LOVE AND OTHER SURPRISES

A Regency Duo with Kittens

EMILY LARKIN

Contents

Lady Isabella’s Ogre

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Lieutenant Mayhew’s Catastrophes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Claim your free book

Thank You

The Earl’s Dilemma

My Lady Thief

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Emily Larkin

Dear Reader

This duo consists of a novel, Lady Isabella’s Ogre, and its companion novella, Lieutenant Mayhew’s Catastrophes.

This is the first time these two books have been published together, allowing readers to follow the fortunes of a certain litter of kittens.

I hope you enjoy the kittens’ story, as well as the stories of the people who rescue and care for them. Love is a wonderful thing, but kittens make it even better!

Happy reading,

Emily

Lady Isabella’s Ogre

A note to readers

Lady Isabella’s Ogre was originally published as Beauty and the Scarred Hero, under the penname Emily May. When I set about revising it, all I intended to do was get rid of a few exclamation marks and give it a fresh copyedit, but towards the end of the book I encountered a scene that I didn’t like.

In fact, I didn’t like the last few chapters at all, which was a disconcerting discovery. But being a writer, I had a solution: I rewrote those chapters!

This version of the story works much better for me. I hope it works better for you, too.

Emily

Chapter One

“This is a respectable establishment. It’s not for the likes of you.”

Lady Isabella Knox, sister of the Duke of Middlebury, paused in the act of removing her gloves. She looked down at her dog. Rufus cocked his head and gazed back at her with mismatched eyes. His tail wagged, brushing the muddy hem of her walking dress.

“I beg of you, don’t turn me away.” The speaker was tearful, young, and well-bred.

“The Hogshead will take you.” The landlady’s voice came clearly from the taproom, cold and dismissive.

“Oh, but, please—” The girl’s entreaty ended on a sob.

Isabella pulled one kidskin glove off, finger by finger. She glanced at the half-open door to the taproom and then at the staircase, at the top of which a comfortable and very private parlor awaited her. Curiosity is a sin, she told herself.

She heard brisk footsteps behind her: her maid, Partridge.

“Fresh air,” Partridge muttered, shutting the parasol with a snap. “Dirt and puddles and yokels gaping—”

Isabella raised a finger. “Hush a moment, Partridge.”

“I beg you, please . . .” The girl sounded so like her niece Felicity that Isabella made up her mind. She stepped towards the taproom door. Rufus followed, his claws clicking briskly on the flagstones.

“A fine thing it would be if I let you put up here, with her Ladyship in the house—”

Isabella laid her hand on the door. It swung open at her touch. She took in the taproom with a glance: the low, beamed ceiling, the wide fireplace, the landlady in her white apron and widow’s cap, and the girl, pretty and tear-stained, with a portmanteau at her feet.

The landlady drew herself up, stout and starched, and then sank into an obsequious curtsy. “Your Ladyship.”

“Mrs. Botham.” Isabella looked at the girl. Yes, very like Felicity. Dark-haired and slender and scarcely out of the schoolroom. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Pray, don’t turn this child out into the street on my account.”

The landlady straightened. Her face was round-cheeked, her complexion florid, her expression righteous. “The Hogshead will do very well for her.”

Isabella looked at the girl’s clothing—the green sarcenet pelisse, the straw bonnet trimmed with ribbon, the jaconet muslin gown, all neat and well-made. “Do you think so?”

She spoke gently, but the color in Mrs. Botham’s cheeks heightened.

The girl curtsied. “Ma’am, if you please, I don’t wish to put up at the Hogshead.”

“I should think not.” There was nothing common about the girl’s vowels, or her curtsy. “Where is your maid?”

The girl flushed. “I don’t have one, ma’am.”

“I run a respectable establishment—” Mrs. Botham began.

“Precisely.” Isabella pulled off her other glove. “Which is why this child must stay here.”

The girl cast her a grateful glance.

“Unfortunately I don’t have suitable accommodation, your Ladyship.” The landlady’s smile was polite and insincere.

“I find that hard to believe,” Isabella said, beginning to lose her temper.

“Nothing suiting the young person’s requirements.”

The girl flushed again. “I can’t afford a room,” she whispered. “I thought . . . I thought I could sleep in the servants’ quarters, but—”

“No money and no maid?” Isabella looked at her. “You are in a predicament, aren’t you, my dear?”

Tears welled in the girl’s eyes.

“You may share my maid’s bedchamber,” Isabella said. She heard Partridge sniff behind her, and ignored it.

The landlady inhaled, swelling in her starched apron. “I won’t have a fallen woman in this house!”

“I’m not, ma’am! Indeed, I’m not!”

Do I care whether she is or not? Not when the girl was so young and so clearly in need of aid. “A truckle bed in my maid’s room,” Isabella said briskly. “And refreshments in my parlor.” She folded her gloves and waited for the landlady to protest.

Mrs. Botham inhaled again, her apron swelling, but uttered no sound.

“Come along, my dear.” Isabella smiled and held out her hand to the girl.

“My portmanteau?”

“One of the servants will bring it up, won’t they, Mrs. Botham?”

The landlady smiled tightly and nodded.

The girl clutched her hand. “Come upstairs and have a cup of tea,” Isabella said as they exited the taproom, Rufus following closely at their heels. She ignored Partridge’s silent disapproval. “And do tell me your name, my dear.”

The girl’s hand was small and warm. “My name is Harriet,” she confided as they climbed the staircase. “Harriet Durham.”

“Tell me, my dear . . . how is it you’re in such a fix?”

Harriet’s cheeks colored. She looked down at her cup. “I’m running away.”

“Running away?” Isabella sipped her tea and studied the girl’s face. She could discern no boldness. Harriet had soft brown hair and soft brown eyes and an air of timidity. Her expression when she glanced at Rufus was wary. Surely not the type of girl to run away? “From your parents?”

“My parents are dead.” Harriet looked up from her study of the teacup. “I live with my grandfather.”

“You’re running away from him?”

“Yes.” Harriet shivered. “And from Major Reynolds.”

“Major Reynolds?” Isabella lowered her cup. “Who is he?”

Tears filled Harriet’s eyes. “I’m to marry him.”

“And you don’t wish to?”

Harriet shivered again. She shook her head. “No.”

Isabella placed her teacup on the little cherrywood table beside her. The tabletop gleamed and the parlor had a pleasing smell of beeswax polish. Mrs. Botham kept a very clean—and extremely respectable—establishment.

“Did you tell your grandfather that you don’t want to marry Major Reynolds?”

Harriet nodded. “He said I was being foolish. And he shouted at me and—” She groped for her handkerchief. The tiny lace-trimmed square of fabric was sodden.

Isabella picked up her teacup and sipped, while Harriet wiped her eyes. “How old are you, my dear?” she asked once the girl had composed herself.

“Seventeen.”

