1155. The Courtship Dance (Candace Camp)

Synopsis:
Lady Francesca Haughston had given up on romance for herself, finding passion instead in making desirable matches for others. So it seemed only fair, when she learned she had been deceived into breaking her own long-ago engagement to Sinclair, Duke of Rochford, that she now help him find the perfect wife.

Of course, Francesca was certain any spark of passion between them had long since died - her own treatment of him had seen to that. The way Sinclair gazed at her or swept her suddenly into his arms.well, that was merely practice for when a younger, more suitable woman caught his eye. But soon Francesca found his lessons in love scandalously irresistible - and a temptation that could endanger them both.

My rating: 3 stars

1014. The Bridal Quest (Candace Camp)

Synopsis:
Lady Irene Wyngate has sworn she'll never marry, keeping suitors at bay with her caustic tongue. But there is one man she can't scare: Gideon, long-lost heir to the Earl of Radbourne. He was kidnapped as a child and grew up tough on the London streets. And though he's been restored to his family, he is still more at home in gambling dens than stately ballrooms.

Irene isn't attracted to Gideon, or so she says when matchmaker Francesca Haughston asks for her help to civilize him for marriage. After all, he is a true rogue with a dubious past—a handsome rogue, she has to admit. But as she reluctantly begins to yield to love, wicked family secrets come to light…with devastating consequences for the reluctant lovers.

My rating: 2 stars

1010. Mesmerized (Candace Camp)

Synopsis:
All her life, Olivia Moreland has denied her clairvoyant abilities, working instead to disprove the mediums that flock to London. But when Stephen, Lord St Leger, requests her help in investigating an alleged psychic, she can't ignore the ominous presence she feels within the walls of his ancient estate. Nor can she ignore the intimate connection she feels to Stephen, as if she has somehow known him before...The last time he'd lived in Blackhope Hall, Stephen had watched as his elder brother claimed both the family title and the woman he loved. Now, following his brother's death, Stephen reluctantly returns home and finds his family ensconced is scandal. Who is behind his brother's murder? And what is it about psychic investigator Olivia Moreland that awakens his long-dormant passion?

My rating: 2 stars

882. The Marriage Wager (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon Canada:
With a nod to Jane Austen, Camp launches the Matchmaker series, set in 19th-century London and concerning the lovely widow Lady Francesca Haughston, mistress of romantic chicanery. When Francesca claims that she can get any marriageable girl engaged by the end of the season, Sinclair, the fifth duke of Rochford, accepts her wager, but only if he can choose the girl. The target he picks is Constance Woodley, a spinsterish young woman who's been living with her uncle since her father's death, hopeless for a future as anything but a chaperone for her spoiled younger cousins. Constance has no idea why Francesca has taken her under her wing, but doesn't worry too much about it: she's feeling alive as if for the first time, especially when she meets handsome Lord Dominic Leighton; unfortunately, he turns out to be Francesca's brother and way out of Constance's social class.

My rating: 2 stars

767. Promise Me Tomorrow (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Barnes and Noble:
Placed in an orphanage after the murder of her parents, the eldest child of Lord and Lady Chilton had given up any hope that her family in England would ever look for her. Marie Anne, now known as Marianne Cotterwood, has little experience with love, but cannot deny her attraction to the suspicious and arrogant Lard Lampton. When Marianne is the victim of some lethal "accidents," it becomes clear that someone is looking of her after all. Someone who does not want her to discover her true identity.

My rating: 3 stars

587. No Other Love (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from publisher:
Urgently on her way to the earl of Exmoor's estate, Nicola Falcourt's carriage is waylaid by a notorious highwayman known as The Gentleman. But there is nothing gentlemanly about the masked bandit's breathless kiss.

The stranger believes Nicola is the wife of Richard Montford, earl of Exmoor, whom he despises and is intent on destroying. But he could not be more mistaken, for Nicola bears no love for the cruel earl who'd killed the only man she'd ever loved.

Determined to uncover the rogue's real identity and his reasons for bringing down the earl, Nicola gets perilously close to him. But to save those she loves, she'll have to put all her trust in a man as dangerous as he is desirable.

My rating: 4 stars

Excerpt: [Prologue]
1789

Helen bent over the small boy in the bed. He looked so small and helpless that it tore at her heart. His hair clung in damp ringlets to his head. He lay still, almost unmoving, his eyes closed, extraordinarily long dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The only sign of life was the faint movement of the sheet as his chest rose and fell. Moments earlier he had been mumbling in his sleep, tossing and turn­ing in the grip of a high fever. Now he lay still as death.

Helen brushed the wet strands of hair back from his fore­head. Don't let him die. Please, not now. She had known him only two days, but already she could not bear to let him go.

Mr. Fuquay had arrived at the inn two nights ago in a post chaise with, oddly, this sick child inside. She knew Fuquay, of course. He had stayed at the village inn before, when Richard Montford had come with friends to visit his cousin, Lord Chilton, the Earl of Exmoor. It was whispered in the village that the Earl despised Richard Montford and would not allow him to stay at Tidings, the grand seat of the Montford family. Only now, of course, the old man was dead, and Richard Montford was the new Earl. It had seemed peculiar that Fuquay had come to the inn and not to Tidings.

It had seemed even more peculiar when she saw that he had two children with him. He had come to the door of the public room and motioned to her. She had cast a quick glance toward the tavern owner, and then slipped out the door after Fuquay. He was an odd young man, handsome but very gaunt, with a peculiarly soft, almost dazed, look in his eyes most of the time. One of the other girls said that he was an opium eater, and perhaps that was true. But he had been kind and gentle to her, and it hadn't taken much per­suasion on his part to induce Helen to warm his bed while he was at the inn. He had been generous, too, and she remembered him fondly.

He had taken her to the carriage and opened it, showing her two sleeping children inside. A girl, hidden in bonnet and coat, was curled up against the opposite wall. Across from her, on the opposite seat, lay a boy, wrapped in a blanket. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat, his body visibly trembling.

"Can you take care him, Helen?" Fuquay had asked, fidgeting. "He's in a bad way. He won't last long, that's clear. But I can't just no matter what he wants "

He had paused at the end of this vague speech and gazed pleadingly into her eyes. He took a gold coin out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand. "I'll make it worth your while. Just stay with him and see him through to the end. You will do that, won't you?"

"What's the matter with him?" Helen had asked, unable to pull her eyes away from the small form. He had been so beautiful, so small and vulnerable.

Fuquay had shaken his head. "A fever. He's done for, but I can't well, he ought to die in a bed, at least. Will you do it?"

Of course she had agreed. She had fallen in love with the child as soon as she set eyes on him. She had never been able to conceive despite many opportunities and she had always ached for a child, a secret, sorrowful desire that the other tavern girls had scoffed at. "You're lucky, you are," they had said, "never havin' to worry about get-tin' in trouble."

And now here was this lovely child being handed to her, a gift, it seemed, from heaven. She had climbed into the carriage without delay, not asking any of the dozens of questions that tumbled about in her mind. Gentlemen didn't take to one prying into their affairs.

She had directed him toward her grandmother's cottage, for she had no intention of letting her precious gift die. If anyone could save the lad, it would be Granny Rose. It was a long drive, for Granny lived in a secluded cottage on the edge of Buckminster land, and Helen had had to walk the last part of the journey, carrying the boy in her arms, for there was no drivable road leading to Granny's cottage. Mr. Fuquay had let her out and handed her the boy with a profusion of thanks, but she had hardly paid any attention to Mm. Her thoughts were all on the boy and getting him to her grandmother.

Helen glanced up now and over at her grandmother. Granny Rose, as she was known to most of the local pop­ulace, was a short, rounded dumpling of a woman. Twin­kling blue eyes looked out of a face so wrinkled and brown it resembled a dried apple. Despite her merry, almost com­ical appearance, she was a wise and highly regarded woman among the local people. She knew herbs and healing wis­dom, and when Helen had staggered in, carrying the fe­verish boy, she had known just what to do.

For two days now she and Helen had been caring for him, dosing him with Granny's decoctions, sponging his flaming body down with cool rags, and forcing little sips of water and soup through his parched lips. The fever had racked his body until Helen had cried for him, and it seemed with every struggling breath he took, Helen loved him more.

"Is he " She stopped, her throat closing on the words. He looked so frightfully still and pale.

But Granny shook her head, a smile beginning to curve her lips. "No. I think he's past it. The fever's broken."

"Really?" Helen put her palm against the boy's cheek. It was true; he was definitely not as hot as he had been minutes before.

"What are you going to do with him?" Granny asked quietly, watching her granddaughter's face. "He's Quality, you know."

