UNSPOKEN

Eve Asbury

Copyright © 2007, 2008 Eve Asbury

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The right of Eve Asbury to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Epublished 2007

First Edition

All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

For additional books by this author, visit the website www.evesromance.com

PROLOGUE 

1883

“He’s made good on his threat, Nikki.”

Lady Nicole Holcombe grabbed her friend’s arm pulling her back to one of the fake palms decorating the Elliot’s ballroom. “Who—what has happened?” Her soft brown eyes were searching around for his grace’s spies before turning back to his daughter.

“Father, of course,” Lady Jessica Rains murmured.

“He wouldn’t—not now, “Nikki whispered appalled, “Not after giving you eight years to choose a suitable husband. Why! There is not a Peer left in England you have not presented and he has not rejected.”

“He informed me yesterday that he was calling my bluff. You know how he rants, Nikki? I told you about his obsessive madness over bloodlines.” Lady Jessica shuddered. “I am a womb and veins to him. Since he cut my sisters off, and poor Joseph died, he is grows even worse.”

Sensing her friend regressing, aware they could not be spotted talking, Nikki urged in a tight whisper, “Tell me all of it?”

“He claimed that he was well aware that I had been choosing men that would take the Vanlare fortune for their own. He let me be, to see what I would bring home. He said those candidates were blinded by lust of money.”

Jessica let out a shaky breath, as if she had been holding it in a long time. “I retorted, that since he put it out, that I was his sole heir, and since he insists on draping me head to toe in riches¾ what did he expect? Father admitted that he just toying with me, letting me believe that I had some control, to prove to me that I did not.”

Nikki slid her arm around Jessica, pulling her to her side for a quick hug. The Duke…How she loathed that man. He was a cold-hearted goat, who put a false face on for society. One could not bring themselves to care for a man so lacking in human decency and respect. Even if he was a father, and filthy rich, he was, in Nikki’s opinion, completely insane!

But oh, poor Jess.

No one looked at Jessica Rains, not the woman, the diamonds at her throat hypnotized them, the silks, and rich satins on her body. Old Albert appreciated the fact that men drove themselves mad knowing his fortune was unclaimed as yet. He humiliated the applicants for Jessica’s hand and chose everything his daughter wore himself. His stamp on her was like that on his empire, unmistakable.

Generations of Vanlare’s had prospered, flourished, because they kept control on their holdings, suffocating their families with rigid rules until they decided whose blood was good enough to produce the next heir. Only in one area old Albert had failed-his own loins. He had cursed himself and his daughter through his obsessions, murdered his family in spirit and his only son in both that and body.

“So, he has chosen,” Nikki whispered, comprehending that Jessica’s reach for freedom had been lost. Albert would choose a man like himself.

“He has…and a stranger to me. I do not know his name or title.”

Jessica looked around seeing the mass of guests preoccupied with dancing and talking. She stood out like the sun at midnight with the shimmer of her gown and dripping in jewels.

Nikki was saying, “You brought hundreds of men to him over the years. Some of them were connected to his business cronies. What qualification could he possibly have that you have not presented?”

“Virility,” Jessica choked on the word. “He called the men pathetic, easily manipulated, gamblers and weak mama’s lads. He drapes me to lure them, tempt them…All the while, he abhors them. You know how twisted his mind is.

Nicole nodded and grimaced. “I wish you could run away like your sisters. They have made good matches one hears, living quiet, normal lives. I doubt they have a care one whit that they were cut off from the Vanlare name.”

“Father has assured me, since I was sixteen that the end of the earth is not beyond his reach. He said that anyone who gave me aide would pay.” Jessica reminded her, “Only you, are aware of what goes on in our house. The world bows to him, the crown honors him. Vanlare’s have been ambassadors, diplomats, and they have survived where others have been ruined. People envy us. They fawn over him.” She nodded toward the richly dressed guests. “They were set on their ear when each of his daughters ran off. And when he cut them off-despite their good matches- society cut them off too. One cannot imagine why a wealthy deb, a Vanlare daughter, would put her poor father through such a scandal.”

She went on cynically, “I suppose they would not believe that servants go through my things, every day searching my personal items and chambers, my person. Least I imagine that he does not know my every more, he can read from his little dairy where I went, whom I talked to.”

Nikki knew all of this; she had heard it for two years. Her own father had married her off to an aged Lord Arthur Holcombe for his title, she had come on the scene scared witless, intimidated. And no one intimidated her more than the aloof Lady Jessica.

She had heard about the Vanlare heiress, how the woman had yet to find a man worthy of mixing his blood with hers. Oh yes, she had watched her, seen her draped in those one-of-a-kind gowns and priceless jewels. She’d seen the elite drool with envy and whisper. An army of footmen and outriders always surrounded that gilt Vanlare coach; they escorted the heiress everywhere. She had been in awe of such a person, until that one fateful day, when Nikki spilled her drink on the Lady’s diamond encrusted gown. Nikki had been terrified of Jessica too.

But she had rushed out after Lady Jessica, to apologize, and instead of finding a haughty, enraged, heiress¾ she had found her in the Earl’s library… laughing almost dementedly. Nikki recalled that it was something in Jessica’s eyes when she touched that ruined priceless material, that made her see past the outward trappings and really look at the woman. From that point, Nikki had ignored Jessica’s attempts to be nothing more than social with her. After wearing her down, sensing the isolation, and the tight Vanlare hold on her, Jessica had told her the truth; that her father controlled both her sleep and waking, that since her sister’s ran off, but even before that, he brutally dissuaded any outside influence on her.

The old man wrote her schedule, chose her clothing. Her every move and word was reported back to him. Jess’s whole life had been lived in a small space, with a crazed man who had to manipulate, control and dictate the very air she breathed.

But Nikki, whose life with the aged Earl was nearly as hellish, for his family hated her and disdained her, never mind that she had saved them from poverty, she too, had needed a friend. With her father dead, and no other family, her husband now infirm, she also lived from day to day, waiting for everything to turn to ashes.

* * * *

“Sir John is looking this way,” Jessica muttered pulling pulled herself together. She put on her social smile and stepped away nodding regally to Nikki. In low tones she muttered, “The Park, after the crowds leave, I’ll drop a note out the carriage window. Please, be careful.”

“I always am,” Nikki answered through her teeth, smiling dipping her head and turning away from Jessica, toward some seating.

Jessica put out her hand as Sir John came near, uttering something polite. He led her on, to the floor. Though tall and robust as he was, his gaze still honed in on the diamond choker she wore. It glittered sparks back into his gleaming eyes. Jessica could feel his palms going damp, his body tremble. The hot breath pushed out quivering nostrils and fouled the air between them. She knew that smell, and it was greed, lust, blood-boiling coveting.

Contempt turned Jessica’s eyes to dark olive, however she kept smiling. Though no one saw her face, not one person, they observed only the long lace gloves on her arms and glitter around her wrist, the folds of her fish tailed gown, snug off the shoulder with swags of champagne silk draped back at the hips. They saw glitter of her shoes, the sparkles in her hair. She was obscured and insufficient next to the riches.

To society, she was the Vanlare fortune, and inside the looming mansion the duke called home; Jessica was the veins, the womb, the obsession of her father; a dying old man who would not loosen his grip ,she realized, even from the grave.

Before Jessica left the ball, later that night, she cast a glance across the distance, meting Nikki’s eyes. That slight nod was all the extra confidence she needed. Having a new experience with real friendship, she often felt a tremendous amount of guilt knowing what her father could do to those he felt threatened by, or at least, those he could not easily control.

Too many meetings Jessica had overheard behind his study door. He had no qualms about sending someone to prison or an asylum. Or if he chooses, they found themselves exiled to some God-forsaken Island he owned. It made her feel doubly frightened to ask Nicole’s help, however that one friend, anyone, someone to talk to, was the only thing that helped her function day after day.

* * * *

Having arrived home, Jessica stepped into the foyer of the mansion. The stained glass overhead transformed the floor to a prism. She ignored the rich pearl-like tile, the walls covered with priceless paintings in heavy gold frames. The house was a museum of expensive art, cold objects, and vases, statuary. Rich blue velvet chairs poised against the silk-papered walls. Vanlare had no interest in their beauty. Jessica did not feel anything visceral. She wasn’t entering a home.

Up the spiral staircase, to her rooms, she walked on the same polished white treads, the scrolled handrail under her palm breathing a life of its own. In her chambers, she did not acknowledge to the maid as the woman went through her pockets, her purse. She fished into the toes of Jessica’s shoes, making sure no notes were tucked inside.

She would not lose her dignity in front of the woman. So Jessica ignored her, undressed, slipping on her silk night rail.

The woman departed after gathering Jessica’s things.

Jessica slid back out of bed, padding barefoot across the intricate rug before walking to the window. The house loomed higher than the rows of fashionable mansions on their street. It had rooms strictly reserved for Lord Albert’s collections and trophies. He did not amass things out of passion for their beauty, nor of apperception for the skill that had crated them. He amassed them for his self-image, for the sole reason of possession.

However, she had no awe of the home, nor of the name, definitely, not…of the man. He had all but murdered her poor mother with his demands for male heirs.

Wearing herself down in her worship of him, Lady Mary had finally given him Joseph; one year after Jessica was born and then laid down and died. Joseph, night and day was drilled, brainwashed, with his legacy, his duty, and his purpose. The frightened boy faded daily, until at aged eleven, he too had died in his sleep.

After that, Lord Albert’s madness knew no bounds. With his age at eighty, his loin’s empty of seed, he focused on his daughters. Even now Jessica could hear echoes of hundreds, millions, of his furious rants, night and day, over and over. He had never allowed his daughter’s to be close, to bond. He imagined conspiracy at every turn. For his flesh to betray him? It was intolerable.

Her sisters’, Mary, Susan and Ann were often on Jessica’s mind. She had been fifteen when the three of them had run off that night. Her father had set their schedule, just as he did hers, and sent party of spies to watch them. Only one year apart, the oldest at nineteen, they were blond and, beautiful, and wildly popular, for all the good that it had done them.