Felicity’s age. Too young to be in the world alone. “Where are you going?”

“My Aunt Lavinia.” Harriet’s smile was tremulous. “Only I hadn’t realized that the stage would be so slow, or that it would cost so much to take a room at an inn.”

Isabella placed her teacup on its saucer. She reached down to pat Rufus. His eyes opened, one blue, one brown, and his tail gave a thump on the floor. “Where does your aunt live?”

“Penrith. In the Lake District.”

Isabella frowned. “My dear child, do you realize how far that is?”

“Is it very distant from here?” Harriet twisted the handkerchief.

Isabella looked at the tears shining in the girl’s eyes and decided not to answer that question. Instead she asked, “Is your aunt expecting you?”

Harriet shook her head.

“But you’re certain she’ll give you refuge?”

“Oh, yes.” Harriet nodded. “She said that I was always welcome to stay with her, only . . . only my grandfather wouldn’t let me speak her name, or write to her, or . . . or—”

“How gothic!” Isabella said lightly, to forestall more tears. “What did she do to incur such wrath?”

“She married Mr. Mortlock. Grandfather said he wasn’t good enough—and Aunt Lavinia told him he was a tyrant and married Mr. Mortlock anyway!” Admiration was patent in Harriet’s voice. “Only Mr. Mortlock died, which Grandfather said served her right, and so now she lives alone.”

“How long ago was this?” Isabella asked.

“When I was a child.”

The girl was still a child. Too young to be forced into marriage—and too young to travel halfway across England on her own. Isabella glanced out the window at the roofs of Stony Stratford and the deepening dusk and made up her mind. It’s not really meddling. I’m merely helping her on a path she has already chosen. “I shall take you home with me,” she said. “To London. And then—”

“London? Oh, no!” Harriet dropped the handkerchief in her agitation.

Rufus opened his eyes again. His ears pricked. He lifted his head and looked at Harriet.

“Why ever not, child?” Isabella said, resting her hand on Rufus’s head, feeling the warmth and smoothness of his coat.

“Because Major Reynolds is there!” Harriet’s face twisted. “If he should find me—”

“Major Reynolds won’t find you,” Isabella said firmly, “because you shall be at my house, quite snug and safe. And once we’ve received an assurance from your aunt that she’s expecting you—for she may be away, you know!—then you shall travel to stay with her.”

“But Major Reynolds—”

Isabella looked at her with some amusement. “Is he such an ogre, child?”

“An ogre?” Harriet shuddered. “Oh, yes. Yes, he is!”

“Then I promise to keep you safe from him.”

“He’ll be very angry.” Harriet blinked back tears. “My grandfather has announced our engagement.”

Isabella experienced a moment’s misgiving. If the engagement had been announced in the newspapers, then the scandal . . .

I should restore her to her grandfather.

The girl was as young as Felicity, with no parents to dote on her. Even so, I should . . .

She looked down at Rufus. He glanced up at her with his mismatched eyes and thumped his tail on the rug again, content, trusting.

“Tell me about Major Reynolds,” Isabella said, giving her own handkerchief to Harriet.

“He’s a soldier.”

Isabella suppressed a smile. “Yes, my dear, I had gathered that. Is he a friend of your grandfather’s?”

“Oh, no. Grandfather had never met him until we came to London.” Harriet unfolded the handkerchief. “It’s my first Season, you see. Grandfather was so pleased when Major Reynolds asked permission to pay his addresses.” More tears welled in her eyes. She dabbed at them with the handkerchief.

“Is the major very old?” Isabella asked. “What’s his disposition?”

“Old? Oh, yes, ma’am. He’s quite as old as you.” Harriet’s cheeks colored. “I mean, he’s much older than you. He’s as old as my father . . . that is to say, as old as my father would be if he were alive.” She bit her lip, and looked down at the handkerchief she clutched.

That settled it, Isabella decided. She wasn’t about to allow this child to be married to a man old enough to be her father.

“And as to his disposition, he looks so . . . so stern, and . . . and—”

“I collect he’s quite an ogre,” Isabella said lightly, to avert more tears. “Is he ugly, too? I’m persuaded he must be!”

Harriet shivered. “His face is quite scarred, ma’am. And he shouts and—”

Isabella’s eyebrows rose. “Major Reynolds has shouted at you?”

“No, ma’am,” the girl said, earnest and wide-eyed. “But he’s a military man, so I know he will.”

Isabella suppressed another smile. “You have experience of military men?”

Harriet nodded. “They stomp and they have loud voices and they’re always angry and—”

Isabella had a moment of enlightenment. “Your grandfather is a military man?”

“A colonel, ma’am.”

A maid tapped on the door and entered, bobbing a curtsy. Rufus sat up, alert. “Just seeing to the shutters, ma’am.”

They sat in silence while the maid placed more wood on the fire, lit the candles with a taper, and then busied herself closing the shutters against the dusk.

“Then it’s settled,” Isabella said briskly, once the woman was gone. “You shall travel with me to London tomorrow and stay until we know that your aunt is ready to receive you.”

Harriet gripped the handkerchief tightly. “And your husband, ma’am? Are you certain he’ll allow it?”

“I have no husband. A widowed cousin keeps house with me in London. She doesn’t often venture out, and will be pleased to have your company.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “No husband?”

“Yes,” Isabella said, smiling. “I know it’s odd, but I find it very comfortable to live without one!”

“How is the child?” Isabella asked later that evening, as she sat in front of the mirror brushing her hair. The bedchamber was more shadows than candlelight.

“Asleep.”

Isabella laughed. “Partridge, such disapprobation in one word!”

Partridge sniffed, and said nothing.

Isabella laid down the hairbrush. The silver back glinted in the candlelight. “You may tell me that I’m meddling, Partridge, and you would be quite right.”

Partridge silently folded the day’s clothes.

She was meddling, quite dreadfully, but Mrs. Botham had annoyed her, with her bristling, pious indignation. “She reminds me of Felicity.” Isabella ran a fingertip over the silver crest on the hairbrush. I will stand in her mother’s stead for a while. “We shall keep her reputation intact, until her aunt can claim her.”

Partridge sniffed again.

Isabella turned to look at her. “You think I should return her to her grandfather? You are perfectly correct, my dear Partridge. Only I fear he has already disowned her.”

Partridge said nothing.

Isabella turned back to the mirror. She picked up the hairbrush again. A strand of hair was caught in the soft bristles. She pulled it out and wound it meditatively around her fingertip, where it gleamed like gold thread in the candlelight. Yes, she would take the place of Harriet’s mother for a few days—although no one would think the girl her daughter. Harriet was dark and dainty; she was tall and fair. The goddess of the harvest, an admirer had once likened her to. He’d even penned a poem. To the harvest goddess with her corn-ripe hair . . .