Helen nodded. That much was obvious. His fevered mut-terings had been in the perfect tones of the upper class, and the clothes that he wore, though duty and drenched in sweat, were of the finest cut and materials.

"I know. But he's mine," Helen added, setting her jaw. "We saved him, and he belongs to me now. I won't let them have him. Besides..."

She hesitated, not certain whether she wanted to admit to her shrewd grandmother what else she suspected about the child. She thought she knew who he was, but if her vague suspicions were correct, it might very well mean the boy's life if she revealed that he had survived. If she was wrong...well, then, she had no idea who the lad was, and it would not be her fault if she could not restore him to his proper family.

Either way, she told herself, the best thing to do was to remain silent.

"Besides what?" Granny Rose asked, her bright eyes boring into her granddaughter's.

"I don't know who he is. Where would we take him? And I I don't think they want him to live."

"And what will you say if they ask you what happened to him?"

"Why, that he died, of course, just as they thought he would, and I buried him in the woods where none would ever see it."

The older woman said nothing, merely nodded, and did not mention the matter of the boy's return again. She, too, Helen thought, had fallen under the sick child's spell.

After the fever broke, the boy gradually grew better, until at last his eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at Helen with dark brown eyes.

"Who are you?" he whispered hoarsely.

Helen took his little hand in hers and replied,' 'I am your new mother, Gil."

"Mama?" he repeated vaguely, his eyes clouded, giving the word an inflection on the last syllable.

"Yes. Mama," Helen repeated firmly, stressing the first syllable.

"Oh. I don't " His eyes teared up. "I can't remem­ber I'm scared!"

"Of course you are." Helen sat down beside him on the bed, taking him into her arms. "Of course you are. You have been very sick. But I'm here, and so is Granny Rose, and we are going to take care of you."

He held on to her tightly as tears rolled down his cheeks. "Mama..."

"Yes, dear. I'm right here. Always."

540. Impulse (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon Canada:
Vowing to avenge himself on the snobby family of the woman he loves, Cam Monroe returns, rich and powerful, fifteen years later to demand Angela's hand in marriage, but he is threatened by a series of deadly accidents.

My rating: 2 stars

380. An Independent Woman (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon:
When her father dies, Juliana and her mother lose everything they own. Wealthy relatives Lilith and Trenton coldly offer them shelter but only out of a society-imposed sense of duty. Juliana's cousins, both sadistic brats, make sure her life is miserable. Except for orphaned heir Nicholas, who is also at the mercy of Lilith and Trenton, Juliana is friendless. When Nicholas leaves his family estate, Juliana is truly alone. She finds work as a lady's companion; then, years later, while accompanying her charge to a ball, she runs into Nicholas, now a wealthy lord. When he finds out how miserable her life is, Nicholas proposes, although he is not sure that her feelings for him run beyond the bounds of friendship. The wedding itself is made even more memorable when one of their guests is murdered -- and Nicholas is the main suspect.

My rating: 2 stars

348. Swept Away (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon UK:
When Lord Stonehaven accuses Julia's brother of a crime he did not commit, the ruinous scandal threatens to destroy her family, and Julia launches a vengeful and seductive scheme designed to bring down the unrepentant rogue.

My rating: 5 stars

319. So Wild a Heart (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon:
To save his family home from ruin and repay his gambling debts, Devin Aincourt, the earl of Ravenscar, must marry into wealth. Unfortunately, his notorious womanizing, drinking and gambling have left him with few options among London's eligible ladies, and he's forced to debase himself by proposing to an American. Miranda Upshaw, the daughter of a wealthy fur trader, is not the homely, rustic woman Devin had feared, however. She's feisty, independent, business-minded and unimpressed by the English aristocracy. Her only interest lies in his family's estate, which she hopes to restore to its original glory. Although Miranda refuses Devin's offer at first, she eventually realizes that there are advantages to a marriage of convenience, especially one that is a platonic business arrangement. Inevitably, their relationship turns intimate, but first they must find out who is trying to kill Miranda.

My rating: 2 stars

291. Secrets of the Heart (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon:
On the eve of her wedding to Michael Trent, the Earl of Westhampton, Rachel Aincourt tried to elope with another man -- only to be unceremoniously returned to her fiance by her strong-willed father. Burdened by guilt and shame, Rachel felt she'd gotten what she deserved: a loveless marriage to a cold, enigmatic husband. She was wrong. Behind Michael's proper demeanor lay a man who thrived on danger and intrigue -- and now he'd been drawn into one of Bow Street's toughest cases. When the crime turned into a murder that involved Rachel, Michael found a new way to employ his mastery of disguise: seducing the wife he secretly loved. But would he finally be able to win her heart ... or would he destroy his last chance for happiness?

My rating: 4 stars

19. Impetuous (Candace Camp)

Synopsis from Amazon UK:
Some 150 years after a runaway bride and a vanished dowry -- a treasure of gold and gems -- ignites a feud between the Verrere and Neville families, a poverty-stricked Cassandra Verrere enlists the aid of a scion of the Neville clan to find the long-lost fortune.

My rating: 5 stars

Excerpt:

Prologue

The door to her room opened softly, and a man slipped in. The candle in his hand barely penetrated the darkness, but he could make out the bed, and he glided toward it.

The woman in the bed lay turned away from him, her feminine curves concealed by the covers. He stopped, a little uncertain. He had expected her to be awake, to turn toward him with the eager welcome that she had displayed earlier this evening in the conservatory. He held the candle closer to the bed. Its light glinted off the pale fall of her hair as it tumbled across the covers and pillow. It was that light gold hair which had caught his interest this afternoon, more than the perfect features.

He set down the candle and blew it out, slipped out of his shoes, and crawled across the bed to the woman. She said nothing, and he wondered whether she had actually fallen asleep or was merely feigning it. It seemed peculiar that she would simply have gone to sleep when she had made this assignation with him for midnight. It occurred to him that she was pretending to sleep in order to somehow retain an illusion of her innocence in the whole matter--or perhaps she thought that he would find it arousing. He had to admit that there was something rather intriguing about lying beside her warm body, pliant and all defenses down, even that of consciousness.

He nuzzled into the mass of sweet-scented hair, gently looping his arm across her. Desire flickered through him, immediate and piercing. The faint aroma of roses teased at his senses. He found it more arousing than the heavier scent she had worn this afternoon. He lifted her hair and placed his lips tenderly against the nape of her neck.

She let out a little shuddery sigh, and he smiled against her skin. He trailed soft, warm kisses across her neck and up onto her jaw, finding her ear and nibbling at it, tracing the gentle whorls with the tip of his tongue, rubbing the lobe between his lips. His hand slid beneath the covers, shoving them down, revealing her clad in a plain white cotton nightgown. The demure gown surprised him, but he found it intensely, immediately arousing in a way that a more suggestive gown would not have been. He almost chuckled. He would not have thought the chit had such understanding or expertise. Perhaps this would be much better than he had thought. He was glad that he had changed his mind and decided to accept Joanna's invitation after all.

His hands roamed her body as his mouth continued to play with her ear. He caressed her breasts and the feminine swell of her hips through the cloth of her nightgown. His fingers played over her thighs, her stomach. His blood thrummed as he kissed his way down from her ear, across the soft skin of her neck, until he was stopped by the cloth of her gown. Impatiently he unbuttoned the first few buttons until it fell open enough that he could pull the gown down onto her arm, exposing a tantalizing expanse of skin down to her shoulder. He gazed at the creamy skin for a moment, feeling himself harden and throb. He trailed a finger, shaking slightly, across the smooth flesh. It was like touching rose petals, and it sent a spear of desire straight down into his loins. He bent his head and kissed the point of her shoulder.

His breath came faster in his throat as he kissed his way back across her collarbone and up her neck. He snuggled up closely behind her, pressing his body against hers all the way up and down, letting his desire pulse against her rounded derriere. His hand slid down her abdomen, pushing her tightly against him, and delved between her legs. She let out a soft moan and moved her legs, opening for him. He caught his breath, stirred by the sound of her passion. He was certain now that she must be awake, though her only acknowledgment had been that sound. There was something infinitely arousing in her silent acquiescence, in the way her breath grew faster and louder, as though her most basic needs were betraying her, breaking through her self-imposed quiet. His fingers moved rhythmically, pressing and releasing, sliding across her nether lips through the cloth, and he was rewarded with another low groan that seemed to rise from deep within her.

Eyes closed, luxuriating in the petal softness of her skin, he kissed his way across her cheek. Letting out a murmur of pleasure, she turned instinctively toward him, and their lips met. Her mouth was soft and warm, yielding to the pressure of his, and her lips opened to his questing tongue. Her arms came up and curled around his neck as he kissed her deeply. Desire shuddered through him.