She would never forget the ticking of the clock; the long hours after her father had dragged her inside the study-to wait and wait and wait, until dawn and noon and another night descended. The thick walls quaked with his rage. Somehow, his daughters had escaped!

It was by accident that she discovered anything of their whereabouts. Anne had wed Viscount David Watkins, Mary, Viscount James Morris, and Susan, Sir Robert Newell. And they, all of them, counted dead by her father, and disinherited, had apparently found heaven somewhere in England, outside the lavish prison where freedom was a priceless dream.

Jessica did not really comprehend what that must mean, because she had never known it. Within the small part of her mind, she was allowed to keep for herself, in the confines of the body that had never been held or seen or touched, Jessica imagined freedom was opening her eyes, knowing that no one commanded, watched, expected, or controlled her.

For a short span, Jessica Rains was motionless, at ease, while her eyes touched the damp glitter of rain on the street. Somewhere in the darkness inside of her was that same glimmer, the faint remnant of hope. Although she knew only too well that she was still here, on the inside looking out, still not free, to reach out and touch it.

Galen was being blackmailed.

The Marquis of Kilgore, Maxwell Faulkner eyed his friends where they sat in the smoky gentleman’s club. On his right, the American, Jayce Barrette, was making half the delicate, sallow faced lords nervous. Jayce wore buckskins, a familiar garment on the American frontier. His hair was longer than was fashionable, blond in color. Yet it was the expression on his rugged face that intimidated. Jayce wasn’t partial to the company of high brow gentlemen.

Max observed with particular attention, The Earl of Blackcove, Galen Wolfe. Because Galen was the reason they were in attendance. The man was being blackmailed, pure and simple.

Blackcove appeared relaxed, seated in the wine leather chair with his boot propped on a planter, a drink in his hand. Max knew better. The dark, nearly black eyes reminded him of a panther, skimming around the room slowly, circling, scrutinizing and measuring.

Only Jayce and Max were familiar the details of Galen's life, and they were anxious to see how Galen would handle the current situation. Max would have challenged it legally, dispensed with the threats in his usual arrogant way. Jayce would have shot the man the moment he dare pose a threat.

It was not their decision, but Galen’s.

Vanlare might well know enough to blackmail Galen into wedding his daughter and heir.

Max allowed his gaze to slide over Galen's shoulder length black hair and striking face. His friend had the kind of exotic look that had females squirming; Jayce was fond of saying. Yet Max saw beyond the deep set eyes, strong nose and high cut bones. Galen was not of the big muscle frame like his America friend, nor was he like Max, who was six foot and fit from his boxing and sporting. Galen was honed, lean, sinewy, swarthy and taut. His penchant for wearing black and his slow grace reminded Max of a sleek prowling cat.

In America, he’d heard hardened men call Galen that, usually standing on the banks of some river, in the early hours of the morning when the fog was thick, and where Galen could seemingly appear out of nowhere, or disappear if needed.

In their exchanges, over the years, and his trips to America, Max had been trying to talk Galen into returning, claiming the title. It was assumed in society that all the heirs of Blackcove were dead. He had known differently.

The Vanlare heiress and the elite social crowd had come up in their conversations, too. Yet none of them could have dreamed that Galen’s return would turn out like this. When Galen showed up three weeks ago, him and Jayce, in the middle of a thunderstorm, none of them would have guessed that Lord Albert had known the very ship he’d sailed in on. Nor, that in an amazing short time, the deep secrets that had driven Galen from England to Paris, then to America—would finally reach out from the grave and once more threaten Galen’s freedom.

The old duke was a man who reminded Max of the great American Industrialist. Indeed, he made his friends among them; they were like gods, icons, becoming eccentric in their wealth and power, and obsessed with it. Vanlare's title was nothing compared to his reputation. His friends were the Vanderbilt's, the Gould's and Rockefellers.

In England, France, and many obscure Islands, he was like an aged King Midas. However a ruthless one, a man who gained his wealth by making slaves of the unfortunate and replacing bodies with bodies as needed. His factories, his mines, plantations…whatever his grace endeavored to squeeze coin from; he did it like his ancestors, at the sacrifice of human life and dignity.

“How long do we have to hang around this morgue anyway?” Jayce Barrette muttered looking round at the pasty faced or florid old men. “Don’t you have to go get the kid or something?”

The kid was Max’s seventeen-year-old sister, Lady Lindy. She had fallen under his guardianship last year when his widowed father died. Lindy wasn’t a cooperative debutante. In fact, she wasn’t even trying to find a husband and put him out his misery. She was a bookish gel with looks hard to discern over her straight red hair and glasses. And, her mind was ten years ahead of her age.

All said, Max had seen her very few times, having been at school, then doing his tour, which is how he met his only two real friends before filling his role in society. By the time he brought her home from the funeral at their country estate, he had the upsetting knowledge that he was going to have to gag and hide her, or marry her off quickly, before his hair turned gray.

To Jayce he supplied, “We’re only here long enough to be seen.” His gaze flickered to Galen. It was part of the deal. Galen had to follow the old Duke’s plan. Max would help Galen get seen, become known, and introduce him to Lady Jessica.

Following a few weeks of escorting the heiress to all of her engagements, a betrothal notice would hit the papers. Not long after that, the trip to Twin Bells in surrey; the Lady’s legacy from her mother and the least ostentatious of the Vanlare homes, the wedding and bedding and begetting would occur.

“I think we’ve been seen enough,” Jayce cut in again, his chiseled features showing his dislike of being stared at. His curled his lip at a gent with a huge red nose and large ears. The fellow turned nearly purple and hurried away.

“Galen?”

The Earl’s eyes flickered just slightly from their flat blackness. He nodded.

They arose and took their leave.

* * * * 

Galen Wolfe took up the rear of the trio departing the club, stepping out onto the sidewalk. It was sometime in the middle of the night. Drizzles of rain had just subsided. The normal tinge of dirty London air was turning dank, fog rose from the Thames.

He welcomed the cooler air after the stifling heat inside the scarlet-papered rooms. There were too many memories, too many smells…

Beside the coach, Max told them, “I’ve must collect m’sister from a ball. You’re welcome to join me. However if you’d prefer, I’ll drop her off then meet you someplace later?”

Since they were living with Max, but cutting a wide berth around the sister, Jayce and Galen tried to come and go when she was not around. Jayce had no experience dealing with lily-white debs. Out of respect and friendship for Max, he himself had set the schedule to avoid the English girl. And for all Galen was titled, his life and Max’s were on opposite sides of breeding, manners, and privilege.

“I’m going for a walk,” Galen told Jayce. “Maybe scare up a bottle of whiskey. I’ll meet you back at the townhouse.”

“I’ll bring it.” Max told them. He climbed into the coach muttering, “I’m probably going to need it after Lindy gives me her version of whatever disaster she’s caused.”

The coach rolled out. Jayce looked at Galen. “You want company?”

Galen shrugged.

They knew each other well enough, after six years, and had enough in common to understand each other without too many words. Smuggling, gambling, and guarding wealthy men wasn’t the most honorable profession, at least, the way they did it. But along with Jayce's brother Josh, they had earned each other’s loyal respect and trust.

“I’ll meet you later, then.” Jayce flipped up the collar of his buckskin jacket and turned away, the heels of his western boots clicking on the sidewalk as he headed for the docks.

Galen walked the opposite direction, eyeing the sheen coating the buildings along Marlboro Street, hearing the water in the gutter slog by him. He paid scant attention to the rattle of coaches, the clop of hooves echoing in the dark. He was thinking of the old man with white hair and cruel cobalt eyes, mutton chop whiskers. The Duke of Vanlare had been seated behind his heavy baroque desk eyeing Galen with that smug smile.

“You’re a privileged young man, Black cove, unlike the dozens of your peers who have left this room wondering what cost them the prize, when it was almost in their grasp. I’m going to tell you why you were chosen.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Galen had said flatly. “I came here because you dared threaten me. I’m not interested in your daughter, nor your millions.”

“You will be.” The old man’s face had hardened. In his muttering madness he supplied, “…My daughter has brought them all to me, Dukes, Earls, viscounts. Still, I realized her game, and I let her play it, because unlike her beautiful but disloyal sisters, I was confident she would not find a man who would snatch her away from me. She chose fools!

One can forgive the envy of the money, but not a weakness that would allow them wed her and waste it and themselves on useless vices. No! It’s the blood, you see? The heirs! My bloodline, through Jessica, which must be worthy to fill the shoes of generations of Vanlare males. Pah! She would bring me spoiled, pampered fools!”

“Why don’t you simply pick from the titled that are not? I am sure they are around,” Galen suggested sarcastically.

“There’s no time for that now,” The old man snapped “A year maybe, it’s all I have left. I have to live to see that first strong seed growing in her belly.”

“You’re a crazy bastard.”

Lord Albert laughed. “I’m also very shrewd- and- I'm very used to having my way. In fact, I take all the necessary precautions to assure that I do.”

Galen had shrugged. He wasn’t going to indulge the man’s opinion of himself.

“Blackcove.” The duke leaned forward his eyes gleaming in his hawkish face. “I know your past, everything about you.”

Galen had had gone immobile and turned cold. He said, “So what? I am not afraid of scandal. My parents were self indulgent and immoral…”

“Yes, they were,” the old man cut him off. “After your father was killed, in that duel by your mother’s lover…then—”

Galen felt a pain go through his temple. Yet the only sign of his thoughts was the pulsing vein there. “As I said, I did not return to England to win the approval of society. I don’t give a damn, what you know.”

The Duke sat back, his voice silky, seductive, and sickening “Think of it… millions of dollars, Blackcove; managers, solicitors to run the empire and keep it churning out a profit for every heir you produce. It is a considerably higher stud fee than even those insatiable merchants’ wives paid you…in Paris.”

“Go to hell!”

Amusement was his grace’s answer. “Gladly, as soon as my plan is finished.”

“You’ve not purchased me yet, old man,” Galen had bit out in a seething rage. “I told you. I don’t care what you know.”

“Ask your friend the Marquis, what the penalty, in this country is… for murder.”

Galen stared, his black eyes like stone.

“Go ahead. Ask him.”