Isabella snorted under her breath. She leaned closer to the mirror, but the light was too dim to discern the faint lines she knew were at her eyes. And I am merely twenty-nine. Too young to be Harriet’s mother.

“She won’t be with us long,” she said aloud to Partridge. “She shall write to her aunt tomorrow—and to her grandfather, to inform him that she is safe in a respectable household.”

And Harriet must write to Major Reynolds, too, to beg his pardon for jilting him. One must be polite, even to an ogre.

Partridge finally broke her silence: “She’s not one of your strays, Miss Isabella. I hope you don’t live to regret this.”

Isabella met her own eyes in the mirror. So do I. “Nonsense,” she said, with a light laugh. “What can possibly go wrong? No one will ever know!”

Chapter Two

Major Nicholas Reynolds, late of the Ninety-Fifth Rifles, looked across the expanse of his desk, with its tidy piles of paper and the sturdy inkpot and the sharp-nibbed quills and the letter knife he’d picked up in Spain, and said, “No.”

“But, sir—”

Nicholas sighed. He laid down his quill and pushed aside the letter he’d been writing. “What did I say last time?”

“That you wouldn’t pay off any more of my debts,” his nephew said sulkily, not meeting his eyes.

“Precisely. And I always keep my word, Harry.”

He spoke quietly, but his nephew flushed, his cheeks reddening above the high points of his collar.

Nicholas sighed again. He rubbed his forehead. “Did your father refuse to advance your allowance?”

“I haven’t asked him,” Harry said gruffly. “You know how he is, sir. He’ll scold me like a fishwife, and go on and on.”

Nicholas did know. He looked across the desk at his nephew. Harry’s hair was styled in the latest cut, his blue coat had padded shoulders, a nipped-in waist, and extremely large gold buttons, and the intricacies of his neckcloth must have taken a good hour to achieve.

A bandbox creature. And Nicholas had no time for bandbox creatures. There were more important things in life than one’s clothing.

But beneath the extravagant attire was a young man who was in trouble.

Nicholas ran his fingertips lightly over the scar that ridged his cheek. What to do? He came to a decision: “I’ll buy that black horse of yours. How much do you want for him?”

“What?” Startled, Harry looked up and met his eyes for the first time during the interview.

“How much for your black horse?”

“But . . . but I like that horse!”

“Then learn not to outrun the carpenter,” Nicholas said mildly.

Harry flushed. His eyes lowered. “Yes, sir,” he said, sulky again.

He found his manners when Nicholas handed him a roll of guineas, stammering his thanks and bowing. Nicholas watched as he walked towards the door. Somewhere beneath that expensive, frivolous exterior was the rough-and-tumble boy who’d cared more for his horses than for his clothes. “Harry. Would you like a commission in the army?”

His nephew paused with his hand on the door knob. “Sir?”

“A commission, Harry. Would you like one?”

Harry blinked. He looked slightly appalled. “Thank you, sir, but . . . that is to say, I prefer . . .”

You prefer to be a man-milliner instead of a man.

“Let me know if you should ever change your mind.” Nicholas picked up his quill again, dismissing his nephew. He didn’t look up as the door closed.

An hour later he finished his business correspondence and sealed the letters. At home he’d go for a ride, but in London there was little pleasure to be had in riding, with its busy streets and crowded parks and the properness of everything. There was no place for a man to gallop.

Unless he rode out to Richmond.

Nicholas glanced at the window. Fresh air. That’s what he needed. Away from the fug of London. He pushed back his chair.

A footman knocked and opened the door. “Your mail, sir.”

Nicholas looked at the pile of invitations on the silver tray. This was another thing he disliked about London: all the balls and assemblies where the object wasn’t to dance but to determine the eligibility of possible spouses. Looks, breeding, fortune—all were assessed in meticulous detail. As if we were cattle at an auction. “Throw them in the fire.” He’d chosen a bride. The Marriage Mart—and all those appraising sideways glances—was behind him.

The footman halted. “Sir?”

“Give them here,” Nicholas said resignedly, holding out his hand. “And send round to the stables. I’d like Douro ready in twenty minutes.”

He went through the pile of mail swiftly, rejecting the invitations without reading them. A letter from Colonel Durham he put to one side. And there was another, written in a feminine hand that he didn’t recognize. He reached for the letter knife, slit it open and unfolded it, pausing as the butler knocked.

“Sir? Lord Reynolds desires a word with you.”

Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment. He toyed—briefly—with the thought of not being home to his brother, then he opened his eyes and put down the letter. “Send him in, Frye.”

He pushed out of the chair and walked across to the decanters. He needed brandy if he was to talk with Gerald this early in the day.

“Nicholas! I must speak with you.”

“Brandy?” Nicholas asked, pouring himself a glass. He turned to face his brother.

It was like seeing himself in a mirror—only paler and soft with fat. No one would ever mistake him for Gerald, though, and not merely because of the scar. Gerald’s clothes were as elaborate as his own were plain—the neckcloth extravagantly high, the waistcoat exotically embroidered. Fobs and seals and diamond pins adorned his person and tassels dangled from his boots. His hair was pomaded and he brought the scent of Steele’s lavender water with him into the room. Decked out like a prize pig at a fair, Nicholas thought, barely managing to prevent his lip from curling.

Gerald shook his head. His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “You gave my son money!”

Nicholas swallowed a mouthful of brandy. It was smoky on his tongue and warm in his throat. “I bought that black horse of his.”

“To pay off his debts!”

Nicholas shrugged. “I bought his horse. What he does with the money is up to him.”

His brother swung away. “I give him a generous allowance,” he said, a bitter note in his voice. “And yet he can never—” He swung back to face Nicholas. “And you! Why does he come to you and not me?”

Because you scold like a fishwife. Nicholas shrugged again. “He runs with a fast set,” he said. “He would do better to find new friends.”

“And you encourage him by paying his debts!”

Nicholas sighed. “Gerald—”

“I must request that you not give my son money,” Gerald said, with stiff pomposity.

“I didn’t give him money,” Nicholas said, nettled. “I bought his damned horse!”

“And I must ask that you don’t put ideas into his head.”

“What ideas?”

“The army.”

“I don’t think he’s interested,” Nicholas said dryly. Although it would do the boy good to learn there was more to life than clothes and gambling.

“I should forbid it!”

“He’s of age,” Nicholas pointed out. “If he wishes to join the army, he may.”

“Not if I have any say in the matter!”

Nicholas discovered that his fingers were clenched around the glass. He relaxed them and drained the last of the brandy. “Very well,” he said. “I shan’t mention it to him again.”

“Make certain you don’t,” Gerald snapped. “He pays far too much attention to what you say.”

“Does he?” Nicholas shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“He looks up to you as a hero.” The bitter note was back in Gerald’s voice.

Nicholas was suddenly uncomfortable. He turned away and placed his empty glass on the sideboard. “You have my word that I won’t speak of it to him again,” he said, not looking at his brother.