He pulled and tugged at her nightgown, rucking the skirt of it up until finally his fingers were on the soft flesh of her thighs. He caressed the delicate skin, his fingers creeping upward until they encountered the moisture of her desire, which only fed his own. He slipped across the slick, satiny flesh, her pearly dew wetting his fingers. She jerked a little, startled, as he touched that most intimate part of her, but then she moved, inviting his touch, and his fingers began to stroke her.

Need was pounding in him. He wanted to taste her, touch her, everywhere. He would have liked to part her legs and slide between them, plunge deep within her and carry them both to satisfaction. But even more, he wanted to prolong this moment, to explore and taste and suck every ounce of pleasure from this coupling. He had not expected anything like this when he had responded to the Moulton girl's invitation. She had seemed a blatant hussy, and he had not planned at first to even come to her bedchamber. Only restlessness had finally sent him from his room and down the hall to Joanna's. But now...

Now, touching her, breathing in her scent, taking her mouth with his--there was none of the casual, premeditated passion he had expected. Her body was like fire beneath him. Her kisses and the way she responded to his touch, the unstudied moans and sighs, all spoke of a blend of passion and inexperience that was more enticing than any practiced touch. He could not remember the last time he had felt so quickly aroused, so intensely alive, in a woman's arms.

She writhed beneath him, moaning as his fingers worked their magic. He felt as if he might explode. His mouth left hers and trailed down her neck onto the white expanse of her chest. His lips touched the quivering softness of her breast. Gently he kissed her flesh, and her body arched up a little, as though seeking his kiss. Obligingly, he took her nipple into the hot, wet cave of his mouth and began to suckle.

She let out a moan, and her hips moved fiercely beneath his hand. Suddenly she jerked and cried out, her eyes flying open, and he realized with intense satisfaction that he had brought her to release. He raised his head and smiled down into her face. He saw the blank confusion in her eyes, wide-open and staring at him. He saw the horror dawning in them. He also saw, with the feeling of stepping off a cliff into nothing but air, that the girl who lay beneath him was not Joanna Moulton.

Chapter 1

Cassandra was awash in pleasure. She had never experienced anything like it, dreaming or awake. She had been dreaming lush, colorful dreams from the moment she fell asleep. Somehow she knew they were dreams, and yet she was unable to awaken from them. She had been walking through her house--the old mansion of Chesilworth, not her aunt's more habitable, yet far less pleasant, home--and she had been warm and happy. Her father was still alive and puttering downstairs in his library. The walls were a warm, buttery tint, touched by the rays of the sun, and she passed a bedroom, where a jewel-toned red velvet spread covered the bed. Candles burned inside, beckoning her. She started into the room, but then somehow she was outside in a cool, vibrantly green bower. The leaves of the hedges were dark and waxy, smooth to the touch. A breeze swept over her, lifting her hair and tickling the back of her neck. She shivered a little in delight. The sun was warm upon her shoulders, the breeze caressed her. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feeling.

Pleasure welled up inside her as the wind played over her cheek and neck. She was aware that now she had on no clothes, but strangely this fact did not seem to bother her. She loved the way the sun felt on her naked skin, the way the air drifted over her. Now there was a man with her. But that did not bother her, either. She knew him, though she could not see his face or say his name. He put his hands on her, and her loins turned to warm wax. She felt weak and shaky as he kissed her over and over again. His lips pressed against her mouth, opening it to his questing tongue, and she jerked with the violent, unexpected pleasure of it. Warm moisture pooled between her legs, and she squeezed them together, trying to satisfy the ache that had arisen there.

His kisses filled her even as they consumed her. She clung to him in a maelstrom of pleasure. His hand traveled down over her body and delved between her legs, sending waves of pleasure through her. She moaned and moved her hips against his hand, instinctively seeking something, though she wasn't sure what. Then, suddenly, a pleasure more intense that anything she had ever felt seemed to burst within her.

Cassandra jerked, and her eyes flew open. She was awake. And a man she had never met was leaning over her, staring down into her face.

For an instant, she simply stared at him in stupefaction that matched the stunned expression on his face. Then horror rushed through her as her befogged mind began to function. She drew breath to scream. He saw her intent and quickly covered her mouth with his hand, which frightened her even more. She grabbed his arm, trying to pull his hand away, and at the same time, she struggled to sit up. He pushed her back down firmly, and she swung her hand up, hitting him sharply on the ear. He winced and grabbed for her wrist with his free hand, but she swung the other at him, too, and kicked, trying to wriggle off the bed. He threw his weight upon her to pin her down, and she was aware of every hard line of muscle and bone.

He was stronger than she, but Cassandra was not one to give up, and she had an advantage in that he had to keep one hand pressed across her mouth to keep her from screaming. She rained blows on his head and shoulders and back, and thrashed her legs, trying to land a kick that would do some harm. It took him a good while to finally get his legs wrapped tightly around hers and his hand clenched around both her wrists, pinning them to the bed above her. He was lying completely atop her, bearing her down into the mattress. Cassandra could not help but be aware of the intruder's power, of his very maleness. The position frightened her, yet at the same time she was confusedly aware of the heat that sizzled through her veins and lay pooled and heavy in her abdomen.

She wished that she could think better. Why was her head so heavy and groggy? And what was a man of the wealth and position of Sir Philip Neville doing assaulting a woman in her bedroom at a house party in the country?

He was breathing heavily, and Cassandra saw that sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat, just above the undone button of his shirt. Cassandra pulled both her eyes and her mind away from that tanned hollow of flesh that was visibly pulsing with each beat of his heart.

"Don't scream!" he whispered, leaning down close to her face. "I promise you I mean you no harm. I will let you go, if you will promise not to scream."

She gazed at him, wide-eyed, and nodded her head. He looked at her for a long, doubtful moment, then eased his hand from her mouth, moving in tiny increments, always ready to clamp it back down if she showed signs of screaming. Cassandra said nothing, merely watched him steadily.

He relaxed a little. "I swear to you that I mean you no harm. I will leave this room. I won't harm you. Do you understand?"

"Of course I understand!" Cassandra hissed back in the same undertone. "I'm not an idiot."

He moved off her with a groan. "Bloody hell! What a tangle." He looked at her, frowning. "You're the wrong one."

"I should certainly hope so," Cassandra retorted acidly, sitting up. "Oh, my head! I feel as if a thousand hammers were banging away inside it." Why was she so groggy? And why did she feel strangely hot and tingly inside?

She looked at the man sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her. She supposed she ought to be frightened, but, once that initial spurt of terror was past, once she recognized the stranger for Sir Philip Neville, she had not been scared, only stunned and confused.

The lingering emotions from her dream unsettled her, and she took refuge in sarcasm. "What young lady's room were you trying to break into, may I ask?"

"I wasn't breaking in," he responded, stung. "I was accepting an invitation."

"Of course. I should have known." Cassandra's voice was dry, and she arched an eyebrow. "I am sure that Sir Philip Neville has ample invitations to enter women's bedrooms."

Neville gazed at her for a long moment. "You are a most unusual female."

"So I've been told." Cassandra did not deceive herself that his words were a compliment.

"I would think a young lady would be...rather more distraught in this situation than you are."

"Would you rather that I were?" Cassandra retorted. "I fail to see how it would help matters any if I were to fall into hysterics."

"I didn't say it would help. It just seems more... natural."

"I must be an unnatural female, then. It is what my aunt and cousin tell me. They say it is why I never caught a husband. But I think that had more to do with the sad state of our finances than with my attitude, for I have seen odder women than myself marry well, as long as they had a wealthy father. Wouldn't you say?"

"I daresay you are correct." Sir Philip gazed at her in a sort of dazed fascination. He had never before met a woman who spoke in the candid, no-nonsense way this woman did. Indeed, it was something of an oddity to speak to a woman who did not immediately set to flirting with him. He had found that an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year acted as a powerful aphrodisiac.

"To return to the subject at hand," Cassandra continued crisply, "exactly why are you in my room rather than that of the female who issued the invitation?"

Neville grimaced. "I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere." He turned to light the candle he had set down on the bedside table earlier. Taking out a note from his pocket, he unfolded it and reread it. "Though I don't see how. It's quite clear--the fifth door on the right from the stairs. Isn't this the fifth door?"

Cassandra thought for a moment. "Yes." Curious, she rose onto her knees and looked over his shoulder at the note. She gasped as she recognized the blotted, sloppy handwriting and the distinctive looping initials at the bottom of the paper. "My God, that's Joanna's script!"

Neville turned to glare at her, crumpling the note in his fist. "I beg your pardon, madam. This is a private correspondence."

"Mm. I think it's hardly a private matter, considering that you are sitting in my bed reading it."