“You know nothing!”

“On the contrary, Up until one week ago your mother was alive. Though shall we say, not well? She wrote an interesting account of why you fled Paris. Six other witnesses agreed with it.”

“The bitch lied.”

“Probably.” The old man shrugged. “No doubt she embellished and twisted the details. Nevertheless, have you anyone to attest to your own truth of it?”

“You know I don’t.”

The duke produced a packet from the drawer, which he leaned back and caressed with his fingers while his gaze bore into Galen. “My associate, one inspector in particular, assures me that prosecution of a crime can be activated at any time… with such evidence as I have gathered. Did you know that I travel to Paris often? No? Well, you have not quite erased your deeds their, Blackcove, even after all this time.”

Galen felt his guts twist. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Hate was too mild a word to describe what he felt for the deranged old man. He heard himself saying, “What’s your deal?”

“This,” He held up the packet. “For marrying Jessica, getting at least one heir before I die. The solicitor will give it to you—when these,” He held up a stack of contracts. “Are fulfilled.”

“What are they?”

“Just my insurance, you might say, the rules that govern our little agreement.”

He leaned up, his smile feral. “Imagine my reaction when your Paris life came to my attention? There is no uncertainty of your strength, skill, your virility. They say that the underbelly of Paris knows no names…But my boy, you are quite legendary.”

Galen had arisen then, staring at the duke with eyes equally chilly. His voice had a calm frost. “You’ll get yours, and so will she, but remember… that.” He gestured toward the packet, “is all you have purchased.”

Now, walking in the dark street, he turned to enter the park, nodded to the watchman, then reached in his pocket for a cheroot and lit it. He sat down on damp, shadowed bench, recalling the contracts and conditions.

They were lists of events…Lady Jessica‘s schedule. He had Max go over them with his discreet solicitor. Galen wanted no hidden manipulation in the language. He didn’t intend for the man to squeeze his balls any tighter. On the surface it was an unusual marriage contract. It appeared in order to the solicitor, knowing well the eccentric ways of the rich, and having hardly blinked at it.

Galen's eyes narrowed in the smoke. He clamped his teeth down on the slim cigar. He had plans of his own. No Man or woman would ever control or manipulate him again. He wasn’t a lad anymore.

Vanlare was just the sort of oily-handed bastard Galen hated the same version he’d worked for in America, same class of snake-different country. They were obsessed old tyrants who treated others like shit.

He’d smuggled on nights like this, under the cover of chilly fog, amid cutthroats and thugs who had loyalty to no one. He’d guarded and fought for riches that weren’t his. He and Jayce had seen the same breed spring in the west; San Francisco, big port towns. They wanted to use you up and make money off your blood and sweat. And when you bucked, they always had something to hold over your head.

This time, he was going to come out the victor.

Galen arose from the bench and nodded to the watchman again. He strode toward a rougher part of town and procured a couple of bottles of Scotch. He then headed back to the townhouse. It was a saturated and heavy night, the perfect kind for breeding something foul.

People seemed to get chilled, ill, from such dank air. Having the constitution of a horse apparently, Galen never did. Not like Griff…poor Griffin.

Galen shook his head, reaching in his pocket for one of the bottles. He opened it, taking a long drink. Leaning against a building he looked at the narrow streets. Max believed he’d been running all these years. Jayce accused him of trying to wrestle ghosts he didn’t have to. Neither of his friends understood what it was like to be him, to carry his memories and images around day and night.

Neither understood what it was like to have thoughts… that you were actually dead, buried…completely cold inside He was walking around on earth, disconnected to the rest of the human race.

Galen was aware of what men said of him, shadow men whom he encountered in his past. They thought he took risks for all manner of reasons. The truth was, he did because he could not feel.

He’d decided to do murder… he had shut down something inside. Galen wasn’t seeking to become one of those deep feeling people. The lack of emotion had probably saved his life and kept his head cool when other men panicked.

He also didn’t look into the future. He did what he decided to and moved to the next stage. That is how he would handle Lady Jessica Rains. Galen decided. She was simply a stone on the path leading to his freedom again.

* * * * 

The following morning Lady Jessica suffered through the usual rituals at the park. Fretful by the time the groom took her mount and she sat in the carriage waiting, biting her lip. She had raised the short netting on her top hat, looked around.

Nikki was no where to be seen.

Holding her fixed posture, she let her glance slide to her father’s spies who waited for the carriage to move. They would get suspicious soon. Oh, where was Nikki?

Just when she was about to give up, a white hanky seemed to be flying on it’s own by the strand of oaks. Jessica focused on it and discovered it was Nikki. She casually sat forward, keeping the note under her gloved fingers, holding to the side of the carriage.

“You may drive on,” she said. When the slight pull of the vehicle started, she raised her fingers slightly, letting the note fall to the ground.

* * * *

From the park, Nikki watched, holding the reins of her mare and leaning around the tree. Not until they were out of sight did she mount up and ride to collect it.

It read: Lord Galen Wolfe, Earl of Blackcove. Currently residing with the Marquis of Kilgore. Find out what you can. Please! Jess.

Nikki tore up the note and looked around. She spied a muddy puddle of water and ground the paper with her boot heel into it until it was unreadable. Mounting again, she hurried toward her townhouse.

Her husband was barely lucid now and his family had descended. Though they looked down their nose every time she left the house, they refused to let her near him. With a sense of doom hovering on the horizon, Nikki pushed that aside, wondering how the devil to obtain what Jessica needed?

* * * *

It wasn’t until she was at a musical later that evening that Nikki spotted the red head, secretly reading behind a Greek column and munching carrots. She recalled Jessica was scheduled to be at the theater tonight, so she picked up the skirts of her brown silk gown and headed toward Lady Lindy.

“Good read?”

“Oh. God!” The girl jumped a foot, spit carrots a mile, dropping her book with a thud. Whirling, she held her spectacles and faced Nikki. “You scared the skin off me!”

“Sorry.” Nikki smiled, then introducing herself while she discreetly plucked carrot pieces from the girl’s bodice.

“You should try chocolates,” Nikki teased.

“Carrots are good for the eyes.” The Lady shook her head then leaned down to cram the book in her purse. She checked her straight hair, which was down except for a braided crown, and smoothed her formal gown. “I am Lady Lindy Faulkner“

“I know.” Nikki took a seat then motioned her down.

Lindy peered at her. “Oh, I have just recalled you are the poor lady who was wed off to gouty old Holcombe.”

“Well, I was not poor, I assure you. But yes.”

“My brother expects I will wed quickly, because I am an heiress. I have no intention of pleasing him.”

“You don’t?” Nikki studied that face; it was hard to make out with the thick hair and those lenses reflecting everything. She had fine skin, a good set of bones.

“No, of course not. I will not be sold off like some chattel. I have a very good brain. I certainly do not need a man to complete my life.”

“You are very fortunate then, to be so confident.” Nicole muttered dryly.

The young Lady smiled at that and Nikki mused that Jessica would surely like her.

“Yes. Only… I must humor Maxwell. He is so very arrogant, you know? So much a Marquis. I vow, I will never comprehend how men can be so hypocritical. They shelter and protect their sisters, then take mistresses like Aurora Paxton and the like.”

Nikki grimaced. “I take it that is your brother’s current ladybird? You should not even know such things.”

“Oh,” The girl lost her smile. “I thought you were different from the rest.” She motioned with her head toward the crowded room.

She looked so downcast, that Nikki touched her arm. “I am, but, well never mind that. I hear your brother has guests? An Earl is it?”

“Yes and an American gent.” Lindy smoothed the beads on her purse. “Maxwell thinks that I am both blind and deaf. If I step outside my door he yells at me. As if I would be so rude or immature as to spy on them or something.”

“Well, it is an awkward position for him, I am sure. Being a bachelor, housing a young deb.”

“Oh, he says they are unused to polite society, might express themselves too freely for my delicate ears.”

The snort made Nikki ask, “You know your way around your brother.”

“Yes. I see and hear quite a bit. Having men think you are stupid and naive has its advantages.”

“Do tell-” Nikki settled back with one brow raised. Inwardly she was laughing, because the spunky young lady had just protested that she neither spied nor eavesdropped.

The young deb talked for more than an hour.

* * * * 

Jessica sat in her father’s box, alone as always. She had recognized one of the men, the spies… she had passed in the foyer. She knew he was in the duke’s pay. She had seen him often enough.

Trying to ignore the tension in her aching head, she stared blindly at the stage. Her father had instructed the maid on her wardrobe, and again, she was a walking advertisement of the Vanlare fortune.

Jessica pitied the eyes of envy that looked up at her and detested the fawning smiles that would greet her during intermission. But Years ago she had perfected her poise; it was the only way she could go through her daily life with any sanity. Heaven knew that living with her father was enough to break anyone’s will.

The cold heaviness of the trappings were like chains draped on her.

Tonight she had stood as in front of the mirror while Dottie had reverently layered her from the skin out in the finest fabrics. Not reverence to her, of course, the maid touched each garment with such awe that Jessica often had to grit her teeth. From the silk of her sheer stockings to the short satin bloomers and lace corset, she became transformed into the memorial of her ancestors, the obsession of her father’s future.

The golden gown molded her body, snug to the waist, then draped to the floor. The fabric shimmered to match the topaz twinkling in her upswept hair, around her throat, and wrists. A gossamer shawl of sheer sparkling ochroid floated around her bare shoulders, and rippled over the chair back, webbed finger-less gloves covered her palms and wrist.

Her face became obscured by the artful application of white powder that was dusted over her exposed skin. The shoes on her feet, velvet covered with stiff gold mesh and glittering heels, to make sure her every step was watched and envied.

Inside, Jessica was immune to outer layers. Her greatest fear, the reason for her pounding head… was that the once small hope, that marriage might bring her freedom, would instead, demand a grater sacrifice. It would take what little spirit she had hidden and leave her at the mercy of another’s control.

Sighing, Jessica pushed the thoughts aside. She would dearly love to rub her temples, yet the sparkle when she raised her hand would likely draw every eye. She instead closed her eyes for a just a few moments then braced herself for leaving the box.