But Gerald, with the tenacity that had earned him the nickname Terrier at Eton, persisted. “I can think of nothing worse than for him to enter the army!”

“Really?” Nicholas turned back to face him. “I can think of many worse things.”

Gerald flushed, hearing the sarcasm in his voice. “The army—”

“A little discipline would do him good.”

Gerald stiffened. “Are you implying that my son lacks—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Nicholas said, impatient with the conversation. “I’m merely saying that I think the army would do him good. And—” he held up his hand to forestall Gerald’s interruption, “—that you have my word I shan’t mention the matter to him again.”

“Good!” Gerald snapped. “Heaven forbid that my son should become like you!”

“Or you!” Nicholas retorted, stung into losing his temper.

Gerald drew himself up. “What do you mean?”

Soft and useless is what I mean. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Damn it, Nicholas—”

Nicholas sighed and closed his eyes. Why did he always end up arguing with Gerald? “Is that all?” he asked, opening his eyes. “Because I have other business to attend to.” He walked back to his desk and sat down, reaching for the opened letter.

Gerald hesitated, and then turned on his heel and stalked across the study. “I shall see you at Augusta’s tonight,” he said, and shut the door with a snap.

Nicholas put down the letter. Damn. Gussie’s ball was this evening. He’d have to go.

He rubbed his face, feeling the scar beneath his fingers, the smoothness and roughness of his ruined cheek. Why must Gerald and I always argue?

He knew the answer. Even when they were children it had been like this; no matter that Gerald was the eldest, the viscount, it was Nicholas people turned to for help. That Gerald’s own son did it merely made it worse.

Nicholas sighed and opened his eyes. He looked down at the letter lying open on his desk. It was very short.

Dear Sir,

I regret that I find myself unable to marry you. Please accept my apologies.

Harriet Durham

Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. He swore under his breath, quietly, then got up and poured himself another brandy. He drank it slowly and deliberately, then went back to the desk and reached for Colonel Durham’s letter. He slit it open with a swift, sharp movement.

The butler knocked on the door.

“What?” Nicholas said, frowning at him.

“Colonel Durham to see you, sir.”

Nicholas clenched his jaw. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Send him in.”

“Your horse, sir?”

Nicholas closed his eyes briefly. An ache was building in his temples. “Another twenty minutes, Frye.”

“The weather, sir—”

He turned to look out the window. A light, gray drizzle was falling. Damn. “Twenty minutes,” he repeated. Because if he didn’t gallop he was going to smash something.

He inhaled a deep breath, kept the thought of Richmond and Douro and a thundering gallop firmly in his mind, and turned to face Colonel Durham as Frye ushered him into the study.

The colonel was a heavy man. He had the bearing of a soldier despite his graying hair, and wore his clothes as if they were a uniform. Age hadn’t been kind to him: his face had lost its flesh, falling into deep, ill-humored wrinkles. Uncompromising furrows bracketed his mouth and pinched between his eyebrows.

Nicholas bowed. “I was just about to read your letter, sir.”

“Don’t bother,” the colonel said brusquely. “I had hoped to avert—” His mouth tightened. “But it’s too late.”

“Brandy, sir? Or shall I have Frye bring up a bottle of claret?”

“Brandy,” the colonel said, glaring at him.

He’s embarrassed, Nicholas realized. Embarrassed—and angry.

Frye withdrew, closing the door. Nicholas walked across to the sideboard. He poured the colonel a large glass of brandy and himself a small one. “Please be seated, sir.”

Colonel Durham sat.

“I’ve received a letter from your granddaughter,” Nicholas said, handing him the brandy. “I understand she wishes to terminate our engagement.”

Rage flushed the colonel’s face. He swallowed his brandy, grimacing. “I must apologize for my granddaughter’s behavior.”

Nicholas sat behind his desk. “May I speak with her, sir?”

“Speak with her?” Colonel Durham uttered a harsh laugh. “By all means. If you can find her!”

Nicholas frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“The stupid chit has run away!”

Nicholas placed his brandy glass carefully on the desk. “Run away? Why?”

“Because she doesn’t wish to marry you.”

Nicholas looked down his brandy. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. “If she had told me,” he said quietly, “I would have withdrawn my suit—”

“Ridiculous nonsense!” Colonel Durham said. “And so I told her.”

Nicholas raised his head. “She spoke to you about it, sir?”

The colonel nodded.

“And you said . . . ?”

“That it was her duty to marry you.”

Nicholas positioned his glass precisely in the middle of his blotter. He could feel anger rising in him. “And then she ran away?”

Colonel Durham’s face reddened. “She makes a fool out of me!”

No, Nicholas thought sourly. She makes a fool out of me. He drank a mouthful of brandy, not tasting it. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care! I’ve wiped my hands of her.”

Nicholas put down his glass. Colonel Durham was a rigid, narrow-minded bully—he’d known that before he’d offered for Harriet’s hand—but to disown the girl when she was so young, was . . . Criminal, that’s what it is. “She’s only seventeen. You can hardly—”

“What business is it of yours?” the colonel snapped.

Nicholas looked at him coldly. “It is entirely my business. If you recall, sir, it is me she is betrothed to.” And me she ran away from.

The colonel’s mouth twisted. “Some interfering busybody has her.” He dug inside his coat and tossed a wad of paper on Nicholas’s desk. “Here.”

Nicholas separated the sheets of paper and smoothed them. Two letters. He recognized the writing.

Dear Grandfather,

I have gone to live with my aunt. I know it is my duty to marry Major Reynolds, but I find myself unable to.

Your granddaughter, Harriet

He glanced at the colonel. “This is dated four days ago.”

Colonel Durham shifted in his chair, as if he heard the unspoken accusation. “I thought it would be an easy matter to find her and bring her back.”

And then what? Nicholas didn’t ask the question. The answer was obvious: the colonel had intended to browbeat Harriet into marriage.

And I was never to know.

Anger surged inside him. He gritted his teeth together and read the second letter. It was dated yesterday.

Dear Grandfather,

Please do not be concerned for my safety. A kind benefactress has given me shelter until I can be united with my aunt.

Your granddaughter, Harriet.

Nicholas put down the letter. “Who is the benefactress?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care!”

“You should care.” His voice held a note of reprimand. “Your granddaughter’s safety is entirely in her hands.”

Colonel Durham’s face grew redder. “Without her interference, I would have had Harriet back by now. The matter could have been kept quiet! Now—”

“It can still be kept quiet,” Nicholas said calmly. His hands wanted to clench. He spread his fingers on the desk. “No one need know why the engagement has been terminated.”

The colonel’s eyes slid away from him. “I stopped at my club on the way here—” He cleared his throat. “I may have uttered a few imprudent words.”