"It would be the death of her reputation if this were known," he countered grimly.

"I think that my reputation is of more concern at the moment, since you are in my bedroom."

"I would trust, madam, that you would have enough sense not to bandy it about that you were entertaining a man in your room, and since I have no intention of revealing it, I think it is clear that your reputation is safe."

"Of course I have enough sense to keep quiet," Cassandra retorted, nettled by what she considered a rather excessive concern on his part over Joanna's reputation. "The one you ought to be concerned with is Joanna, since she is obviously so hare-witted that she directed you to the wrong room."

She reached over and plucked the ball of paper from his hand and smoothed it out, bending close to read it in the dim light of the candle. "Ah, yes, I see. She didn't say fifth door, she wrote fourth. You see? It's just her abominable handwriting, and she left out the u. She never was much good at spelling, I'm afraid. I can see how you made the mistake--especially with, ah, your undoubted eagerness clouding your thinking. I have had a bit more experience with reading her notes."

"Then it is too bad that I did not consult with you first," Neville snarled, "but, you see, I was not aware that I needed an interpreter."

"There is no need to be testy," Cassandra stated. "And you needn't worry for your, uh, for the lady's reputation. I'm not likely to besmirch my family by telling anyone that Joanna makes assignations with men in her bedchamber. She is my cousin, you see."

"Your cousin?" Neville studied her face in the candlelight. "That's odd. I don't recall seeing you with her."

"That is often the case." Cassandra kept her voice light. She was used, after all, to being overshadowed by her beautiful, flirtatious cousin. Joanna's guinea gold hair and large blue eyes generally captured all male attention when she was around.

Cassandra, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, knew that she was on the shelf and, indeed, had never been popular with men. She had not "taken" one during her season, and her father had not been able to afford more than one. Cassandra knew, anyway, that any number of social seasons would not have seen her married. For one thing, she had no knack for flirtation and even less interest in it. For another, while she was not precisely plain, her features lacked the even perfection of a true beauty. Her cheekbones were too high, her jaw too firm, and her mouth was much too wide for the popular rosebud look. Even her eyes, which she felt to be her best feature, were a quiet gray rather than a soulful brown or a sparkling blue, and she did not use them to her advantage, instead gazing at the world in a straightforward, clear way that did not lure men.

So she had retired from the social world after one year, not really displeased that she had not made a successful marriage. She had done the season as a duty for her family. They were, as always, in desperate need of money, and she would have gritted her teeth and said yes if an eligible man had asked for her hand. But she had found no man during the year of her debut whom she had accounted as anything but boring, and she was, frankly, quite glad to return to the bosom of her family at Chesilworth unengaged and unlikely ever to be so. With relief, she had donned her old clothes, wound her hair up into the familiar bun and jumped back into the management of her father's household, which had fallen into a woeful state in her absence. She found contentment in raising her younger brothers and sister, and intellectual companionship with her father, and if there was anything missing in her life--other than a chronic lack of money--she had not felt it, or at least had not allowed the feeling to dwell long. At social functions, she sat with the matrons overseeing the antics of the youngsters, rather than with the giggling, hopeful maidens, whose conversations she found stultifying, and in the last couple of years, she had even taken to wearing a small cap over her hair in acknowledgement of her spinster status. It was just as well, she thought, that men's eyes slid past her indifferently. It was much less trying not to have to make conversation about nothing.

Still...she could not help but feel a twinge of hurt at the thought that Sir Philip had not even noticed her when he was standing not three feet away from her, chatting with Aunt Ardis and her cousin Joanna.

"You were otherwise occupied," she continued, not without a sting.

"I see." He turned and looked at her. It puzzled him that he could have missed noticing this creature with the wide eyes and tumbling mass of bright hair and...other, entrancing features. His gaze dropped down to her torso, where her nightgown, still unbuttoned, had once again slipped off her shoulder and down her arm, revealing a high, firm white breast with its enticing pinkish brown nipple. Even fully clothed and with her hair done up in proper midday form, how could he not have noticed her?

Cassandra, following the direction of his gaze, glanced down and saw with horror that her breast was exposed. Blushing furiously, she jerked up the neck of her nightgown and began buttoning it up, keeping her eyes turned down. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her! How could she face him again? No man had ever seen more of her than what was bared by the neckline of an evening gown. Now this man, this stranger to her, had seen her with the intimacy of a husband. Worse -- what was she doing with half the buttons of her gown undone? She thought of the wild, swirling emotions of her dream, the startling sensations and the heat in her abdomen. What had happened? Had it been not a dream lover but a real man touching her in those intimate ways? Had this man caused that fierce, primeval jolt of pleasure that had finally dragged her from her slumber?

She looked up at him, color still staining her cheeks. She was embarrassed, but Cassandra Verrere was not one to flinch from the truth. "What happened? Here, tonight, I mean. I--I feel so strange. I dreamed, well, bizarre things, things that I--Were they real? What did you--what did I do?"

Sir Philip hesitated, then he leaned over and took her hand gently. "You did nothing. I assure you. I entered your room, thinking you were another. You were in the midst of a fevered dream. I--you were tossing and turning. Thinking you were Joanna, I came over and, ah, took your arms. I tried to wake you, but you were very heavily asleep. I...kissed you. And you woke up. That is when I realized that you were not Miss Moulton."

"And that is all?"

His eyebrows rose lazily. "Yes. Of course. What else could there be?"

Cassandra let out a sigh of relief. "Nothing. It was just peculiar. I felt as if I were not quite asleep, yet I could not seem to pull myself out of my slumber."

"No doubt you had a tiring day."

"Mm." Cassandra knew it had not been at all tiring physically. But the social interaction that a large house party involved was rather wearying. Still... "I think you had better leave now."

"Yes. You're right." He slid off the bed and walked toward the door. Cassandra followed him. He paused and turned toward her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she responded automatically, then added, "What are you thanking me for?"

"For being a most calm and reasonable young woman. There are not many who would have reacted as you did."

"Oh." Cassandra nodded matter-of-factly. "I am afraid I haven't much sensibility."

He reached for the doorknob, but Cassandra laid a restraining hand on his arm. "No. You had better let me see if anyone happens to be out in the hall first."

"Of course." He nodded and stepped back.

Cassandra eased the door open a crack and put her eye to it. She gasped and jerked back, closing the door hastily. She turned to Sir Philip, her eyes huge.

"What is it?" He made a move toward the door, but she raised her hand.

"Don't!" she cautioned. "Shh. It's my aunt!"

Almost without thinking, she reached down and turned the key in the lock. The last thing she wanted was for Aunt Ardis to barge into her room.

"What is she doing here?" he whispered.

"I have no idea. Could she have seen you enter my room? If she knocks on the door, you will have to hide." She looked speculatively toward the window. "I wonder if you could escape out the window."

"We are on the second floor," he reminded her.

"There might be a trellis or a tree."

He raised one brow sardonically. "You seem awfully familiar with this sort of predicament."

"Don't be absurd."

Their discussion was interrupted at that moment by heavy pounding on a door, not Cassandra's, but the one next door. Cassandra jumped at the sound, then relaxed with a heartfelt sigh. "Thank God. She's at Joanna's room."

"Joanna!" Aunt Ardis bellowed, her voice carrying clearly through the walls. "Open this door. This is your mother! Open this door at once, I say!"

"Is your aunt in the habit of waking everyone up in the middle of the night this way?"

Cassandra shook her head, puzzled. "No. I cannot imagine what has possessed her. She is always in bed by ten."

"Joanna!"

Cassandra stealthily unlocked her door and opened it a fraction, peering out at the spectacle of her aunt. Aunt Ardis was a sizable woman, with a large bosom that thrust out like the prow of a ship when she was corseted. It did so now, despite the fact that Aunt Ardis wore a red velvet dressing gown and bedroom slippers. Cassandra noticed, too, that her hair was still coiled up into its usual flat braided bun, not hanging loose down her back. Cassandra frowned, wondering what could have happened to put her aunt into such a state.

"Joanna! Open up I say. Who's in there with you? I heard voices."

"Voices!" Cassandra exclaimed softly and looked back at Sir Philip. "Oh, dear, do you think she could have heard us?"

Neville shook his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Cassandra had to admit that it seemed unlikely, given the fact that her aunt's room was on the other side of Joanna's.

At that moment Joanna's door was wrenched open, and Joanna cried out in a carrying whisper, "Hush! It's too early! He's not here yet!"

Aunt Ardis's jaw dropped, and she stared at her daughter in horror. All up and down the hall, doors were opening and heads were popping out, their expressions variously sleepy, irritated or avid, and some all three.

"I say, what's going on?" Colonel Rivington, across the hall from Joanna's room, called out. "What is all this commotion?"

