flying out of the drawing room, flinging her arms around her the moment she entered the front door. ‘What on earth happened? Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.’ ‘You have?’ Millie looked at her mother in surprise. She’d taken the absence of search parties on her way as a good sign. ‘Well…yes.’ Her mother looked shame-faced. ‘Or at least we have been since five minutes ago when I came down to breakfast and Alexandra asked me how you’d been on the journey home. I had no idea you’d stayed to wait for me.’ ‘It didn’t occur to me to mention it last night.’ Alexandra came to stand behind her mother. ‘I just assumed that you’d gone straight to bed.’ ‘I thought that might happen…’ Millie kissed her mother’s cheek reassuringly ‘…but it’s all right. I’m here now.’ ‘Did Lady Fentree send you home in her carriage?’ Alexandra peered out of the window. ‘Has it left again already?’ ‘No. I walked back.’ ‘She let you walk? In this weather?’ ‘Actually she doesn’t know anything about it. I was out in the garden when I heard the last carriage leave and I thought it would be pleasant to make my own way home, although in retrospect I suppose that was somewhat foolish of me.’ ‘But surely you haven’t been out in these temperatures all night?’ Her mother looked horrified. ‘No, I came to a house and the owner gave me shelter.’ She made a show of removing her outer garments, horribly aware of her cheeks reddening. ‘Is breakfast still out? I’m famished.’ ‘You can have all the bacon and eggs you want.’ Alexandra took hold of one arm while her mother took hold of the other, leading her through to the dining room. ‘We’re just so relieved that you’re all right.’ ‘Ah, there she is!’ George Malverly waved a fork from one end of an oval-shaped mahogany table. ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d show up in her own good time? She’s resourceful, this one.’ ‘I appreciate your confidence.’ Millie took a seat beside him with a smile. Alexandra’s husband was a good twenty years older than his wife, but their marriage had been, and remained, a love match. At seventy years old, his figure was becoming increasingly portly and his nose a somewhat startling shade of red, but the roguish glint in his eye never failed to make her laugh. ‘Been out for a morning’s perambulation, eh?’ He nudged her arm across the corner of the table. ‘Good for the complexion, I should imagine.’ ‘Fresh air is good for the complexion, George.’ Alexandra sat down opposite. ‘A snowstorm is dangerous.’ ‘What? Oh, yes, quite right, but she’s here now and looking as fit as a fresh-faced fiddle. No damage done, I’d say.’ ‘Where was it you found shelter, dear?’ Her mother sat down beside Alexandra. ‘Just a house on the road. Could you pass me the toast, please?’ ‘Well, that certainly narrows it down.’ Her mother exchanged a glance with her cousin. ‘It’s mostly woodland between here and the Fentrees, isn’t it?’ ‘Nearly the whole way.’ ‘Where’s the butter?’ ‘There’s only one house I can think of and that’s empty.’ ‘I think I’d like marmalade this morning…’ ‘Who was it that sheltered you, dear?’ ‘Oh, I meant jam. Strawberry preserve if you have any?’ ‘Millie?’ Her mother lifted an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you’re being rather evasive.’ ‘Am I?’ She smeared butter on to a piece of toast and then put the knife down, acutely aware of two pairs of eyes watching her like constables across the table. ‘Oh, very well. It was a gatehouse. There was a drive leading somewhere, but I couldn’t see any other buildings close by.’ ‘It must have been the one belonging to Falconmore Hall.’ Alexandra looked surprised. ‘The drive’s a good two miles long, but I didn’t think anyone lived in the gatehouse any more.’ ‘They don’t.’ George speared his fork into a piece of kipper. ‘Not for the past two years.’ ‘Well, there was someone there last night.’ ‘Yes, but who?’ ‘Who?’ Millie took a deep breath, scooped up some strawberry jam and dolloped it on to her bread. ‘I believe he said he was the estate manager.’ ‘A man?’ Alexandra pressed a hand to her mouth with a look of horror. ‘An estate manager?’ George looked thoughtful. ‘Falconmore must have hired somebody new. Seems odd when Linton’s been doing the job perfectly well for fifteen years, but there you go. New man, new ideas, I suppose.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Millie paused with the toast halfway to her lips. ‘Oh, the former Marquess died just about a year ago. Tried jumping a fence he shouldn’t have, poor fellow. I suppose the new Lord Falconmore thinks it’s time for some changes.’ ‘George!’ Alexandra interrupted her husband sternly. ‘Falconmore’s staffing situation is irrelevant. Millie spent the night alone in a house with a man!’ ‘Did she, by Jove?’ ‘Yes…’ Millie swallowed a mouthful of toast ‘…but under the circumstances, I was very grateful to see him. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t let me stay.’ ‘Well, yes…’ Alexandra leaned forward over the table ‘…but a man? Wasn’t there anyone else in the house?’ ‘I’m afraid not.’ She straightened her shoulders defensively. ‘I know it looks bad, but I couldn’t have walked another step and there was a blizzard. I almost collapsed on his doorstep as it was. The situation was regrettable, but unavoidable. Fortunately, only he and I and now the three of you know. Surely that’s safe enough?’ ‘Do you think you can trust his discretion?’ ‘Yes.’ For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her to doubt it. ‘And nobody saw you leave?’ ‘No, and I saw only one other person this morning, a maid on the road, but I was halfway back to the village by then.’ ‘Yes, but the snow stopped during the night.’ ‘What difference does that make?’ ‘Your footprints.’ Her mother looked anxious. ‘They’ll lead straight back to the gatehouse.’ ‘Oh…dear.’ She stared at her toast for a few seconds and then put it down, losing her appetite suddenly. Oh, double dear… ‘Well, that doesn’t mean the maid will have noticed—’ George’s tone was reassuring ‘—and even if she did, how would she know who Millie is?’ ‘That’s true.’ She grasped at the idea eagerly. ‘Thank you, George.’ ‘Always glad to be of service.’ ‘Mmm.’ Alexandra sounded doubtful. ‘We were going to call on a few acquaintances this morning, but under the circumstances it might be best for you to stay here, just in case you were recognised. Your hair colour is quite distinctive, after all. We’d better give it a couple of days to make sure.’ ‘In that case, we’ll have coffee and biscuits in the library.’ George winked at her. ‘How do you fancy a few games of backgammon?’ ‘That sounds lovely.’ Millie smiled, trying to quell a nagging sense of disquiet. ‘Just lovely.’ Cassius knocked twice on the bedroom door with his knuckles and then twisted the handle. The cup of tea he’d left outside earlier was untouched despite his having knocked then, too, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d given it a full hour, but without any sound from upstairs, not so much as the faintest creak of a floorboard, he was becoming somewhat anxious. ‘Miss Fairclough?’ He nudged the door open slowly, though even a brief glance showed that the room was completely empty, albeit tidier than it had been before. The furniture had all been straightened, the bed completely made up and his dressing gown folded neatly across it. He walked in and picked it up, lifting the velvet collar to his face with a curious sense of loss. It smelt like her, of soap and some other floral perfume, like bergamot and orange blossoms. She was gone, though as to when and why she’d left without as much as a goodbye… He grimaced. The answers to both of those questions were obvious. When had been after he’d finally drifted into a deep and surprisingly restful slumber and why was in all likelihood due to his ungentlemanly behaviour. She’d probably been afraid he might pounce on her again. He hung the dressing gown where it belonged on the back of the door and then crouched down, spotting something shiny on the rug beside the bed, a garnet-and-emerald-studded gold brooch shaped like a butterfly. He held it in his palm, studying it for a few seconds, then tucked it inside his jacket pocket and made his way determinedly down the stairs, stopping only to pull on his greatcoat, boots and top hat at the door. There was nothing else for it. Even if she’d run away in the early hours, then the least he could do was make sure she’d made it back to the village safely. Fortunately for him, her footprints were still perfectly clear in the snow, leading him all the way back to Rayleigh and her front door. Which answered the question of who her relative was. George, Viscount Malverly, and his wife, Alexandra, were passing acquaintances. If he knocked now, then he could be certain that they’d receive him, at least. The question, however, was not would, but should, he, whether it wouldn’t simply be better for him to turn around and go. Miss Fairclough’s early departure made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to see him again and, much as he ought to apologise, respecting her wishes was more important. He turned on his heel, marching back the way that he’d come. And that, he supposed, was that. Footprints in the snow would be the last he would see of her. Which was probably for the best, all things considered. Any attraction he’d felt, that she’d seemed to feel, too, for that matter, had likely just been the result of the tense situation in which they’d found themselves. Besides, no matter how beguiling or intriguing he found her, he had enough on his hands dealing with Sylvia. He certainly didn’t need another woman in his life, especially one who knew all about his past, not to mention his nightmares. And it wasn’t as if his finer emotions were involved. His heart was a battered and broken organ, incapable of feeling anything positive to any great degree, love especially. Love, in his experience, led to loss and pain. He’d lost too many people he cared about and seen too many terrible things for it to recover again, even for someone as intriguing as Just Millie Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=48664926&lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.