Nicholas exhaled through his teeth, silently. He didn’t need to be told what Colonel Durham meant: the colonel was a man of loud rages. By tonight half of London would know of Harriet’s flight. And because you can’t control your temper, we will both feature in Society’s latest scandal.

“Stupid girl!” Colonel Durham said savagely. “If I could lay my hands on her, I’d horsewhip her!”

Nicholas looked at him with dislike. It’s you I’d like to horsewhip. “I’ll send a notice to the newspapers,” he said, speaking with careful politeness. “Stating that my engagement to your granddaughter is terminated.” He stood and bowed. “Good day, sir.”

The furrows in the colonel’s face deepened, showing his displeasure. For a moment it looked as if he’d say more, then he pushed to his feet and nodded curtly. “Good day.”

Nicholas watched him depart. Anger thumped inside his skull. He picked up the letters again. I know it is my duty to marry Major Reynolds, Harriet had written, but I find myself unable to.

He clenched his hands, crumpling the paper. Now he’d have to start again—attending balls and assemblies, dancing, making polite conversation, selecting a girl who was quiet and biddable and easily molded into the wife he wanted. While the ton watched with sideways glances and amused whispers.

He threw the letters aside and went in search of his riding gloves.

Chapter Three

Isabella looked around the ballroom. She gave a sigh of pleasure. London. The gaiety, the busyness. “I do love the Season.”

“Yes.” But her companion was frowning.

“Have you a headache, Gussie?”

“Headache?” Augusta Washburne’s brow cleared. “No, I’m cross.”

“Cross?” Isabella glanced around the ballroom again, her gaze catching on the shimmer of expensive fabric and the glitter of jewels, the bright flare of the candles in the chandeliers. The room was crowded to its farthest extent; beneath the music the babble of voices was loud. She could see no reason for Gussie to be cross. The ball was undeniably a success.

“It’s this business with Nicholas,” Gussie said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Nicholas?”

“What a dreadful squeeze, darling!” Lady Faraday swooped on Gussie. “One can scarcely move!” She turned to Isabella, the three tall feathers in her turban swaying and nodding. Her gown was pink and trimmed with an astonishing number of flounces. “Isabella, darling! You’re finally back in town!”

“Sarah, how do you do?” Isabella said politely, but Lady Faraday had already turned back to Gussie, her eyes bright and expectant.

“What’s this I hear about your cousin? Is it true? His bride ran away?”

Gussie’s face tightened. She glanced at Isabella. “Yes.”

Isabella’s pleasure in the ball became tinged with unease. “Your cousin?”

“Major Nicholas Reynolds.”

Isabella stared at Gussie. “The ogre? He’s your cousin?”

“Ogre?” Lady Faraday uttered a tittering laugh.

“Ogre?” said Gussie, in quite a different tone of voice. Her eyebrows pinched together again. “Who called him that?”

Isabella bit the tip of her tongue. Fool. “Major Reynolds is your cousin?”

Gussie nodded.

“And his bride has run away!” Lady Faraday exclaimed. “Now tell me, Augusta—”

Her gleeful curiosity was too much for Isabella. “Sarah, I believe Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is trying to catch your attention.”

“She is? Oh, pray excuse me—”

Isabella watched her go—feathers bobbing above the pink ball gown—and frowned. How had Lady Faraday known about Harriet? The child had written her letters barely a day ago.

“An ogre!” Gussie said. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh . . . I’ve received a number of callers,” Isabella said, skirting around the truth. “You know how it is when one first arrives in town.”

Gussie’s frown was fierce. “But who said it?”

The temptation to lie was strong. Isabella moistened her lips. She looked down at her fan and spread the pierced ivory sticks. Don’t lie, she told herself. Don’t compound your first mistake with a second. “I believe it was the person who’s sheltering Miss Durham.”

Breath hissed between Gussie’s teeth. “She had no right!”

I know.

“Who is she?” Gussie demanded.

Isabella closed her fan. “No one I’ve spoken to knows.” Not a lie. Not quite. She smoothed the long gloves up her arms, deeply uncomfortable. “I didn’t realize Major Reynolds was your cousin.”

“Second cousin. He’s Lord Reynolds’ brother.”

Isabella experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach. The major was a nobleman? “I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

“He’ll be here tonight,” Gussie said, turning to scan the ballroom. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Oh.” Isabella followed her glance, suddenly nervous. “Perhaps he won’t come if everyone is talking—”

“Nicholas is not a coward,” Gussie said staunchly.

“Oh,” Isabella said again. She swallowed. “I look forward to meeting him.”

Nicholas halted. He looked across the street. Flambeaux burned and a red carpet had been laid up the steps. He braced himself for what was to come—the stares and the whispers—and silently cursed Colonel Durham. Damn the man for having no control over his temper, no control over his tongue, for venting his spleen in his club of all places.

Harriet’s flight would be common knowledge by now.

I don’t have to attend. I can just turn and walk away.

On the heels of that thought came anger. He was used to stares—his face made certain of that—and he was damned if he was going to hide from tattlemongers.

Nicholas strode across the street and up the steps. He handed his hat to a footman and walked up the curving staircase towards the sound of music.

He was late. The ball was well underway. The large room was stuffy, the air warm and overscented, the flowers in the vases wilting.

A contredanse was playing. Nicholas stood inside the doorway, watching the dancers go through their sets. His gaze slid over débutantes in pale gowns, officers in uniform, matrons with curling feathers in their headdresses. The officers and the matrons were of no interest; the débutantes were.

The dark-haired, laughing girl was pretty, but . . . Too bold, he decided. He didn’t want a coquette for a wife. Beside her in the set was a redhead who looked possible. Shy, not flirting.

“Nicholas! I’d quite given up on you.”

Nicholas turned. “Gussie.” He bowed. “You must forgive me for being late.”

“You’re forgiven,” his cousin said with a laugh, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

“You look well,” Nicholas said, smiling. With her shining brown hair and shining brown eyes and the scattering of freckles on her nose, Gussie looked more like a schoolgirl than the mother of two children.

His cousin ignored the compliment. She clasped his hand tightly. “Now Nicholas, you mustn’t run away.”

Nicholas lost his smile. “As bad as that, is it?”

“You know how London gossips.” She pulled a face. “But you must dance before you hide in the card room.”

“An order, Gussie?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” she said frankly. “Because you know what people will say if you don’t!”

He did. It was another reason to dislike London: everyone watching and passing judgment.

“I have saved the next dance for you,” Gussie said. “It’s to be a waltz.”

“My timing is fortunate, then,” he said, smiling.

Gussie showed him a dimple. She placed her hand on his sleeve as the sets broke up and the dancers left the floor. There was barely room for anyone to move.

“Congratulations,” Nicholas said. “A squeeze.”

“Yes,” Gussie said, with no attempt at modesty. “It’s most gratifying.”