"Uh." Aunt Ardis's mouth opened and closed like that of a landed fish.

"I'm so sorry." Joanna smiled sweetly at the man. "Please forgive my mother. She was, uh, she was just..."

"Worried!" Aunt Ardis found her voice. "That's it. I was worried. I heard Joanna crying out in her sleep. She must have been having a bad dream."

"Yes," Joanna agreed quickly. "A nightmare. I was having a nightmare."

Cassandra eased the door shut and turned toward Sir Philip, frowning in puzzlement. "How odd. Why are they--" She stopped short at the forbidding expression on his face. "What is it?"

"I understand now." His words were short and clipped, his mouth thinned with distaste. "I was surprised when Miss Moulton threw herself at me this afternoon. Before that she had been acting like the usual coy, flirtatious maiden. Then suddenly she turned into a brazen woman of the world." He remembered his faint surprise as she had "accidentally" brushed against him three times this afternoon in the conservatory and the seductive looks she had sent him, the long, promising kiss behind a palm tree as she slipped the note into his hand.

"I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

"Your cousin's scheme. Your aunt's. She wrote me that note asking me to come to her room tonight at midnight. She gave every indication of welcoming quite dishonorable attentions. And her mother was primed to come barging in after I was in the room, rousing everyone on the floor with her loud comments."

Cassandra stared. "You mean, she lured you up to her room so that her mother could catch you in a compromising position with her? But why? Why would she want to destroy her reputation like that?"

A faint smile flickered across Neville's face. Her lack of comprehension of her relatives' scheme spoke volumes about her own honest character. "My dear girl, I doubt very much that she cared about her reputation being shredded, as long as it brought her wealth and an old name. Her reputation would not have been ruined, in any case, since she and I would immediately have become engaged."

Cassandra gasped. "You mean--they wanted to force you into marrying Joanna? I can't believe it!" But she could; it took only a moment's reflection to bring her around. Why else would her aunt have been pounding on Joanna's door so loudly and virtually shouting, except to bring out several interested observers? Why else would her aunt, usually early to bed, still have been up at midnight -- and still wearing her corset, her hair done up? She was expecting everyone to look at her, and she had been unable to bring herself to be in true deshabille.

"That's why I was so groggy..." Cassandra murmured. "Aunt Ardis must have put some of her laudanum in my drink tonight. I should have known she was up to something when she came in here with that warm milk to help me sleep. She knows how lightly I sleep and the difficulty I often have going to bed. She wanted me deep in slumber so I wouldn't investigate any noise I heard--like you slipping into Joanna's room."

"No doubt you're right. It is merely my good luck that Miss Moulton's handwriting is so illegible, or you would have found yourself forced into cousinship with me."

"Oh." Cassandra raised her hands to her burning cheeks. She wasn't sure whether she was more humiliated or furious. How could her aunt and cousin have acted in such a despicable way? Somehow the thought of Joanna trying to tie this man to her for life made Cassandra long to slap her cousin. "I am so ashamed. Sir Philip, I apologize for my family. I cannot imagine what made them do such a thing."

"I have found that the lure of money often causes people to act in a bizarre fashion."

"That is no excuse for--for such a lack of principles. I am sorry, so dreadfully sorry." Her eyes shone with angry, embarrassed tears. "You must think we are awful."

He smiled and took her hand, gallantly bowing over it and brushing the back of her hand with his lips . "My dear lady, I do not think you are awful at all. Indeed, you almost restore my faith in humanity."

The touch of his lips on her skin sent an unaccustomed thrill through Cassandra, reminding her of the fevered, pulse-racing condition in which she had awakened. That odd melting-wax sensation deep in her abdomen had still not completely gone away. Cassandra swallowed and turned away.

"I, ah, I shall see if everyone has gone back inside." She opened the door a crack and looked out. When she saw no one, she stuck her head out the door and peered up and down the hall.

She turned back to Sir Philip. ' "There is no one out there now."

He nodded. "Then I shall take my leave of you." He smiled, sketching her another elegant bow. "Thank you for a most interesting evening, Miss Moulton."

"Oh, I'm--" Cassandra stopped. Now was not the time to go into an explanation that her name was not Moulton. "I'm just sorry for what my cousin and aunt did."

"And I apologize for...my most ungentlemanly behavior."

Cassandra felt another blush beginning to rise in her cheeks. She turned away and made another check out the door, then stepped aside for Sir Philip to pass. She closed the door behind him and waited a few tense moments for the sounds of voices that would indicate that he had been caught. There was nothing. Again she ventured a peek out and saw that the hall was empty. Sir Philip had gone.

She closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a sigh. Oh, God! Why had this had to happen? Tonight, of all nights, and with Sir Philip Neville, of all people?

Cassandra made her way over to her bed and sat down heavily. She had schemed so hard to get her aunt to take her along on this visit when she had heard that Sir Philip was going to be here. It had taken numerous careful, subtle hints about the difficulty of chaperoning an active young girl like Joanna on the sort of outdoors amusements that one tended to go on at large house parties, painting a picture of liveliness that was guaranteed not to appeal to Aunt Ardis's sluggish nature. Concealing any desire on her own part to attend such a function, she had worked her aunt around to realizing that the ideal solution would be to take Cassandra along to chaperon Joanna on the activities Aunt Ardis found too taxing. Reluctantly, Cassandra had let herself be persuaded.

It had been, she thought, a superb performance on her part, especially given the fact that her decisive, straightforward nature did not run naturally toward subterfuge.

And now her effort was in all likelihood wasted. How could she even face Sir Philip again, knowing what Joanna had tried to do to him? And knowing, too, in what an intimate situation he had met Cassandra herself?

Heat flooded her just at the memory of the things she had dreamed--the deep, passionate kisses, the sensual caresses. Had those things really happened? Had her drugged mind just turned them into a dream? She groaned in despair, covering her face with her hands. She could never live it down if she had moaned and writhed in Sir Philip's arms the way she had in her dream. He had told her that nothing had happened, but perhaps he was merely being gentlemanly.

She flopped back on her bed, unconsciously running her hand down her front as she remembered the hot, pulsing sensations that had assaulted her in her dreams...the intense explosion of pleasure that had propelled her out of her sleep finally. What had that been? That deep, hard jolt of pure sensation that had left her feeling weak and quietly throbbing? Nothing in her experience had ever even come close to that feeling.

Was she a wanton woman? The idea seemed absurd. She had had very few dealings with men, really. She did not seem to know how to talk to them. The straightforward way she had talked to her father had seemed to make young men quickly leave her side. Aunt Ardis had told her that young girls did not make conversation about such boring topics as history or politics, much less offer their strong--and often quite radical--opinions. Young ladies, Aunt Ardis had pointed out, were supposed to giggle and flirt, to flutter a fan coyly in front of their faces and let their eyes speak volumes above it. Cassandra had found the whole notion absurd, and she could scarcely believe that a gentleman could decide whether he loved a woman or could even stand to be married to her on the basis of giggles and inane conversation.

Of course, she had had no beaux, whereas the flirtatious Joanna, who had never uttered a sensible word to a man in her life, was flooded with them at every party. It proved, she supposed, the truth of Aunt Ardis's advice. Cassandra had realized that she was not romantic enough or not interested enough in men to act the part of a ninny in order to snare one. If her aunt was correct, Cassandra thought, then most men were too foolish for her to want to spend the rest of her life with one. It was far better to remain a spinster and her own woman. With such an unromantic, practical nature, she found it difficult to believe that there was a streak of wantonness running through her. If there was, then her earlier dream had been the only manifestation of it she had ever noticed.

This was nonsense, she told herself, sitting up straight. Sir Philip had not been trying to protect her when he said nothing had happened. He had merely been telling the truth. It was absurd to think anything else. Of course he had done nothing except climb into her bed, thinking that she was Joanna. Then he had seen her face and realized that she was not. He would not have been kissing and caressing her for several minutes before he realized that he did not know her.

Cassandra let out a sigh of relief. She had been letting her imagination run away with her. The peculiar sensations she had experienced were doubtless part of the peculiarity of her dreams. She was sure that Aunt Ardis or Joanna must have dosed her with some of her aunt's laudanum. The sleeping potion had obviously affected her dreams as well as made her sleep, and no doubt it was responsible for the odd sensations she had dreamed--things that had been entirely in her head, not really physical.

Sir Philip would not assume she was wanton. Indeed, he had told her that he appreciated her integrity. She told herself that she need not be embarrassed to face him. And the fact was, she had to talk to him. Her family's whole future rested on getting him to agree to her plan. Her cousin's behavior was irksome and embarrassing, of course, but Cassandra told herself that she would have to rise above it. She had to think of her brothers and their future. It was imperative to get their family inheritance, and only Sir Philip could help her do that. She could not let a few well-bred qualms deter her from her course. She had to talk to Sir Philip tomorrow.