The intermission had begun.

The press of people in the foyer made Jessica panic. She smiled and fought to attend what the old Duchess of Lansing was saying about some charity. Her back against the wall, she gave the woman an answer before turning to deal with a few others trying to talk over the hundreds of voices.

Her name seemed to be on every mouth. Jess attempted to sort through the crowd with her usual politeness. It was horribly humid. The sudden clutch of Lord Beagly’s hand in hers nearly did her in. He was a nice old fellow but the scent of camphor was so thick upon his clothing that it was difficult to breathe.

Jessica had never, in all the difficult years, been unable to handle herself in any situation. Crowds were a part of her life. Yet, her heart suddenly started fluttering, then pounding hard, and sending blood surging to her head.

She discreetly swallowed, feeling her mouth go dry. An overwhelming sense of alarm gripped her to the point that she trembled.

The more they came at her, lords, ladies, faces, smiles… the deeper she drowned in the waves that were trying to overtake her.

Just when Jessica felt blackness approaching, the crowd seemed to melt back.

Her vision skewed. She saw colors expand, meld, and then float. Leaning her head against the wall, some part of her comprehend they had returned to the play, and that, had saved her from total humiliation.

She drew deep even breaths, trying to still her trembling limbs. The urge to run, to scream, she pushed that deliberately, slowly, down, until it settled in her belly with the knot that formed there when she was old enough to understand she was as cadged as any helpless animal.

How long she stood there, she did not know. The drained feeling that came, after the odd reaction, was even less tolerable. Stepping slowly from the wall Jessica searched in her handbag, and then pat her face with a hanky, having gone from perspiring to cold clamminess. Afterwards she reapplied the pressed powder; using the small mirror and trying to ignore the stark look in her eyes. Dear God, she could not lose control, not now.

Chilled Jessica headed for the box but in two steps realized that she could not hold onto her composure. She stood in the alcove for horrified moments; half hearing the play, muffled sounds of applause and music soon faded back too.

“Lady Jessica?”

Jessica straightened and automatically pasted a smile on her face.

“Lord Kilgore.” She nodded while her gaze went over his formal black and white. He was not one of the men she would ever have chosen.

Kilgore carried himself with a certain air. There was also something in his aqua eyes, she admitted, that would not have suited her purpose at the time.

He had close-cropped black hair, very aquiline features. Kilgore was not at all soft, indeed he was broad shouldered and quite athletic. That he supposedly housed the man her father had chosen made her groan inwardly, for she was not in her usual form.

“Forgive me.” He looked at her face, really looked, not just at the jewels. And, even in the muted light, the Vanlare fortune sparkled. “I did not see you return to your box. Since you have no escort I came to assure myself of your welfare?”

Jessica dipped her head. “Thank you. I am fine. Just a bit fatigued. In fact, I was debating and had decided to leave just as you appeared.”

“Allow me to escort you to your coach.”

She accepted.

Walking beside the man, Jessica could feel him looking at her. She was relieved when they were out in the night. He held the coach door for her.

Settled in, she thanked him with a cool smile. She was desperate to leave now, particularly under his close scrutiny. As much as she would have liked to know about the man her father choose, she was barely hanging onto her nerves. She shortened the adieu. 

* * * *

Max nodded, standing there she drove off, wondering, that he found her looking so opposite than her usual self?

He had observed her for years, yet he had avoided anything but politeness and she seemed to avoid him. That did not mean he had not admired her somewhat aloof, cool, exterior.

Among their set, it was difficult to wear the mask at all times, in all moods, he had come to know that she certainly pulled it off. In fact, he thought her a snob. For a split second… he saw something different.

If Galen had to wed her, Max was not about to let him sabotage the union.

He had been thinking… and, he knew the game better than Galen did. He wanted to assure himself, as arrogant as it may seem that Jessica Rains was like him, that she had mastered the social game and could play it well enough to serve Galen in the end.

Max headed back to his townhouse, and marveled at the irony of life. Wishing Galen back here, to take up his impoverished title, half-hoping he would find a rich heiress, maybe someone to dig him out of the grave he was buried in…

He leaned his elbow on the window, looking out at the night. He had told Galen on that last trip to America that both he and Jayce would end up dead. Like Josh, who had been found stabbed to death by some cheaply bribed floozy. The riverboats, logging towns, hard, eyed clients they worked for was a certain death sentence.

Yet Max He was forever changed, because he had met them, and they had saved his life. Both men had made him earn their respect before they would stop calling him English in that derogatory way. He had been a smug, rich, young man, fresh out of school and raised with all the privileges that came with being a sole heir.

Stepping off that ship in America, he thought to visit New York society. He aimed to humor a few of his father’s old chums with a night of his presence. However he’d been dragged in an alley before he could reach the hotel, stripped of all except his drawers while he watched his trunk being drug off, and then his body was being thumped with ham like fists until Jayce, Josh, and Galen had showed up.

He’d passed out and, woke up in the back room of a river front tavern, and he never did make it to a ball or rout. He left that country a different person—though and it was Galen and the brothers, who had challenged him to do it.

The coach stopped. Max exited, bid the driver retire, and entered his townhouse, finding both Galen and Jayce in the study. Jayce was just by the garden doors, smoking a rolled cigarette. Galen reclined on the black sofa, one foot resting on the floor. He nursed a whiskey.

Removing his neck cloth and cuff links, Max tossed them on the desk. He poured a brandy with one handed and removed his jacket with the other. Placing the jacket on the chair back he went round to brace his hips on the edge of the desk. Max took a sip, his gaze resting on Galen.

Galen slowly eased up into a sitting position, his arm resting on the back of the sofa. “Was she there?”

“Yes.” Max set his drink aside, casually crossing his arms. “Where did you end up?”

“Went to see the old man.”

Max grunted. “Is he still alive?”

A ghost of a smile touched Galen's mouth. “Unfortunately.”

“There was something different about her tonight.”

“Who?” Jayce asked Max, having come back inside now sprawled in a chair.

“Lady Jessica. She’s always a cool one, composed, unruffled.”

“Well, she’s a rich woman,” Jayce mocked. “I expect she knows it well enough.”

Max rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s not a snob, just, aloof. No one knows her. Bloody hell, who can see past all that splendor, right? She’s bloody dripping it. The Duke puts his stamp on things he owns.”

“So, how come you never made to Vanlare's study?”

Max looked at Galen who had spoken. “Like he said, I deduce, she picked men with... Shall we say manageable personalities? I must admit, I was bit disgruntled to find myself passed over.”

Jayce grinned and eyed Max’s formal clothing. “I’ll bet you were, English.”

“I’m not conceited,” Max defended dryly. “It’s just that if you know how the game works, then I’d be at the top of the list, surely.”

Jayce was laughing at him, so Max gave up. He looked at Galen instead. “People don’t look at her. She’s not like her sisters. They were…stunning… quite beautiful. I hardly know if she is or not. But tonight I caught a glimpse of something...”

“Your point in this?” Galen set his glass aside.

“She’s in the same position you are. That’s my point.”

“It’s not my problem,” Galen answered flatly.

Max sighed. “If you must do it, than at least you should consider her part in it.”

Galen's icy look answered that.

Jayce cleared his throat then reached over and took the whiskey bottle. He headed out. “Turning in,” he muttered, shutting shut the door behind him.

“It’s not the same thing Galen, not like…”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Max eyed his friend’s taut face, the coal black eyes.

“Explain the difference to me.”

Max paced a moment. “Your mother and Laparre were using you for the money. You had to do it because he—”

“The only difference is the amount of the money, Max.” Galen grit out.

“The fact that it’s mine instead of being spent on drugs my mother craved, or her lover’s gambling. The only difference is, I’m a grown man and he can’t beat me or drug me or…”

“All right,” Max said quiet, holding up a hand. He couldn’t stand to see that look on Galen's face. He couldn’t hear it all again. “He’s going to die soon. He’ll rot in the grave. You’ll not be under his thumb. There’s no reason why you can’t turn this thing into something advantageous.”

“Apparently, my friend,” Galen said dangerously, “You have never…” He stopped himself, cursed, then got up and left the room.

Max went over and sat heavily down on the sofa. He leaned his head back, closing closed his eyes. He could probably fight the old man and get Galen out of it. Yes. He wasn’t all that intimidated by him. But the old man was going to die soon. That kept going through his head.

If anyone deserved all that hoarded riches and fame, that wedding the Vanlare heiress would bring, it was Galen. Not some fop with his sliver spoon still hanging round his neck!

Bloody hell. Galen should have been given his birthright. He’d suffered more than a man ought to. That’s what Max kept thinking. He just didn’t know anyway to help Galen untwist his mind and memory. He didn’t know how to make the man feel normal things. They had done a number on him, the Bitch Countess and her lover. They had taken him at sixteen, just the age to skew a young man’s perceptions and they had betrayed him in the worst way.

* * * *

Upstairs, Galen paced the sitting room. Not fast, he simply walked back and forth. He shouldn’t have left the wide-open spaces of America. But he and Jayce had to face facts; they were going to end up like Josh sooner or later. They were running out of places to go and start over.

Galen had felt that old surge of rage. He wanted to come back and take the title many times. It was the only rotten thing to show for the life he’d been given.

He ran a hand through his silky hair. He was going to meet the heiress tomorrow; some formal dinner that was supposed to be so crowded no one would notice him. Right… He knew his grace better than that. Be seen, he’d said—seen with Lady Jessica.

For all he was an Earl, Galen had nothing the rest of them did; pulled out of school at twelve, he and his twin Griffin had been exposed to fast crowds and debauched, decadent lifestyle. When his parents grew bored, they left. Half the time he hadn’t had decent food or clothing. He only knew the world he had lived in, despite the title, and that world was a twisted and dark nightmare.

Galen shook his head, walking to the window. He wasn’t going to sink into it. He needed his wits about him. The old bastard was dead serious, he would see Galen hung or in prison. He was just that demented. Vanlare cared nothing for him personally, it was his stud service he needed.

Galen stood silent by the window then, swarthy skin tense over his cheekbones as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass.