Nicholas laughed at her candor. It took his attention from the glances that were directed his way. No one was ill-bred enough to point, but he was aware of heads turning, a stir of conversation. Ignore them, he told himself.

He had learned to hold his head up, to not hide his ruined cheek; he would learn to ignore this. It couldn’t last forever; the London gossips would be talking of someone else soon enough.

He scanned the ballroom. Gerald stood in the far corner, his face flushed with heat and alcohol. And there was Gussie’s husband, Lucas, in the company of a striking blonde in a blue gown. Nicholas kept his gaze on the blonde in a long moment of appreciation, liking her height, her generous figure, her full mouth.

Gussie maintained a stream of light chatter as they took their places on the dance floor, but once the music started, her tone changed. “I’m very sorry about what’s happened, Nicholas.”

Nicholas looked past her. So am I. He caught someone’s eye: a lady dressed in pink with three feathers in her hair, who colored at being caught staring and hastily averted her gaze.

Nicholas’s jaw tightened. He returned his attention to Gussie.

“I should warn you . . .” She grimaced, a brief screwing-up of her face.

“Warn me?” He tried to laugh. “About what?”

“Nicholas . . . you’re being called an ogre.”

“What?” Nicholas almost halted in the middle of the ballroom.

Habit—and the tug of Gussie’s hand—kept him dancing. “It’s merely someone’s foolishness,” she said. “You mustn’t pay any attention to it.”

They danced in silence. Beneath the music was the murmur of voices. He saw quick glances directed his way, saw lips shaping words. He didn’t need to hear them to know what was being said.

If the name didn’t suit him so well he would laugh it off, but it fitted perfectly—the scarred face, the runaway bride. An ogre.

Anger built inside him, growing with each step that he took. He tasted it on his tongue, bitter—

“You mustn’t think about it,” Gussie said, as the music came to an end.

Nicholas forced a smile. “I assure you, I shan’t.”

Gussie chose to believe him. “Good,” she said, with a quick smile that showed her dimples. “And now, Nicholas, I must introduce you to a particular friend of mine.”

He wanted to balk. His mood was too unpleasant—

“Her name is Isabella,” Gussie said, tucking her hand into his arm. “Lady Isabella Knox. She was dancing with Lucas.” She stood on tiptoe and glanced around the ballroom. “Do you see them?”

The blonde? He saw her. She stood out among the débutantes and the matrons, tall and elegant and deliciously curved. Her hair was an extraordinary color, like ripe wheat in sunlight.

Nicholas’s mood improved slightly. One more dance, he decided. And then he would take his rage to the card room.

Chapter Four

There was no mistaking Major Reynolds. The scar was livid across the left side of his face, stretching from temple to jaw. He was a soldier; that was clear as he escorted Gussie across the dance floor. It wasn’t just the military cut of his clothes, it was the way he held himself, the unconscious air of authority, the alertness with which he scanned the room, the hardness of his mouth and eyes. A dangerous man.

Isabella looked away. She tried to concentrate on Lucas Washburne’s conversation.

“The ogre comes,” a lady murmured behind her, and smothered a laugh.

Irritation surged in Isabella’s chest. That word—ogre—was her fault, but the spreading of it was purely Sarah Faraday’s doing. Wretched, wretched woman.

“Isabella, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Major Nicholas Reynolds.”

Isabella swallowed her crossness. She fixed a smile on her lips and turned her head.

Major Reynolds stood before her, tall, with cold eyes and a scarred face, precisely as Harriet had described.

No, not precisely. Major Reynolds wasn’t old. Early thirties, at a guess.

“. . . ogre,” she heard whispered behind her.

“How do you do, Major Reynolds?” Isabella said hastily, giving him her hand, hoping that guilt wasn’t stamped across her face. If he discovers that I’m the source of that appellation . . . She suppressed a nervous shiver.

The major made no sign that he’d heard the whisper. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.” He bowed over her gloved fingers.

“Be warned, Nicholas,” Gussie said with a bubbling laugh. “She’ll try to thrust a stray animal upon you.”

The major released her hand. “No lapdogs, I beg of you, ma’am.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Unease prickled over Isabella’s skin. He’s angry.

“It will more likely be a kitten with half a tail,” Gussie said. “Or a flea-ridden puppy.”

“Both of which we have,” her husband said dryly.

For a fleeting second the major looked amused. He smiled faintly. The corner of his right eye creased slightly. The left side of his face, scarred, showed no sign of amusement.

The musicians began to tune their instruments again. “The quadrille,” Lucas Washburne said, holding out his hand to his wife. “This is our dance. If you’ll excuse us?”

Isabella watched them go. She transferred her gaze to Major Reynolds and smiled at him politely. “How long have you been in town, Major?” She knew the answer. Harriet had told her in the carriage: Major Reynolds had come to London three weeks ago, in search of a bride.

A man who acts swiftly.

“Three weeks.” The major’s eyes were on her face. Their color was disconcerting, a clear, chilly green. “Are you claimed for this dance?”

Isabella hesitated. I wish I were. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

The major’s face hardened. He’d seen the hesitation.

Shame made her flush. “It would be my pleasure to dance with you,” she said, opening her fan.

Major Reynolds offered her his arm. “Then let us join a set.” The words were politely spoken, but she heard an edge of irony in his voice.

Isabella bit her lip. She fanned herself, hoping to take the heat from her cheeks, and laid her hand lightly on the major’s sleeve. The cut of his coat was plain, almost austere, and the fabric was a green so dark it was nearly black.

They walked onto the dance floor amid the murmur of conversation and rustle of fabric. “How long have you been in town?” Major Reynolds asked.

Isabella heard the word ogre whispered to her right. “I arrived two days ago,” she said hastily, loudly. “On Saturday. I’ve been in Derbyshire visiting my brother and making the acquaintance of my newest nephew.”

The major had heard the whisper. Anger glinted in his eyes. He halted. “Perhaps you’d prefer not to dance, Lady Isabella?”

I would prefer not to. But guilt made it impossible to take the proffered escape. “Nonsense!” Isabella said, shutting the fan.

“You can hardly wish to dance with an ogre, ma’am.” The major’s voice was light, his expression sardonic, his eyes glittering with anger.

“You are mistaken,” Isabella said, lifting her chin and silently condemned Sarah Faraday to perdition.

Major Reynolds made no answer. He led her to a set that was forming. His manner was quite composed. He paid no attention to the sideways glances, the whispers.

Isabella took her place opposite him. She met his eyes—bright and hard and so clear they seemed to look right through her—and curtsied as the musicians played the opening chords. She understood why Harriet was afraid of him. Not the scar, but his eyes.

She observed Major Reynolds obliquely as they danced. His resemblance to his brother was strong. The bones of his face were well-shaped, his features regular. Without the scar he would have been an attractive man. With it . . .

An ogre.