Cassandra gave a short, decisive nod, as if she had been arguing with another person. Then she slid beneath her covers, reaching over to blow out the candle. She felt much more like herself now. And tomorrow she would proceed with her plan.

8. Indiscreet (Candace Camp)

From the back cover:
Benedict Wincross appears in Camilla Ferrand's life as quickly as the gunfire pursuing him. Is he a kidnapper? A thief? Or worse? What has Camilla so innocently become part of? Though his name belies the fact, Benedict Wincross, Lord Rawdon, is obviously no gentleman. But Camilla realizes he may be just what she needs: a temporary fiance to satisfy her family's worries. Benedict also needs something: an entree into Chevington Park, Camilla's family estate, to conduct an undercover investigation into corruption -- without Camilla's knowledge. They both have their own agendas, but nothing prepares them for the rash, reckless and dangerous tumble into love.

My rating: 5 stars

Excerpt: [Chapter 1]

1812

She was lost.

Camilla had suspected it for some time, and now, as she pushed aside the curtain and peered out into the night, she was sure. Her post chaise was enshrouded by fog. She might as well have been sitting inside a cloud. She had no idea where they were. The carriage could be sitting ten yards from her grandfather's house—or on the edge of a cliff.

"Wot should I do, miss?" the coachman called down from atop the conveyance.

"Just sit here for a moment." It would be foolhardy to press on through this pea soup of a fog. There was no telling where they would wind up. "Let me think."

With a sigh, she let the curtain fall and leaned back against the cushioned seat. This was all her fault, she knew. If only she hadn't been so sunk in her thoughts, so immersed in her problems, she might have noticed the fog creeping in or seen that the hired coachman, unfamiliar with the local terrain, had taken a wrong turn. Indeed, she should have stopped in the village and hired a local postboy to show the driver the way. Instead, she had been cudgeling her brain for a way to get herself out of her predicament, so intent on the trap she had sprung on herself with her lie—why had Grandpapa told Aunt Beryl?—that she had not paid any attention to the coach's progress. Well, now she would have to pay for that inattention.

Camilla opened the door of the chaise and leaned out. She could not even see the heads of the lead horses clearly. She looked down at the road. She could see that—clearly enough to realize that it was little more than a track through the heath, certainly not the road leading to Chevington Park. God knew where the London-bred driver had taken them.

Wrapping her cloak around her and tying it at the neck, she jumped lightly down to the ground. The driver swiveled around and looked down at her. "But, miss—wot are you doing?" He moved as though he were about to climb down. "I ain't even put the steps down."

Camilla waved him back. "That's all right. No need to bother. I'm already down, you see. I am going to take a look around."

The coachman looked worried. "Now, don't go wanderin' off, miss. You can't see your hand in front of your face in this weather." Bitterly he added, "Heathen place, Dorset."

Camilla smiled to herself, but refrained from asking him whether London did not have fog, too. Instead, she inquired, "Have you a lantern? That would be of use."

"Yes, miss." He leaned over, handing down the lantern to her, still looking doubtful. Obviously, in his experience, young ladies of Quality did not go tramping about in the fog, lantern or no lantern.

Camilla ignored him and went to the horses' heads, holding up the lantern to cast more light about her. The light did little to penetrate the fog, but it did illuminate the ground beneath her feet, enabling her to see the narrow cart track. The lead horse on the right rolled his eyes apprehensively at her approach, but she spoke in soothing tones to him and stroked his neck, and he quickly quieted down.

She turned back to the coachman. "The thing to do, I think, is for me to walk beside the horses and guide them," she told him. "That way we can be sure of not going off the road or tumbling into a hole. I can see the ground in front of me quite well for several feet."

The driver looked as horrified as if she had suggested stripping off her clothes and running screaming through me night. "Miss! 'Ere, you can't do that."

"Why not? It is the sensible thing to do."

"It wouldn't be proper. I'll guide 'em." He started to lay his reins aside, but Camilla's voice stopped him.

"Nonsense! Who would stop the horses, then, if they should take it into their heads to bolt? I assure you, I am not skilled in handling the reins. However, I am quite capable of walking and watching the ground in front of me. Besides, I lived here nearly all my life. It isn't logical for you to lead the horses."

"But, miss...it just wouldn't be prop—"

"Oh, hang propriety. Propriety won't help us to get out of this mess, now, will it?"

She turned her back on him, ending the conversation, and walked back to the horses' heads. She slid a hand beneath the strap of one of the horses' bridles and started forward, holding the lantern aloft with the other hand. The horses plodded along docilely beside her.

The track was a trifle muddy—it had rained earlier in the evening—and Camilla kept to the grass beside the rutted trail to avoid getting her shoes caked with mud. However, the moisture of the bedewed grass soon crept through her shoes. The fog began to lift a little, revealing a patch of gorse or a briar bush here and there, but at the same time, it began to drizzle. Sighing, Camilla pulled up the hood of her cloak to protect her face from the chilly, persistent drops.

The drizzle, she soon noticed, was turning into a definite rain. Her feet slipped on the wet grass, but when she stepped into the track, the slick mud was just as bad. Moreover, the rain was beginning to penetrate her light cloak. She thought of getting her umbrella out of the post chaise, but she could think of no way that she could carry it and the lantern, and still hold the horse's head. Her only other choice was to wait for the rain to stop, but she did not relish the thought of being stuck out here any longer than she had to be. So she trudged on, grateful that at least the fog was disappearing, reduced to wisps and patches.

Then, off to her right, she saw a movement, and she jumped, startled, letting out a squeak of surprise. She held her lantern higher and peered into the night. It was a man standing beside a small tree, almost hidden by its branches.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, letting go of the horse's head and starting toward him eagerly. "Sir, can you help me? I fear we are lost, and—"

The man whirled toward her, frowning fiercely, his face pale in the dark. There was a long-barreled pistol in his hand. "Hush!" he hissed. "Do you want to get us all killed?

At that moment, her lantern exploded in her hand, the explosion accompanied by a loud pop. The horses whinnied and danced nervously. The lantern, torn from her grasp, hit the ground and went out, plunging her into complete darkness. Camilla screamed and turned to run back to the carriage.

But before she could take a step, the man launched himself across the space separating them and rammed into her with all his weight, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Camilla hit the earth hard, the breath knocked from her. The stranger lay sprawled atop her, his weight pressing her into the ground. Camilla struggled to get out from under him, gasping for air.

"Stop squirming, dammit!" he growled, pinning her to the ground. "They're firing at us. Silly chit, do you want to be killed?"

It was then that she realized what that pop had been and why the lantern had shattered. Someone had shot at her! She realized, too, that she had heard more pops as the man drove her to the ground. Camilla went limp with shock.

There were shouts in the distance, but no more bangs. Nearer to them, the horses, upset by the shots, were whinnying and dancing about, tossing their heads. The coachman, cursing, was struggling to control them.

The stranger lifted his head and looked behind them. Camilla stared up at him. His face was fierce and dark, all sharp angles and jutting cheekbones and black, slanting eyebrows. He looked, she thought, quite dangerous, and instinctively she was certain that it was he the others had been shooting at.

"Bloody hell!" He rasped the words out. "I think they're coming after us."

"What?" Her voice rose sharply. "What is going on?"

He shook his head and rose to a crouch. Before she realized what he was going to do, he had grasped her upper arms with hands of steel and jerked her to her feet, rising with her.

"Run!" he ordered, and with the word, he ran to the coach, dragging her along with him.

"Let go of me!" Camilla tried to wrest her arm away from him, but he was too strong.

There were two more gunshots behind them, and Camilla heard something splat into the side of the chaise. Her companion jerked open the door of the coach and tossed her up into it. Camilla screamed again as she hit the floor, and the carriage jerked and took off, the coachman apparently unable to hold the frightened horses any longer.

The stranger was clinging to the door. She thought he meant to crawl inside, too, but then, to her amazement, he grasped something on the roof of the carriage and used the door as a stepping-stone to climb onto the top of it.

"Watch out!" she shouted to the driver, and she heard the coachman's shout of surprise and the sound of a struggle, then the thud of a body—undoubtedly the poor coachman's—falling to the seat.

The coach gathered speed quickly, the horses panicked and with the bits between their teeth. The vehicle rocked and bounced along the rough path. Camilla grabbed hold of the seat, afraid that she would go sliding out the open door when the carriage tilted that way.

