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      For Teej. Because when I had to make Ned a hero,

      I gave him a little bit of you.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      I’ve heard before that second books are hard. This one was … very hard. I am first and foremost grateful for all the readers who contacted me demanding Ned’s story. Without your encouragement and enthusiasm, I might have given up on this.

      As always, I am deeply grateful for Tessa and Amy, who offered support, encouragement and advice. Elyssa Papa and Kris Kennedy gave valuable feedback on various drafts. Franzeca Drouin saved me from about a billion errors. And Kim Castillo truly is an author’s best friend.

      Kristin Nelson, my awesome agent, and all the Nelson Agency staff—Sara Megibow, Julie Kerlin, Anita Mumm and Lindsay Mergens—provided the absolute best support an author could want.

      A great many people who put up with my whining about this book: the Pixie Chicks, the Vanettes, the Bon Bons, and my favourite debut loop ever.

      Margo Lipschultz, my wonderful editor, provided the proper balance of encouragement and gentle prodding, and Ann Leslie Tuttle let me know when I was going off the rails. I wish I had space to thank everyone on the entire team at Harlequin Mills & Boon by name for the amazing job they have all done launching my career—from the extraordinary sales force, to the marketing department, to the editorial enthusiasm at my publisher—but that would take pages and pages.

      And last but never least, there’s my husband, who never once complained about my writing while he did the dishes, made me dinner and took care of the dog.

       PROLOGUE

       London, 1838

      LADY KATHLEEN CARHART had a secret.

      Truth be told, she had more than one—but the secret she had in mind as she sat across from her husband at breakfast had arrived only today. It was wrapped in paper and had been set carefully atop her chest of drawers. And if her husband knew what it was …

      She suppressed a faint smile.

      Across the table from her, he set the paper down and fixed his gaze on her. His eyes were a liquid brown, three shades beyond her breakfast chocolate. They stood out, uncannily dark against the sandy brown of his hair. He had no notion what it did to her when he looked at her like that. Her toes curled. Her hands clasped together. All he had to do was look at her, and she found herself wishing—wanting—no, desiring. And therein lay the root of her problem.

      “I had a talk with my cousin a few days ago,” he said.

      Around London, a thousand couples might have been having a similarly prosaic conversation. Kate’s mother had cautioned her to be practical about marriage, to accept that she and her husband would share a genteel, friendly politeness.

      But then, Kate hadn’t married the average London gentleman. Mr. Edward Carhart did nothing properly or politely—nothing, that was, except his newly acquired wife.

      “What did Blakely have to say?” Kate asked.

      “You know that some of our holdings are in the East India Company?”

      “Aren’t everyone’s? It’s a good investment. They trade in tea and silk and saltpetre…. “ Her voice trailed off into roughness.

      If he’d known what flitted through her mind when she said the word silk, he’d not sit there so sanguine. Because she’d purchased a filmy night rail on Bond Street. It was made of imported silk and fastened together in front by means of lavender ribbons. Those scraps of opaque fabric were perhaps the garment’s only concession to modesty. It lay on her chest of drawers, simply beseeching Kate to wear it one evening.

      “Silk,” Ned said, looking off into the distance without seeing her lean forward, “and other things. Like opium.”

      “Opium was not on my shopping list.”

      He didn’t smile. Instead he glanced away as if uncomfortable. “In any case, Blakely and I were talking about the recent events in China.” Ned shook his paper at her. “And we decided it would behoove someone to personally inquire into what was going on over there.”

      For once, he sounded serious. Kate frowned at him. “By someone, you mean Mr. White, and by over there, you mean the office on—”

      “By someone,“ Ned said distinctly, “I mean me, and by over there, I mean China.”

      He set the newspaper down and bit his lip. The morning sun suddenly seemed too bright. It blasted in from the window behind him, casting his features into