The major had a soldier’s physique; in that he didn’t resemble Lord Reynolds. His body was lean, not fleshy, hard-muscled, not soft. Like his brother, his hair was the color of honey—a shade between brown and gold—but his skin was bronzed from the sun. The scar covered the left side of his face, a thickly ridged burn, purplish-pink, barbaric, making him look half savage.

Was it a legacy of Waterloo, the battle that had claimed so many of England’s finest last year? Or did it date back to the conflict in Spain?

They weren’t questions she could ask.

Major Reynolds moved through the quadrille with calm confidence, seemingly oblivious to the sideways glances, whispers, and muffled giggles that his progress afforded. Only his eyes, bright with anger, showed that he was aware of the stir he was creating.

With each step that he took, Isabella’s guilt grew. It had been unforgivable, uttering the word ogre in front of Sarah Faraday. The major was no husband for Harriet, but he didn’t deserve this. And however much she might blame Lady Faraday, she knew who was truly at fault: Me. My wretched tongue did this.

And with the guilt was a reluctant admiration. The major had courage to hold his head up in the face of so much attention, that scar blazoned across his cheek.

There was no pleasure in the quadrille tonight, in the steps of l’été and la pastourelle. Each half-heard whisper, each muffled giggle, served to enhance Isabella’s guilt. Shut up! she wanted to hiss to the dark-haired débutante in the neighboring set. Her hand itched to box the girl’s ears.

The word she had uttered only a few hours ago was on everyone’s lips. I’ve turned him into an object of ridicule. The worst of it was, she couldn’t undo it.

The quadrille had never been so interminably long before, so filled with discomfort. Her relief, when the musicians played the last chord, was intense.

Major Reynolds escorted her from the dance floor, calm and smiling, with anger in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said politely, bowing.

“It was a pleasure, Major.”

He acknowledged her words with a slight lifting of his eyebrows, a tiny, wry movement.

The wryness gave her courage. Isabella took a deep breath and laid her hand on his arm. “Major Reynolds, you must dance every dance tonight.”

The wryness vanished. He seemed to stiffen. “Must I?”

“Yes.” The bright, cold anger in his eyes was daunting, but she held tightly to her courage. “Major, you must pay no attention to what is being said—and you must not leave early.”

His jaw seemed to harden. He thinks me impertinent.

Isabella took another deep breath. Guilt was lodged in her chest, a hard lump. “Come,” she said, smiling, coaxing, aware of nervous perspiration prickling across her skin. I owe him this. “I will dance the next waltz with you.”

“Charity, ma’am?” His eyes were bright and hard.

No, guilt. “Not at all,” Isabella said, lifting her chin. “I save my charity for animals.”

The major smiled abruptly, a genuine smile that took the anger from his eyes. “Lapdogs.”

He looked quite different, smiling. Isabella relaxed fractionally. “They are usually much larger,” she said. “And often quite ugly. It can be difficult to find them homes.”

Major Reynolds gave a grunt of amusement. “Very well. The waltz.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.”

Isabella watched as he walked around the perimeter of the ballroom. Heads turned as he passed. Someone laughed, and turned it hastily into a cough. I did that.

She couldn’t take the word back, but she could try to undo the harm of it.

Nicholas endured a cotillion, two country dances, and a boulanger—the latter with a partner who met his eyes once, blushed vividly, and stared steadfastly at the floor for the rest of the dance—before the second waltz was played. He didn’t need to search for Lady Isabella Knox; he knew exactly where she was.

He returned his partner to her mother and walked around the ballroom.

“There he is. The ogre.”

It was a whisper, but loud enough to reach his ears. Nicholas gritted his teeth. He kept a determined smile on his face as he took the final steps that brought him to Lady Isabella’s side. His mood lifted as he led her onto the dance floor. It lifted still further when the musicians began to play. They made their bows to each other; Lady Isabella gave him her hand. Nicholas drew her close. For the next few minutes he’d forget about runaway brides and simply enjoy the pleasure of waltzing with a beautiful woman.

“How has your evening been, Major Reynolds?”

He met Lady Isabella’s eyes. They were a shade between gray and blue, and quite serious.

“I’ve had more comfortable evenings,” he admitted.

“Yes,” she said. “So have I.” A small frown marred her brow. “In fact, Major, I’ve given the matter some thought, and I think I know how to come about. You must become my beau.”

Surprise made him laugh. Heads turned as people looked at them. Nicholas ignored the stares. “Your beau?” He shook his head and almost laughed again. “I think your husband would have something to say about that!”

“I have no husband.”

No husband? He was suddenly aware of the curve of her waist beneath his hand in a way he hadn’t been before, of her gloved fingers clasping his, of the soft fullness of her lips.

“Knox was my father’s name, Major Reynolds, not my husband’s.”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “Oh,” he said, inadequately.

“I’m the daughter of a duke. London does not laugh at me.” There was no arrogance in Lady Isabella’s tone, merely a matter-of-factness. “And if you’re my beau . . .”

“London won’t laugh at me, either.” He was abruptly angry. “Thank you for the offer, Lady Isabella, but I don’t need your—”

“It’s not charity,” she said calmly, meeting his eyes.

His mouth tightened. “No?”

“No. I don’t like what has happened, Major Reynolds. It makes me quite cross!”

It seemed she told the truth: her lips pressed together and her eyebrows pinched into another frown. The frown faded as he watched. “I don’t like being cross,” she said, with that same matter-of-factness. “So I should like to fix this.” Her lips turned up in a smile. “What do you say?”

His own anger wasn’t so easy to relinquish. He frowned at her. “Are you in the habit of taking beaux?”

“No,” she said, apparently unruffled by his disapproval. “But given the circumstances, I’m prepared to make an exception. It will only be for a week, two at the most.”

“No one would believe it,” Nicholas said flatly.

Her eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, madam, I’m somewhat disfigured.” There was a bitter edge to his words he hadn’t intended.

Her gaze shifted to his cheek. Her brow furrowed again, faintly.

Nicholas gritted his teeth. He knew what she saw; he’d seen it often enough in the mirror: the thick ridges of scar tissue, the melted skin.

“It’s not important,” Lady Isabella said.

She meant it. He heard the truth in her voice.

Nicholas almost missed a step. He cleared his throat again. “Madam—”

“I’m an eccentric,” Lady Isabella said. “If I choose you as my beau, London will believe it.” She smiled at him, golden and beautiful. “Now, how shall we go about it? Two dances tonight, and then . . . tomorrow I shall meet you in Hyde Park and take you up in my phaeton. Are you free in the afternoon, Major?”

He eyed her circumspectly.

“Well, Major Reynolds?”

He turned her offer over in his mind. As a charade it had its appeals. Playing beau to a woman as lovely as Lady Isabella, driving in Hyde Park with her, dancing . . . “Yes,” he said, feeling almost cheerful.