There were more shots, and she realized that they were hurtling straight toward the men who were firing upon them. She had a glimpse of dark shapes that resolved themselves into men and ponies. Suddenly a large man jumped out of the darkness, grabbing the door and swinging his feet up into the carriage. Camilla shrieked and scrambled away from him. As she did so, her flailing hand landed on her umbrella, lying there on the floor.

She picked it up and swung it hard at the man, cracking him on the shins. He let out a howl, and she gave him a hard poke in the stomach with the tip of the umbrella. He let out another cry of pain, and his fingers slipped on the door. He fell backward out of the carriage.

Camilla sat down on the seat, grasping the strap on the wall for purchase. With the other hand, she held her umbrella at the ready, keeping a sharp lookout for any other intruders. They tore along at a reckless speed, the door of the carriage swinging back and forth, the carriage jouncing wildly over the rutted track. Camilla was certain that they were going to overturn at any moment. It was raining in earnest now, too, and rain was slanting in through the open door.

She realized after a while that they were slowing down to a more sedate pace, and after a moment, she slid across the seat and grabbed the door as it swung back toward the carriage and pulled it firmly shut. She looked with distaste at the puddle of water that had formed on the floor, but there was little she could do about that. She could, however, remove her soaked mantle, the back of which, she discovered, was thoroughly smeared with mud from when the stranger had thrown her to the ground.

The stranger . Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts turned toward that man. Who was he, and what had he been up to out here in the wilds of the Dorset coast? He was up to no good, she was sure. Those men had been shooting at him, and, now that she thought about it, it was obvious that he had been hiding behind that tree—no doubt lying in wait for someone. It was no wonder he had looked at her with such fury when she called to him; she had broadcast his presence to the other men, giving them a chance to protect themselves. She wondered if he was a highwayman, or merely some ruffian looking to attack one of his enemies.

Of course, she mused, given where they were, it just might have something to do with "the gentlemen"— the name, uttered only in lowered voices, given to the men engaged in the age-old occupation of smuggling. Everyone knew about it, and, if truth be known, many an upstanding local citizen, even among the magistrates and judges, was known to turn a blind eye to the illegal trade. Indeed, many of them had a regular delivery of French brandy waiting on their back doorsteps in the early-morning light after a moonless night. There were those who, hating the duty laws, considered "the gentlemen" within their rights in evading the laws. The people of the outlying coastal areas were often known to resent the intrusion of the central government in what they considered their business. In the previous century, the smugglers had been so strong that there were even pitched battles between the Hawkridge gang and the soldiers. Though those lawless times had passed, the business of smuggling went on, especially now, with coveted French goods cut off from England by the war.

Camilla thought back to the man, remembering his face as he had loomed above her in the dart—the fierce upward slash of cheekbones and the hard mouth, the dark eyes beneath peaked black eyebrows, the dark, rough clothes. Yes, she decided, he had definitely looked as if he might be a smuggler, at odds with his fellows, or a highwayman looking to rob a traveler, or simply a ruffian seeking revenge upon someone. Whatever he was, she was certain that she was not in a safe position. She had seen him where he had not wanted to be seen, and she had been the unwitting cause of the other men shooting at him and chasing him. He had been furious with her earlier, and she had little doubt that he still was. This rough ride in the post chaise might be nothing compared to what happened when the vehicle stopped.

Which it was doing right now. Camilla could feel the chaise slowing down. In a moment, she knew, it would rock to a halt, and then he would jump down and come back here and open the door. He would pull her out and— Well, she was not sure what he would do, but she had no trouble imagining him doing anything from hitting her to strangling her, including the despoiling that old women always warned of in lowered voices to girls who were rash enough to go out unaccompanied.

Camilla took a firm grip on her umbrella. It had served well enough as a weapon before. Perhaps if she took him by surprise, she might disable him enough to get away.

As the carriage rolled to a halt, she crouched down beside the door and waited, the blood pounding in her ears, every nerve stretched, listening for his approach. She heard the thud as he jumped down, and the crunch of his boots upon pebbles as he strode to the door. The latch turned and the door swung outward. "Are you—"

Camilla erupted from her crouched position with a shriek, launching herself out of the chaise. She swung her umbrella with all her might at the man's face, and the handle cracked satisfyingly against his cheek. The umbrella broke in two, and the man staggered back with a roared oath, his hand going to his cheek.

Camilla hit the ground running, screaming with all her might. She knew that they were probably too far away for anyone to hear her, but she had to try, just as she had to run. She lifted her skirts and flew across the ground, heading down the muddy road in front of the carriage. She didn't even notice the rain falling on her, or the mud that pulled at her shoes.

He was after her in an instant. She could hear him behind her, but even though she ran so fast she thought her heart would burst, he caught up with her. His hand wrapped around one of her arms like an iron band and pulled her to a stop.

"Stop that caterwauling!" he snarled. "Dammit, woman, what is wrong with you? You'll bring the whole countryside down upon us."

Camilla did stop screaming, but only because she was out of breath. She sucked in a lungful of air as she whipped around and struck out at him with her doubled-up fist.

She hit only his chest, and it sent a dart of pain shooting up her arm. He let out a string of curses and grabbed for her wrist, but Camilla twisted and struggled, hitting out and kicking at him.

"Bloody hell, woman, would you stop it? Are you mad?

They were both thoroughly soaked by the rain now, but neither of them noticed as they grappled in the dark. The man was far larger and taller than Camilla, and the conclusion was never in doubt, but she was fighting for her life, and she struggled wildly, connecting with several kicks and blows as he struggled to subdue her. He managed to wrap one arm around her and pull her off her feet, but Camilla twisted and reached for his face with her nails. He jerked back as her fingers scraped down his cheek, barely missing his eye, and he lost his balance and staggered backward.

They crashed to the ground, but their fall was softened by the mud into which they fell. The man received the brunt of the blow, and he loosened his grasp involuntarily. Camilla seized the opportunity to pull away from him, but before she could crawl to her feet, he had grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop, and she fell face first into the mud. She came up spluttering and enraged, lashing out at him. He grabbed for her arms, trying to pin them to her sides, but she was slippery with rain and mud, and he could not get a good hold on her. They rolled across the muddy ground, grappling.

Camilla squirmed and twisted, trying to get away, and he tried to wrap his arms around her to pin her arms to her sides. Once, as they struggled, she felt his hand slide across her breast, and she sucked in her breath sharply at the intimate touch. It startled and alarmed her, almost as much for the strange, sudden heat that shot through her body as for the effrontery of the contact.

He, too, seemed surprised at the touch, and he froze for an instant. She seized the opportunity to try to rise, but he grabbed at her arm to stop her, and the sodden material of her dress ripped, leaving the sleeve in his hand. She tore away, and he lunged after her. They went sprawling in the mud again, his weight bearing her down into the soft muck. He grabbed her wrists, hauling them up over her head, and sat up, leaning on her arms to hold her to the ground. His legs clamped tightly around hers, holding her immobile beneath him.

The man gazed down at her, his chest rising and falling in rapid pants. He was soaked and smeared with mud, his rough dark shirt hanging open down the front, where buttons had been torn off in their struggle. His bare skin showed through the gap, sleek and tanned and wet. His hair clung to his head. There was a cut high on his cheekbone where she had hit him with her umbrella, and his eyes glittered fiercely.

Camilla's throat went dry. The man looked elemental and furious, quite male and quite angry. Camilla was very aware of the suggestive nature of their position, of his weight upon her legs. She was conscious, too, of an odd feeling in the center of her being, a strange mixture of fury and excitement and some other elusive emotion she could not have named. His eyes skimmed down her, taking in the wet bodice that clung to her breasts, and she could feel the response of his body.

"Let go of me!"

"Not until I get some answers!" he growled back. "Who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" she gasped, outraged. "I have every right to be driving through here. It is you who are obviously up to no good, skulking about the countryside in the dark, people firing at you. Release me at once, or you'll be in even more trouble than you already are."

"You are hardly in a position to be issuing commands," he reminded her, and a faint smile touched his lips.

His mouth was wide, with a generous lower lip, and he should have had an appealing smile, but his face was set in cold, sardonic lines that ruined any hint of charm. His amusement at her expense infuriated Camilla, and she lunged upward with all her might, trying to throw him off. He was far too heavy and strong for her, of course, and her efforts did little to dislodge him, but the glitter in his eyes turned dangerously brighter, reminding Camilla chillingly of the helplessness and intimacy of her position.

To hide her fear, she curled her lip in contempt. "It is obvious that you are a villain," she said coldly. "I suggest that you refrain from turning yourself into a felon, as well."