What it showed was a tall and lean-honed body, wrapped in dark gold skin, broad of shoulder, ridged abdomen, and corded tight hips and flanks, pitch black, straight hair, tucked behind his ears, and reaching his shoulders. There was an arch to his brows, a deep set to his eyes, flair to his nostrils, and a high cut set of cheekbones a slight fullness of his lips.

Singularly detached as he viewed the image…an image very like his mother. Only his jaw and chin were hard and squared, where hers had been heart shaped, and only the eyes, which the window could not reflect accurately…were eyes filled with cold disdain for the face and body he had been given.

CHAPTER TWO 

The formal dinner brought a chance for Nikki to speak to Jessica. While guests were still arriving, people milling about, she whispered low, “It’s not good, Jess. “

Jessica raised her fan whispering. “In a few words?”

Nikki sighed. “Cold eyes, hard build, handsome, animal, and exotic.

Jessica absorbed that a moment. “Source?”

“Lady Lindy.”

Jessica mentally admitted that was reliable. “Advice?”

Nikki thought a moment. “Run?”

Jessica laughed, quietly glancing at her, quite puzzled.

* * * *

Nikki shrugged and moved away. She hardly knew what to say based on the girl’s information. The deb read entirely too much of the wrong thing. What seventeen-year old was aware of what animal magnetism, erotic appeal meant? Bloody hell, she didn’t know that much herself.

Jessica hated formal dinners worse than anything did; the long tables lined with people, talking to guests on your left, on your right, across from you. She was invariably paired with the most insufferable bores or the shrill speaking gossips. The only break came when they seated her next to a man with nasal drip. Jessica shuddered inwardly then took her time trying to read the place cards.

It did not surprise her at all when Sir Voiles pulled out her chair, nor when Lady Tackett scooted in on her right. She smiled at them both, resisting the urge to roll her eyes and groan.

She assumed they were awaiting their host, standing at the head of the table; the host seemed to be waiting too. Jessica leaned forward and caught Nikki’s eye, who sat a bit down. Nikki nodded her head in a direction… frowning.

Jessica had no idea what that meant… until she sat down and saw the empty chair across from her, then, she understood. It was her very good eyesight that let her read the place card. Lord Galen Wolfe, Earl of Blackcove.

“Lady Tackett leaned over demanding in a shrill yell, “Are you well, my lady?"

“I’m fine.” Jessica composed herself, wondering if she had gasped out loud.

“You went quite pale.”

That answered it. Jessica smiled, but it was soon gone.

A rumble of chatter drifted down to nothing. Jessica could see Lady Tackett trying to peer over her she could not bring herself to turn her head. She sat facing that empty chair...

Until he sat down.

She had a general view of black silk before the hostess initiated the start of the meal.

Barely able to taste, she made herself go through the motions. However, Lady Tackett set her nerves further on edge by whispering over and over, “Who is he?” Jessica did not recall what she said, but between courses, she did the polite back and fourth…until she realized she had to look across.

He had the wineglass to his lips. His black eyes were boring into hers.

Jessica felt her face flushing, not deeply, but most unusual for her.

He lowered the wineglass then simply sat there, looking at her, with those scorching eyes.

She glanced upward without meaning to, seeing silken black hair that lay to his shoulders, then, back down; a face exotic, swarthy, dangerous, and unique. Jessica made herself meet his gaze again, because, she had better get used to it, something told her. She wanted to make her own deal with this man.

The one realization came a few moments later… that he had yet to stare at the rubies around her neck, or, in her roan hair. That was surprising.

Her next un-summoned thought was that he was doubtless reflecting how unattractive she was.

Jessica frowned and pulled her gaze away.

She didn’t care. Her father had told her why he had chosen him.

Yes, she could see it too. One did not have to know the exact definitions of those words, to get the gist of it. She’d seen a statue of a gleaming black panther among her father’s art, had admired it then for its grace and intense stare and predatory eyes. Now, she shuddered inwardly.

The next few courses could have been dirt for all Jessica knew. She kept thinking, he’s looking at me, he’s looking at me. Me, not the jewels. And he was, he did. Even when she spoke to the people beside her, she could feel his pitch gaze.

She did not hear his voice at all, until someone asked him a rather loud question. She wished they had not. His tone was deep, smooth, like black velvet. He strung together no more than five words, yet there was something in the timbre and depth that was sensual.

She waited until dessert to try and catch Nikki’s eye again. It was easy enough. Nikki was leaning back slightly, waiting. Jessica used an old signal; she let her hand fall off her lap, and behind the chair she shaped a word. They worked out code for times like these, and times when the spies where too close for them to speak.

Nikki almost made her laugh then. For she spelled a curse word, an explicit one she’d no doubt learned from the coachman.

Jessica took a sip of wine to cover her amused reaction, and made the mistake of looking at the earl.

He was watching.

When the end of dinner came, Jessica saw he was walking round to join her. She observed that slow prowl but got herself composed when he reached her.

“Lady Jessica.”

“Lord Blackcove.”

“Call me Galen, or Lord Galen, if you prefer.”

When he put her hand on his arm to escort her out, she noted that her shoulder came mid point on his upper arm. Jessica also noticed that he was hard, warm. Neither of these things particularly helped her stay aloof.

A towering, sleek, large, black panther.

The hostess would play the piano while coffee and tea was served. Jessica followed his lead to the far corner, well off from everyone else. He released her arm and she sat on the plush settee. He too the chair facing her and the room.

The music suited the drama of her situation.

It was a vibrant, if not accurate piece that brought to mind stormy seas and hellish nightmares. It was ironic. No one could believe what it felt like to her, to finally meet the man her father had chosen. It felt wretched… absolutely, like watching her last faint hope whither into nothing.

The dramatic music gave her a mental image of being locked in a cadge with a circling cat.

Which is why she held her dignified pose and she kept her face blank.

One could not show weakness to a man like her father, nor she surmised, like the one facing her.

“You do not care for the music, Lady Jessica?”

“It’s very nice,” She answered flatly.

“When you are ready to leave, you must let me know.”

She glanced at him then. He looked half bored. “I shall leave now, if you wish it.”

His winged brow rose. “Not at all.”

Tension in her tightened another notch. The man must know very well what type of father she had? What type of controlled life she’d lived? Did he wish her to be agreeable or not?

She said carefully, coolly, “If you are ready to leave, Lord Galen then we shall do so.”

“Very well.” He arose with lazy grace and escorted her to the foyer and placed her black cape over her shoulders.

It was still fairly early. He signaled coach. She got in. Somehow, it did not surprise her when he climbed in also.

It was worse, Jessica discovered, in the close confines of the coach.

There was something predatory about him that kept her off balance. She was not able to relax, nor too much degree, remain collected and cool. Not with those eyes on her so intently.

He definitely had eyes like she had never imagined. Who could? The rest of him… She was simply not going to try at the moment to put her own names to it. Yet In the vehicle it was obvious that he was tall and honed, with swarthy skin that glowed warmly. The taut trousers made it apparent that all of him was tightly muscled.

The coach swayed. The clip clop of the hooves echoed in the twilight.

The open window allowed just enough breezes to cool Jessica’s skin. Dressed in the black and silver gown, she had been too warm in the townhouse. Her hair was done in a twist, with tendrils escaping that blew against her brow and cheek. If he had not been with her, she would have enjoyed the privacy and respite. She looked across. Their eyes met.

Jessica murmured, “Where are we going?”

“Wherever you wish,” he answered smoothly.

The evening light struck his eyes.

That’s when Jessica realized something else in his expression. It so unsettled her, that she gazed at him for long moments in silence.

* * * *

“Is something wrong?” Galen watched her eyes turn colors. It was remarkable; unnerving in a way that made him uneasy. They were some shade of green that had darkened visibly, not a trick of the light, something inward.

Almost vaguely it seemed, she answered, “No. Shall we simply end the evening? I have a full day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I shall collect you for your ride at six.”

“Very well.”

The silence came again.

Galen was the one to look away first. He had separated his mind and emotions long before he reached the dinner tonight, with careful and deliberate, mental exercises like an actor playing a role. The man, whom the Duke had threatened was very much present, the other was safely locked away.

“My father has given you my schedule?”

He answered yes, thinking that her voice was rich for a woman, smooth. “Did he explain things to you?”

“My father explains himself to no one.” Her smile was frosty.

“No?”

“You will inform me, of course, of what he plans?”

He shrugged, deciding to tell her a version of it. Galen laid it out as far as he knew… that he must escort her and give the appearance of intimacy between them, whatever it took, for the public to perceive that the choice had indeed been made. Ending with, the wedding/honeymoon trip to Twin Bells.

She muttered, “I see.”

Galen watched her eyes change again to a deep olive, and she seemed to grow stiffer. He read her inner tension by the strain at the corner of her mouth.

When they arrived at the Mansion, he escorted her inside, and then bid her a formal adieu. By the time he was on his way to the Marquis townhouse, he had to acknowledge the fact that Jessica Vanlare was not what he expected. He agreed with Max, she was very good at holding her own.

* * * *

Jessica made her way to her chambers. She could think of little besides what she had seen in the deep shadow of his gaze. All the while she was undressed and bathed, she kept seeing that abyss of dark treacherous shadows.

* * * *

In the park, the following morning, Jessica rode beside him.

They caused a stir.

Society had been waiting for this for several years. Many of the men turning to stare had been turned down in the worst way by the duke. High bets had been on the books for ages at the clubs. Her own reputation as the ice queen, the snobbish princess, likely added to the speculation.

No formal announcement had to be made. Society came to the obvious conclusion. Since only Vanlare approved her escorts, it was apparent the groom had been chosen.

Without looking at him Jessica could recall exactly what he wore, -Black riding breeches, a black shirt, jacket, black riding boots, even his horse was black.

She had been dressed in her bay colored habit with a white ruffled blouse. Her hat cocked a bit to the side; gloves and boots were a slightly darker shade. Her hair was braided and pulled back in a bun. The habit was the only garment she owned that jewels were not required, beyond the ruby broach in her jabot.

As they went though the be seen ritual, she noted that he was not overly friendly, nor was he rude, but he managed to keep greetings to a polite nod.