“Five o’clock in the park,” Lady Isabella said as the waltz ended. “By the Stanhope Gate.”

Nicholas’s ill-humor returned as he escorted her from the dance floor. His ears heard the word ogre, half-whispered, to his right.

Lady Isabella heard it, too. He saw her bite her lower lip. She glanced at him.

Nicholas smiled tightly. If I knew to whom I owe that name, I’d make them sorry.

The candles in the chandeliers seemed to burn brighter for a moment. The crystal drops glittered, as sharp-edged as shards of glass. Nicholas inhaled, smelling the mingled scents of perfume and perspiration, and beneath them something darker: his own anger. Determination solidified inside him. He’d find out. It couldn’t be impossible. Someone must know. Ladies always talked among themselves. Perhaps Gussie knew, or even Lady Isabella . . .

Nicholas looked at his companion with renewed interest. “Lady Isabella?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know to whom I owe my sobriquet?” He tried to speak as lightly as he could, to hide the anger in his voice, but she must have heard it. Her cheeks flushed faintly. She opened her fan.

“Why do you wish to know, Major Reynolds?”

He shrugged. “It’s useful to know one’s enemies.”

“Enemies?” She glanced at him quickly. “I’m certain there was no malice intended, Major. Indeed, you must not think it!”

Nicholas’s interest sharpened. “You know who it was?”

Lady Isabella fingered the delicate ivory sticks of her fan. She didn’t meet his eyes. “I believe . . . it came from the lady who is sheltering Miss Durham.”

Harriet’s kind benefactress. Anger flared in his belly.

Lady Isabella glanced up at him. “I’m certain it wasn’t ill-meant, Major Reynolds. It was foolishness, nothing more. Pray, don’t think about it!”

He smiled, tightly. “I assure you, madam, I shan’t.” He wouldn’t think; he’d do. He’d find Harriet’s benefactress, and when he did . . .

He’d teach her a lesson.

Chapter Five

Isabella took a deep breath as the phaeton entered Hyde Park beneath the arch of the Stanhope Gate. Be calm. Be confident. But it was hard to be either calm or confident when she was this nervous.

She glanced down at Rufus. He, at least, was enjoying himself. He sat up, alert, his tongue hanging out and his ears pricked. His tail wagged, stirring the vandyked hem of her carriage dress.

Isabella took another deep breath. She squared her shoulders and scanned the thoroughfare. Curricles and a barouche, gentlemen on horseback, ladies walking—fashionable London had turned out to see and be seen. Where are you, Major Reynolds?

Despite the nerves, her conscience was easier. This was something she had to do. Her penance, if it could be called that. Not for sheltering Harriet—she had no qualms about her rôle as protector—but for her disastrous slip of the tongue last night.

Her fingers tightened on the reins. There he is.

The major stood to one side of the drive, looking towards the Serpentine and the trees of Kensington Gardens. Isabella observed him as she slowed the horses. He wore a gentleman’s clothes—tailcoat and breeches and top boots—but even so he looked like a soldier. His attitude was alert as he waited, watchful and unsmiling.

Her opinion was the same as it had been last night: A dangerous man. He stood quietly and yet there was something hard-edged about his figure, his face. She had no difficulty believing that he had killed.

In profile the scar wasn’t visible. The lines of his face—brow and cheekbone, nose and jaw—were strong. He was attractive—and then he turned his head, showing her his left cheek. The scar was vivid on his face, almost shocking. Something tightened inside her, a tiny recoil at the pain that scar represented.

Isabella lifted her chin and fixed a smile on her face. “Major Reynolds.” She brought the horses to a halt. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His lips twitched. “Yes,” he said. “Fancy that.”

Some of Isabella’s tension eased. Her smile felt more natural. “Shall we take a turn around the park together?”

The major bowed, with none of a dandy’s flourishes. Very much a soldier, she thought. “I would be delighted,” he said.

Her groom jumped down and Major Reynolds climbed up into the phaeton. Rufus, true to his mongrel origins, wasn’t fastidious when it came to new acquaintances. He welcomed the major eagerly and tried to lick his face.

“Not quite a lapdog,” the major said.

Isabella looked at Rufus’s long legs and unruly tail. “Not quite.” She brought the horses to a walk again. “Tell me, Major, did you receive an invitation to the Harringtons’ ball tonight?”

“Yes,” he said, rubbing one of Rufus’s ears. “But I hadn’t thought to go.” He glanced at her. His expression became wry. “I take it I’m attending?”

“Yes,” said Isabella. “We shall dance the first waltz and the closing dance.”

The major stopped rubbing Rufus’s ear. He sat back and observed her. “The closing dance?”

“Yes.” Isabella said. So that you can’t leave early.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Isabella smiled. “And you may take me to supper, Major.”

Major Reynolds observed her a few seconds longer, and then said with the utmost politeness, “It will be my pleasure, Lady Isabella.”

That cold, green gaze was oddly intimidating. Isabella cleared her throat. “And tomorrow is Wednesday, which means Almack’s.”

An expression of dismay briefly crossed the major’s face. “Must I—”

“Yes.”

Major Reynolds observed her for a moment. The set of his jaw was almost grim. “Very well.”

Isabella transferred her attention to the horses. “Which dances would you like? A waltz and—”

“Two waltzes,” the major said firmly.

She glanced at him, startled. “Two?”

“If I’m to endure Almack’s, then it must be two waltzes.”

“Oh.” She was suddenly—disconcertingly—aware of him as a man. The broad, strong hands, the muscled length of his thigh, the sheer size of him as he sat alongside her. She swallowed and looked away. “Now, we must meet as many people as possible,” she said briskly. “Do you see anyone you know? Oh, Lady Cowper! Are you ready, Major?”

An hour later, her jaw ached from smiling. Rufus lay across the major’s boots, asleep. “I think that’s enough for one day,” Isabella said.

“More than enough,” the major said dryly.

It was draining to be the object of so much attention. But the first step was now behind them, and in a few hours they’d take the second. By midnight London would be talking about Major Reynolds, and not merely to call him an ogre.

“We’ll do this again tomorrow,” Isabella said, trying to sound cheerful. My penance.

“If you think it necessary, Lady Isabella.” There was no inflection in the major’s voice.

She glanced at him. He had to have enjoyed the polite, meaningless conversations and the bright-eyed curiosity even less than she had.

“Yes,” she said firmly. It was necessary. I won’t have you laughed at because of me. She bit her lip, wishing she could apologize, but his face made it impossible: the hardness at his mouth, the hardness in his eyes. “I wish to be of assistance, Major.” It was the closest she could come to an apology. “If there’s any way that I can help you in this matter, please inform me.”

Major Reynolds looked at her for a few seconds, and then seemed to come to an abrupt decision. “There is one thing, Lady Isabella.”

“Oh?”