His eyebrows quirked up in inverted vees, giving his dark visage an even more demonic look. "Well said, madam. But I scarcely need remind you that without witnesses, it is hard to charge a man with a felony." He paused, letting the threat of his words sink in, then smiled coldly and said, "Besides, I know of no felony that has been committed this night. Tis scarcely a crime to take charge of a carriage in order to save a lady from a gang of men who are attacking her."

"You know as well as I that those men were not concerned with me," Camilla shot back. "It was you they were firing at."

His mouth twisted grimly. "Perhaps, but they would certainly not have been if you had not blundered into the scene, shouting and waving a lantern about."

"How was I supposed to know that you were engaged in clandestine doings? I was seeking your help—a futile quest, obviously, but I was not as aware of your character then as I am now. I did not know that I was dealing with a thief."

"I am not a thief." He ground out the words.

"Ha!" Camilla shot him a scornful look. "What were you doing hiding out there on a foggy night, then?"

"That is none of your business, and if you weren't such a blasted busybody, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I should have known that you were the sort to try to shift the blame. As if I were responsible for your cohorts or your enemies or whoever those people were."

"Lord, you've got a wasp's tongue on you." Suddenly, swiftly, he stood up, hauling her up with him. "But I've no desire to hang about here bandying quips with you. Those men might very well be upon us at any minute."

He clamped one hand tightly around her arm and began to walk her toward the post chaise. Camilla dug in her heels. "Wait! I am not going anywhere with you."

"I think you would be far better off back in Edgecombe than you would be standing around in the dark in the middle of the countryside with a large group of men with guns wandering about."

"I didn't say that I was staying here! What I meant was that you are not going anywhere in my carriage."

He looked at her for a long moment, then dropped her arm and stepped back. "Of course. You are right It is your carriage, and I have no claim to it. I shall leave you, then. Good day, madam."

He turned and started striding away. Stunned, Camilla stared after him. Then she remembered that her coachman was unconscious—oh, Lord, might he even have killed the poor man?—and while she could handle a gig, it was quite beyond her powers to drive a coach-and-four. Not only that, there was a band of men with guns who were perhaps still pursuing her carriage.

"Wait!" she called, and when the stranger did not stop, she took a few running steps after him. "Stop! Please?"

He turned and looked back at her, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. "Yes?"

"Don't go. I—I cannot drive the post chaise back to Edgecombe."

"Mmm. Then it would seem that you have a certain problem with your carriage. Good night."

"Oh, stop being so exasperating! I am telling you that you can go with me to Edgecombe."

"You mean that you are allowing me the honor of working for you?" he asked sardonically. "How kind of you. But I am afraid I must decline the honor. You see, I think it would be better for me to walk. One man in the fog is far less noticeable than a great carriage."

"Horses are faster."

He shrugged and turned to walk off again.

"Stop! You cannot leave me here! No gentleman would leave a lady stranded like this."

"Well, as you have no doubt realized, I am not much of a gentleman, and, frankly, I have yet to see any ladylike qualities in you."

Camilla glared at him. "All right. Have you satisfied your need to insult me? Let us go, then. We both know that it would be absurd for you to walk when there is a coach right here. We do not like each other, but surely we can trade—your skill at driving the horses for the use of my post chaise."

He said nothing, just walked back and swung up to the top of the coach. Camilla quickly climbed back in, and they set out again, this time at a speed more suited to the rutted track. It was fast enough to rattle and jounce Camilla around in her seat, and she suspected darkly that the awful man was doing it simply to annoy her.

Adding to her discomfort was the state of her hair and clothes. This morning she had been dressed quite charmingly in a sprigged muslin gown and green kid half boots, and her hair had been pulled up to the crown of her head, from which point it hung in a cluster of fetching curls. Now her shoes were a sodden mess, soaked through and caked with mud, inside and out, and her dress and hair were in almost as bad a state. She was wet clear through to her underthings. Her curls, too, were thick with mud, and she could feel it drying on her skin, as well.

How was she going to explain her state when she arrived at the Park? Tears welled up in her eyes. As if she did not have problems enough already, what with Grandpapa and the terrible lies she had woven.... To have to arrive looking like a ragamuffin seemed like the outside of enough.

Grimly she blinked her tears away. She refused to cry over this. If nothing else, her tears would leave tracks on her dirty cheeks, making it obvious that she had been crying. And no doubt he would think that she had been crying because of him. She grimaced as her thoughts turned to the obnoxious man who had virtually abducted her.

He was uncouth, low and thoroughly maddening. He had treated her reprehensibly. No man of breeding would have grabbed her so roughly or pinned her to the ground like that. She remembered the bold way his eyes had lingered over her breasts, revealed by the thin, wet material of her dress. It made her blush, even sitting there alone in the dark carriage, to think of the way his legs had clamped around hers, of how intimately his body had been pressed against her—and of the shocking movement his body had made as he looked at her. It had felt so strange—almost exhilarating, even at the same time that it was utterly improper and infuriating.

She shifted on her seat, pulling her sodden dress away from her. She was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment. The mud was continuing to dry on her, and her clothes were sticking to her flesh. Worst of all, her wet garments were quite cold, so that she was shivering almost continuously. She wanted to drape her cloak around her to help keep off some of the cold, but she hated to get mud all over the inside of it. Still...she could hardly just sit there and catch a chill. She was eyeing the cloak uncertainly when she became aware of the fact that the carriage was rattling over cobblestones. With a suppressed cry, she pushed aside the curtain and looked out to see that they had entered the village.

Within moments, they were turning into the yard of the Blue Boar. Camilla let out a sigh of relief. Though she had tried not to let herself think about it, she had been worried that the stranger would not really take her into the village at all, but, realizing the dangers of her being able to identify him, would abandon her on some dark and lonely road...or worse.

Now, with a cry, she jerked open the door of the carriage even before they came to a complete stop and jumped down from it. "Boy, see to the horses," she called to the ostler, who had started across the yard toward their vehicle. "And look to my coachman, too. I fear we may have to send for a doctor."

The ostler came to a dead halt, goggling at her, but Camilla did not notice. She was already hurrying to the front door, her only thought to get safely inside before the stranger atop the chaise could catch up with her.

As soon as she stepped inside the public room, all conversation came to a halt, and everyone swiveled around to stare at her. Camilla stopped short, dismayed at being the focus of so many sets of eyes. In her relief at reaching the Blue Boar, she had forgotten about her appearance, but now those stunned expressions reminded her of just how she looked. Her hand went to her mud-encrusted ringlets, and she glanced down at her wet gown, pressed to her body in a most improper way, one sleeve completely ripped away. A wave of deep red washed up her face to her hairline.

The keeper of the inn, a large, bluff man, started toward her from his post at the tap. Camilla saw him and was swept by relief. "Saltings! How glad I am to see you!"

She took a step or two forward, then stopped as he said, "Here, now, miss, what do you think you be doing? Coming in here like that! This is a decent inn, it is, and we've no use—"

"Saltings'." Camilla exclaimed, shaken. "Don't you recognize me?" Tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes. This seemed the last straw, the perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day—that Saltings, who had known her all her life, should mistake her for a common doxy. Was he actually going to toss her out?

The man stopped and peered at her. "Do I know you?"

"It is I! Camilla Ferrand!" Tears flooded her eyes. She could not hold them back, and they spilled over, coursing a trail through the smear of mud on her cheeks.

"Miss Ferrand!" he repeated, his jaw dropping. "Sweet Lord, what happened? What are you doing here this way?"

He went to her, gently taking her arm and steering her toward the smaller private room of the inn, then stopped. "Oh, dear, no, there's a gentleman there." He took another glance at Camilla beside him, muddy and disheveled and struggling to hold back her tears, then at the rest of his customers, all staring avidly.

"Well," he said with a sigh, "there's nothing for it. You can't stay out here, that's for certain."

He rapped sharply on the door to the private room and pushed it open when a man's voice inside answered. "I beg your pardon, sir," Saltings said, ushering Camilla inside the room. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but we've got a bit of a problem here. There's a lady here, and, well, it wouldn't be right for her to be sitting outside with the common crowd, sir."

Camilla looked across the room, fighting to contain her tears. The gentleman sitting beside the fire—for it was just as obvious that he was a gentleman as it had been that the stranger on the heath earlier was a ruffian—rose to his feet, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment He was dressed impeccably, from the crease of his simple yet elegant white neckcloth to the tips of his polished Hessians, and his hair was dressed in a similarly subdued yet fashionable style known as the Brutus.

He took one swift look at Camilla's muddied state and said, "Precisely, Saltings. You are right. The lady must have the private dining room. The only thing is, I am expecting a visitor— Ah, there he is now. And looking, I might add, quite as if he had shared this young lady's adventure."

Camilla swung around at his words. "You!" she exclaimed with loathing.

There, in the doorway, stood her tormentor.