Jessica supposed that people looking in his expression might well get the message and be intimidated anyway. She certainly noticed that he had full command of the stallion he rode, there was no mistaking that he was a man who remained in control. Having been around her father so often, witnessing his wild rages, she had to admire, albeit grudgingly, that the man had grace and ease, and still managed to be intimidating.

When they had ridden off the path and came out at a small clearing, Jessica stopped because he did.

She watched him dismount, allowing his horse to graze. He walked over, standing very close, even laying his hand on the horse’s neck.

“Would you like to dismount?”

She did so, not waiting for him to help her down.

She took the mare a distance away securing the reins then turned.

He leaned with his boot sole against a large oak trunk.

Jessica half sat down on high stump, resting her buttocks on it mostly, bracing her booted feet in the dirt. She lazily tapped her riding quirt against her skirt. Looking out at nothing in particular.

It was a good time, perhaps their only private moment, to speak with him.

“You did not accept for the fortune. Did you, my lord?”

“No,” he murmured.

“My father has something else you want?”

“…Yes.”

“So,” Jessica had thought of it all night. She knew her father in some respects. “—He is blackmailing you in some fashion?”

“Yes.”

She wasn’t at all surprised. It also took her half the night to think that through. “And will you be free of him—when?”

“When you carry the first heir, he will have no more hold on me.”

She turned slowly and faced him, taking up much the same position as before. This time she held the quirt in her hands, rolling it slightly as she considered him.

“Did he tell you, that he is ill?”

Galen shrugged. “After a fashion.”

She nodded. “I should like to make a deal with you also.”

Galen was immediately on guard. He scanned her visually, watching a strand of hair blow loose and touch her cheek. There was nothing in her face to read. “Come over here.”

Her brow went up as she walked over and stood, under the shade of the tree, close to him.

He moved his gaze over her face, wondering why she wore powder, yet knowing many women who painted themselves worse. One thing he hated was perfume, it turned his stomach like nothing else, and the sharp pungent kind offended him worse. But he smelled peaches when the breeze crossed her. He didn’t know a woman who smelled like fruit.

He took his time examining her angular face, looking at the shape of her odd eyes. Her mouth was not full, but she held it tense when irritated. He saw the mixed strands of hair under the hat, several colors of bronze and red and white. He visually traced her jaw and chin, the slim nose. She was twenty-four the Duke said.

“What sort of bargain?”

* * * *

Jessica let her breath out slow. She’d been holding it while he looked at her. It was a new experience, without her dripping in jewels. She supposed it was easier to see her in the daylight. She’d never felt as exposed as she had in those few moments.

“You have some mixed blood,” she said absently.

“Spanish,” he supplied.

She nodded, able to see it in his bones and skin color. There was still a wholly exotic look to him. His mouth she noted, up close, was not full in a soft way, but in a way that made her uncomfortable.

She met his eyes instead. “After my father is dead and we have done according to his he wishes, I should like something. And only you can give it to me.”

He smiled cynically. “I thought I was?”

She flushed. “The heir is for him, did you not gather that?”

“Yes. What do you get out of it, from the old man?”

“Nothing,” she admitted candidly. “Except, that he will finally have what he wants, and will stop ranting about it.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. Not until he is dead.” Her smile was bitter. “You have to know my father as I do. Even then, he will probably find a way to control things.”

“Why didn’t you didn’t run off, like your sisters?”

“He watches me, his spies do, waking and sleep.” She shrugged. “Besides, he emphasized often enough, that the end of the earth would not get me out of his reach. I know that to be true.”

Galen's brow rose slowly.

She looked away, and then paced a bit. “He controls everything, what I wear, whom I speak to, where I go. He has the servants search my room, my things. I—” She paused, shook her head. “I tried to find a suitable husband. Eight years, I have tried…”

“He said they were weak.”

She looked away. “Maybe they had vices, weakness, but they were not the way he describes them. Any other family would consider them suitable, reputable.” She stopped, looked down a moment in thought. “He wanted someone controlling like himself.”

“I’m nothing like him.”

He said it with such loathing that Jessica jerked her eyes to his. Yes, she understood his reaction.

“You have obviously met him. Yet, it is a small taste of what I have lived with. Do not, for a moment, think his obsession has fogged his brain. He is very shrewd and calculating.”

“I got the picture clear enough.” His contempt for the man was clear.

“If there is a way that I can help you, I will,” Jessica told him truthfully, “I have no way out of it. I am his last daughter legally, his heir until the-” she chewed her lip, then went on carefully, “the only way out of his grip for me, is to follow his plan, then when he dies, hope that you and I may deal well enough together, to come to an agreement on our future.”

Galen said flatly, “You can’t help me. I’ve made the deal with him because he has the upper hand… for the moment. When you carry the first heir. I get my freedom.”

She glanced at him. “I don’t want the money. I don’t want any of it. I want my freedom too.”

His brow rose. “Since you must birth the heir, I think that is rather complicated. But understand. I’m not really concerned about what you do, or what your plans are. I realize it sounds cold, but it’s the truth.”

His eyes pinned her. “I’m not agreeing to anything beyond his stipulations. I told him and I am telling you, though it’s not money he’s giving me, to use an analogy, you get what he paid for, nothing else. I’m not one of those Lords who came willingly to him, blinded by greed. He didn’t mince words with me, and I’m not going to with you. - Don’t try to manipulate me into anything else.”

“Actually,” she said coldly, disliking his assumptions, and having heard that speech dripping with ice. “I was trying for a bit of honesty between us.”

She turned to fetch her mare. “I realize as his daughter and a stranger, you may well suspect me of having some of his traits. I assure you, I do not have that luxury.”

By the time she was mounted, Galen was also getting on his horse. They rode back the way they had come.

Tension hung thick between them, both their faces set in cold lines.

They would have to deal with each other later, at the Wheelock’s ball.

Jessica thought with some seething and frustration, that such situations like these—her father would find highly entertaining. In fact, he doubtless knew it when he chosen the man.

At least now, she knew for certain… he was unlike the others.

* * * *

Lady Lindy was in the library. For once, not reading, pondering the things Lady Nikki had shared with her. By now Lindy was piecing things together. It boggled her mind that the old man, after all this time, would choose Lord Blackcove.

Lindy absently thumbed the pages of the book on her lap. If she did not live under the same roof with them. Perhaps she would not regard it. Well, beyond the fact he was a stranger to everyone.

Except Maxwell—not knowing her brother all that well, she tried to bring some logical reason to her brain that he should have acquaintances like the American and the Earl.

The problem for Lindy was that Max was so-Marquis-ish.

He could be bloody arrogant at times. He was one of the prizes one might say, among the elite. Since Max was constantly harping about her creating a scandal or not coming up to scratch… he certainly would have nothing in his own background to hide… would he?

That thinking brought her right around to his choice of friends, how they became friends? She simply could not find a reasonable answer.

She dare not go so far as brand Max a prig. No man with his taste in females could be that. He was blasted arrogant and terribly boorish when it came to ringing a peel over her head. He was constantly imagining she was going to cause some great scandal.

Pish! Females like herself were hardly interesting enough to society to bother with.

* * * *

Later that night, she attended a ball with Max. Lindy saw that her brother was about to approach Lady Jessica and Lord Blackcove. He paused, suggesting she get herself some punch.

She looked up at him though her glasses. “He is going to wed her, is he not? So you had better stop acting as if he is some sort of- well- who knows what you think?”

Max looked at her, blinking at the glare on the glasses as he hissed, “I am very proud of the few real friends I have. “

“Then stop acting as if you are not. Let us join them.”

“The only reason I draw the line at our home is for propriety. “ He narrowed his gaze at her “I have gotten you a companion, and you completely disregard her. Half the time she does not know where you are.”

“Oh, pooh, you are afraid I will faint if someone says bloody hell in my hearing. Look at me. Do I look like a smashing success? A milk and water miss? A shrinking violet?”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“Well, we are not at home now. I wish to get to know Lady Jessica better…so?”

He apparently gave up approached the couple.

Max introduced his sister then asked Jessica to dance, because he was aware Galen did not. He gave Lindy a warning glance before he led the Lady out on the floor.

* * * *

Lindy pushed her glasses up and gazed at the Earl of Blackcove.

Galen tried to dismiss her gaze. She was nearly at his shoulder, apparently trying to see him better.

“Why did Lord Albert choose you?”

“Because of my charm,” he said flatly watching Max and Jessica gliding rounds the floor.

“Where is your American friend? “

“Getting drunk.”

She smiled. “How did you meet Max?”

“We met when he did his tour.” That was and sounded like, a much-rehearsed answer.

Lindy turned watched the couple too. She was dressed nice herself tonight with her red hair braided on her head, wearing a lovely cream silk gown with sheer sleeves.

But who could compare to the Vanlare heiress?

“It’s most odd, you know? Everyone has already deduced that you have been chosen. It rather upsets those who were not. Most outrank you, very few of them know anything of your background, Lady Jessica and the Vanlare fortune has become like a legend. Eight seasons is a long time to hold out.”

He looked at her. His brow rose.

She smiled again. “One can rather guess why you were chosen, in comparison to the others.” She shrugged.

He looked away. “Can one?”

“Well of course,” her tone drew his gaze again.

No one could be more surprised, when she removed her glasses to clean them and glanced up, revealing very beautiful gray eyes surrounded by long red lashes.

Putting them back on she murmured, “You are the ideal, after all.”

She walked off then.

* * * *

Galen stared after her, resisting the urge to shake his head.

“Thank you,” Max said while he returned Jessica to Galen's side.

Looking around he asked dryly, “Did you drown m’sister in the punch bowl or did she sneak off to the library?”

Galen nodded toward a group of younger guests.

Max sighed. “Excuse me.” He left, heading in that direction.

They both watched him go and speak to his sister.

He moved on then, and Jessica watched the females looking at him. It did not escape her notice that many were making a point to come by and speak to Galen too; some of them now waltzing by were craning their necks to gawk.

She opened her fan and glanced aside at the Earl.

He wore black of course. But having said that, he stood out. There was something stiff, starched about the men present, some sameness that made them blend. Galen looked relaxed, yet, not the eyes. She was beginning to read them and she could tell that he was very much aware of everything going on in the room.

She leisurely fanned herself, feeling strands of hair blow against her temple and cheek. Tonight she wore blue; sapphires and diamonds and white lace gloves, white satin shoes glittering. Her hair was waved, pulled back and held by sapphire combs. She was in all the obvious ways, the Vanlare heir. And—standing beside him, the jewels may well have been boulders hanging about her neck.

* * * *

Galen had noticed it, Not just when she was dancing, the jewels were glittering all over, but when he had collected her from the house. He understood why there were outriders and people watching her. She wore a fortune on her person.

His long gaze apparently drew a look from her, though she did not stop slowly fanning.

“There is a card room if you wish to play.”

His gaze flickered over her face. “Why do you wear that thick face powder?”

She flushed. “It’s not my choice. Then again, since I am not of the beauty my sister’s were, I would have to wear it to cover my imperfect skin.”

“No one looks at you anyway.”

She smiled tightly. “That is an honestly—spiteful—thing to say. You are correct, the jewels hypnotize them.” She flicked her fan toward the crowd.

The tightness in her voice was evident. Galen told himself he wasn’t here to be nice. He bloody well didn’t intend to forget why he found himself the object of so much curiosity and whispers. He already was beginning to comprehend that anytime he was with her, it was going to happen.

The old man must be eating it up. Well he damn sure wasn’t. Galen could feel the eyes moving on him in ways that brought back the wrong kids of feelings. He appreciated why she pretended not to notice her every move was watched. There wasn’t a whole lot they could do about it. Particularly since it was obvious he had the duke’s approval.

The duke planned on putting a formal notice of the betrothal in the papers soon.

Galen imagined the real bloody circus would start then.

“I was stating a fact,” he found himself saying.

“Were you?” She said coolly, “Since I have been me for my whole life, it is more like stating the obvious. I hardly need someone to make me aware of it.”

He cursed.

Jessica looked at him.

He smiled very coldly.

“You're wasting your time taking your bitterness out on me.” She held his gaze. “As you say, I cannot do anything about it.” She added grimly, “As much as I should like to walk off this very moment, it would be considered rude; moreover, my father’s eyes would see it. He would be most displeased with me. So I shall remind you again, that you may find the card room if you wish.”

Her eyes had changed colors again, Galen marveled that it was the only outward sign of her emotions. “You may not be like him, but you got your own brand, of bitchiness.”

Her face warmed. “Excuse me.” She slowly, walked away from him.

Galen cursed again; wondering if what she said was true. That walking from him was some kind of social breech that her father would find out and be angry? He set his jaw and watched her make her way around the room.

No one could miss the glitter, nor, that counterfeit smile.

He frowned and saw her do something odd. She stepped back from a group of people and was apparently having a conversation with a large urn. Since the urn was near some velvet drapes, he was probably the only one that noticed.

Galen watched this go on for some time before she moved away. He did not watch her then, but the drapes, somehow it was not surprising when a brown haired woman emerged. She was young, about twenty-three, had dark sable brown hair and was somewhat taller than most of the ladies. He vaguely remembered her from the formal dinner.

He turned to watch Jessica again, she seemed to be converged on by a group of people. She nodded, smiled. He felt a tightening in his guts at the way they almost clawed their way closer. Galen felt suffocated just watching it happen.

“How is it so far?” Max drew his attention.

“What?”

“You and Lady Jessica“

Galen stared at him. “How should it be?”

Max sighed. “Figured you would make the best of it. After all, you’ll legally be her husband, father her children you know… that sort of thing. “

“That’s got nothing to do with anything, but the old man.”

“Jesus,” Max muttered “do you have to be so cold blooded about this?”

“That’s what it is,” Galen reminded him. “He’s blackmailing me, remember?”

“Yeah I do. But it could make all the difference how you handle yourself.”

“To whom? The outcome is the same. Same reasons, same outcome. I give him what he wants, he gives me the warrants, that's it.”

“To Lady Jessica,” Max said quietly. “Why make it harder for her, she’s in the same fix?”

Galen's eyes were flat. “What do you expect me to do, Max, take advantage of the situation and pretend I am a willing suitor?”

Max looked away. “I don’t why I bother talking to you like this. You don’t want anything to change. You just want to keep on seeing everything through the past.”

Galen didn’t want to argue with him. “Let it go, Max. You’re starting to sound like an old woman.”

Max laughed, shook his head. “Must be Lindy twisting my brain up.”

“What’s the ideal?”

“What?” Max frowned at him.

“The Ideal, that’s what your sister said.”

Max winced. “In what context? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Galen told him what she had said.

Max laughed. “At her age it’s probably something out of a novel, dark brooding heroes with tortured souls.” Max lost his smile and said, “Sorry that was…”

Galen shrugged. He looked over to where he had last seen the red head. She was talking to the brown haired woman from the drapery.

They both turned looked at him, which made him uneasy.

Lady Lindy came toward them, he turned to the crowd to try and spot Lady Jessica.

Max scolded her for what she had said to Galen.

Lindy answered, “I thought men liked their ego stroked. By the by, Max. Your mistress was in the park this morning.”

“All right, brat.” Max took her arm. “I think we are taking our leave.”

“Oh, goody.” His sister ginned.

Galen nodded to Max and they left. He started to walk toward the spot he had last seen Jessica. He nodded in much the same formal manner when people spoke, but avoided conversation. He walked almost all the way around before he saw her standing out in the hall.

He stepped out, in time to see her lean back against the wall in a shallow alcove with a window. She had taken off her gloves and was rubbing her temples.

He made no sound as he approached.

Jessica lazily opened her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose once, and then lowered her hands.

“Ready to leave?” His deep voice seemed quiet in the small space.

“Yes.” She looked away from him and down while she pulled on her gloves.

Galen did not bother going through the front doors but walked her out a nearby exit, around the walkway, to the carriages. Inside the coach, he studied her face, the light from the street lamps flickered over it.

“I’m not one of your polite well-breed gentlemen,” he murmured.

“So I noticed.”

“I’m not making excuses. Just stating facts. I have a title, end of story.”

She lowered the window to get air. Her head was hurting. “Nothing is that simple. People’s lives are always more complex than the assumption.”

He said nothing to that.

“Max told me you were schoolmates before your parents took you out. He said your life was complicated and different.”

“Did he?”

She looked at him. “You needn’t get sarcastic, that is all he said.” She rubbed the side of her head.

“Why don’t you miss a few amusements or something, you obviously need a break.”

She almost laughed, “My father decides my schedule.”

“Since I am your escort, I’ll see what I can work around it.”

She raised her brow, and then winced, because it hurt.

“I’m very good at avoiding spies.”

“Are you?”

Yes. Even the duke’s.”

Her sigh was doubtful, but she was too miserable to debate it.

She laid her head back against the cushions. Bother trying to play the role for him, she thought. Her head was throbbing.

They did not speak until he told her goodnight in the foyer.

CHAPTER THREE 

Jayce had not gotten drunk.

He actually walked around London seeing a bit more than the stuffy clubs and elaborate mansions, and found there was quite a bit of fascination with his accent and country, of course his clothing made him stick out like a sore thumb, even if he kept his mouth shut.

He didn’t tonight; he found the more common classes a sight more interesting than the aristocracy. He spent time talking to shop keepers, dock workers, a few artists who sold their work on the street. He ate at a nice hotel, and then returned to the townhouse.

He was in the upper sitting room when Galen returned.

“I thought shindigs lasted till the wee hours?”

“The Lady had a headache.” Galen went to his chamber, leaving the door open so they could talk, while he changed into nothing but a pair of black trousers.

He padded barefoot back into the sitting room and sat down on the settee, helping himself to Jayce's coffee. He couldn’t abide tea.

“What’s news?” Jayce eyed him while he propped his feet on the low table.

Galen relayed what Jessica had said about the old man controlling her life. He told him what he had said to her at the ball. Jake winced. Galen told him, what Max had said, his little bits of advice and observation.

Jayce rubbed his finger down his Roman nose, reflecting, “Remember that place we went to in Denver, the one with green silk walls?”

“Yes.”

“I saw your face before you went in there, with the woman, is that how it is? “

Galen took a drink of coffee. “Pretty much.”

Jayce remembered the woman’s face too, a bit confused and anxious.

“Maybe it’s just that type, you know? The ones that are all over you before you even see them?”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“You know,” Jayce mused, “If we was in America and ran into a man like the Duke; we’d turn the tables real fast and put the fear of God in him. He’d hand over those papers quick enough.”

“This isn’t America.”

“She’s not a Paris whore.”

Galen stared at him. “They weren’t the whore. I was.”

“Don’t be a sonofabitch, I’m trying to have a conversation here,” Jayce grumbled.

Galen smiled, but covered it by taking another sip from his cup. “By all means, converse.”

“You're going through with this for your own reasons. I know you better than Max does. I’ve seen you take the enemy down without a sound.”

“I killed Laparre.”

Jayce studied on that. “Yes, I believe you told me once.”

“He’s got proof, no matter how distorted.”

“Tell me this, what are you going to do about her? I mean, after the old man dies or whatever ends it?”

“She’s not my problem.”

“Legally she’ll be your wife.”

“She’ll have the money and everything, properties, businesses or whatever. She’ll be set.”

“I don’t know, Galen. These English ladies ain’t like the ones you’ve had. “

“She’ll still be a rich heiress, only she won’t have to tolerate the old man. That’s more than she has now, because he controls everything.”

Jayce studied him. Galen wasn’t thinking the way he was. He still figured the man could get out somehow. It wasn’t like him to submit. He was aware when he was talking to a wall though. “I’m turning in.” He arose and went to his room.

Galen sat there a moment, and then went to his own chamber. He’d managed to piss off just about everybody tonight…that was pretty much his standard score.  

* * * *

Galen collected her for the scheduled musical. Except, as soon as they arrived, he led her around the back, into a black hack.

Jessica was too surprised and said nothing they drove off.

“How's the headache?”

“Milder.” She unpinned her hat and laid it in her lap. It felt heavy anyway.

They ended up at a little cafe for lunch, then walking several blocks before getting back in the hack, and riding to the Marquis house.

Again she did not comment when he led her through the back garden doors, and into a rear sitting room. Leaving the French doors open, Galen told her to sit.

She sat down on thick cushioned sofa and shrugged off her light hip length jacket. Her gown was pale rose, fairly light, compared to most of her wardrobe. She watched him roll up his sleeves before telling her he’d be back.

Jessica looked around the room. The Marquis was wealthy but this room was so cozy, tasteful. The walls were mint green with cottage prints and the fabrics were flowered, with clean lines, no frills. The furnishings were mostly rattans and the air and light from the doors made it seem so relaxing.

Galen brought the coffee in and poured two cups. He watched her hold the strands of pearls out of the way while she sipped.

“Why don’t you take them off, put them in your bag?”

She did. All of her jewelry, until the handbag was bulging.

Listening to the sound of birds and tic of the clock, Jessica found herself leaning back, relaxing. The scented breeze lulled her and from under her lashes she watched him walk to the open door and light a cheroot.

Jessica eyed him up and down as he stood with his back to her. Sunlight glinting off his hair, he was broad shouldered, lean hipped, and the snug fit of his trousers make it impossible not to notice again how taut his shape was.

She looked away from him, frowning at the thoughts creeping in her mind. She would have to be intimate with him. It was inescapable.

There were things in expression that made her dread it. It wasn’t just that they were virtual strangers, something that made her wish she could uncover more, at least something to expect? If she had some inkling how he would be, she could brace herself, prepare her mind to accept it.

Her father talked only of the heir, God knew that the instructors and such, who had trained them for society, had not mentioned anything.

She hated being this old, this ignorant.

Part of it was, of course, that no one really touched her. Her mother had been too ill to hold her, and too preoccupied to notice. Her father had always been distant and cold. The men she had encouraged to apply for her hand? They had been too polite, and too bothered about offending her, and losing their chance at the fortune, to do anything else. Personal maids stroked the jewels and caressed the gowns, they were very deft helping her dress, doing her hair, and she supposed she was blessed she was allowed to bath herself. But touching and touching, were not the same things.

Having lived with her father, she could handle not controlling things. She knew what to expect, and nothing he did surprised her. The man across the room from her was entirely different, he made her nervous, he made her angry, he even insulted her…and she couldn’t pin him down, because he also spent much of time, looking at her.

Jessica thought of Nikki then, wed to her older husband. Nikki had hinted that she was still as pure as the day she wed. She told Jessica that if the family found out it would be a tool for them to use against her. She couldn’t ask Nikki anything. Besides, something told her that no one could figure out what a man like Galen Wolfe was really like.

He was more aloof than she was.

Tired of her own thoughts, not wishing to bring on another headache, Jessica closed her eyes and breathed deep to relax her body.

She wasn’t aware when she drifted off to sleep. Used to being watched over, she didn’t usually nod off in company, but the stress of late had stolen what few hours she did manage to get.

* * * *

Galen turned and saw her with her head back, her eyes closed and a slight frown between her brows. She was sitting up.

He walked quietly over and moved her body to a reclining position. She was so limp she didn’t seem to notice. He looked down at her a long while, particularly at her face. Some of the powder had come off on the pillow; there was peach skin with light freckles.

He raised his brow but walked over to the chair and propped his feet on a low table. He lay his head against the chair back, watched her sleep beneath his thick lashes. Eventually, he too drifted off.

* * * *

The only one to witness this was Jayce. He was walking the garden path, smoking a cigarette, when he spied the open door. Quietly he walked toward them. Once his eyes moved from the sofa to the chair, he stood there a few moments. He saw the woman roll to her side and dislodge a long lock of hair that slid over her cheek. She reached up and pushed it aside. Her knees bent in a way that made Jayce smile. She tucked her hands under the cushion.

He looked at her exposed shoes and thought the ankle boots must be tight and uncomfortable. He glanced at Galen, who always slept like he was merely resting his eyes. He wasn’t going to speculate what they were doing here like this. He’d probably be wrong anyway. He turned, walked quietly back the way he had come.

* * * *

Galen awoke before Jessica did. Opening his eyes slowly, then stared across at the mantle clock. They had slept for two hours.

He raised his head, glancing at the sofa. She was on her side, most of her hair down and laying half over her face. Her hem was up around her knees, revealing shapely legs in sheer stockings. He arose then padded over, squatting down to awake her, and not knowing how she was when someone did. Some people awoke easy, others jumped.

He reached to move the hair off her face and push it behind her back.

It was cool, and smelled of peaches. He studied its mixed color lying on his palm and fingers, strange, like her eyes. It was unique.

Galen swept her hair back. A strand caught on her lips and he used his fingers to pull it loose and lift it away. Most of the powder was off except for some near her hairline. Her entire face was lightly freckled, the skin was dewy smooth except for tiny lines beside her mouth.

“Jessica,” he called her name softly.

Her eyes opened wide revealing light green flecks.

“Jessica?” He searched her face.

She blinked several times, and it seemed to him, with each one, that her eyes got a bit darker.

She finally focused on his visage.” I fell asleep?” She husked, then cleared her throat and licked her lips.

He nodded and moved to stand. She sat up. Her hands went to her hair. She grimaced and stood searching for the combs and eventually finding them.

Galen sat back down while she dumped out all the jewels, then she carried everything to an oval mirror. She put the jewels back on and powdered her face.

“I can’t do my hair,” she muttered, trying to get the shoulder length of it up.

He arose and walked over to stand behind her.

Jessica stiffened when he scrapped his fingers through it and lifted it, tucking a comb in, then twisting it, and tucking another. In no time he had a reasonably good style fashioned.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

He’d touched her. Her scalp was still tingling.

Galen's eyes went over her powdered face. “We could eat at the hotel or wait till after the play?”

She dropped her eyes from his face. “After, I suppose. I’ve no wish to press my luck. There is a coachman still waiting at Lady Greenfield’s for us. I don‘t dare return home and change into something suitable.”

He smiled, but she didn’t see it.

They departed, after he roused the dozing hack driver, who was parked at the corner. Dropped off again at a back street, Jessica felt quite silly cutting across lawns, through gardens, until they went round the Greenfield house.

The coachmen and guards did not look amused.

“The theater,” Galen ordered, handing her inside before joining her.

Jessica found he hat in the floor, and worked some of the wired ribbon off that was jeweled. She could see his amused eyes, though he did not smile. Had she not slept so long, she could have gone home and changed without much speculation, as it was, she dare not miss two events on her schedule.

* * * *

The following week the announcement was in the papers.

The betrothal was official.

Both Galen and Jessica read it was some amazement, since it read as if the person had conducted a long interview with the parties themselves.

The one notable thing about the article was the lack of background on Galen. It merely stated the Earl of Blackcove was home from abroad. He had been born in Dover. It went on to say, that the Earl had been known to Lord Albert for many a year, but that it was not until his return to England, that he had met, and lost his heart… to the Vanlare heiress.

Jessica winced at this, as she had breakfast. She did not think he would be amused by it either. She almost dreaded him collecting her for their ride. Worse yet, she dreaded the masses that would descend on them now.

* * * *

Galen had read it. Everyone in the Marquis house seemed to be at the table, lingering over it. Even Lady Lindy, who was not usually there when they gathered, sat between her brother and Jayce reading it.

“I don’t envy you today.” Max finally put down the paper, and lifted his coffee. “Everyone will be falling all over you. The man who will control the Vanlare fortune! That makes you as lofty in their eyes, as old Albert himself.”

“It says here,” Lindy cut in. “that there is to be an engagement ball at the assembly rooms.” She looked up, her brows arched above her lenses. “Good God! You don’t suppose the old goat will come himself, do you?”

“Lindy.” Max scolded.

She grunted. “Give over, Max. We all know he is an evil old man.” She tossed the paper down and propped her elbows on the table. “You must learn to dance by tonight, my Lord. You will have to lead out at your own ball.”

Galen looked at Max.

Jayce was chuckling, until Lindy turned to him and announced, “And you, Mr. Barrette. You must get a formal suit, to honor your friend here. I don’t suppose you waltz?”

“No. “ 
She smiled at him. “I shall be glad to teach you.”

“Lindy,” Max said again.

Lindy slowly turned to her brother. “Maxwell, I am seventeen, not four. I would consider it a kindness, if you did not call me down in front of guests, as if I were.” She stood up, shoved her chair back, and then stormed out of the room.

Max sighed, resting his palms beside his plate. He could feel their eyes on him. “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a moment.” He arose and went in search of his sister.

Jayce glanced at Galen. Far from a quiet soothing, they could hear slippers running, a door slamming, and Max, apparently beating on it. There was shouting, a bit of cursing, from both of them, and then...it grew quiet.

“Think he strangled her?” Jayce muttered, “Must be that red hair of hers.” He grunted. He heard Max call for her companion. Who, in his opinion, was less than diligent, more often than not, absent.

“They provoke each other.” Galen shrugged, finishing his meal.

Sometime later, Max returned, looking as flawless and fresh as ever. He sat down and filled his coffee cup. “Be in the music room at one, Jayce. And do not be late.”

Jayce froze in mid bite.

Those aqua eyes pinned him. “One,” Max repeated, and then told Galen, “I suggest you forgo your morning ride, and collect Jessica and bring her here.”

“I’m not dancing.” Galen let him know.

Max simply grunted and finished his coffee.

* * * *

Lord Albert was in the hall when Galen informed Jessica of the change of plan. She went upstairs, without asking her father first.

The two men locked gazes for a long time, Lord Albert struggling apparently, with the reality of what was happening. Able to read him perfectly, Galen let him know it. He relished the fact that Jessica had not questioned him, nor had she waited for her father to argue his own prearranged schedule. He wasn’t sure why she did it, but he damn sure used it, to smile coldly, smugly, at the man.

Finally Lord Albert growled, “Do not have her arrive late at the betrothal ball.” He tossed a box at Galen.

Inside was an antique thin band that was surprisingly tasteful.</