MILLS & BOON

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      For my sisters:

       Mary Elizabeth, Barbara and Sharon.

       You’re the best.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      London, 1807

      THE FRONT DOOR SLAMMED. Startled, Lady Irene Wyngate, in the library upstairs, turned, and the book she was holding tumbled to the floor.

      It was well past midnight, and everyone in the house besides herself was tucked into their beds, sound asleep. Indeed, she had gone to bed an hour ago and had arisen only because sleep had eluded her, so she had decided to slip into the library and find a book to read. There should be no one about—especially no one slamming doors.

      As she stood there, listening, the silence of the night was once again broken by a crash, this time followed by an oath. Irene relaxed, grimacing. Though the knowledge gave her no pleasure, at least she now realized who had made the noises downstairs. No doubt her father, Lord Wyngate, was home and stumbling about in his usual drunken state.

      Quickly she bent and retrieved her dropped book from the floor; then, picking up her candlestick, she tiptoed out the door. Even though she was only sixteen years old, she was the only one of the household who would stand up to her father’s bullying. Frequently she placed herself between him and her mother or brother, the people on whom he was most likely to take out his anger. However, Irene was not foolish; like everyone else, she did her best to stay out of her father’s way, especially when he came home roaring drunk.

      Now she hurried silently along the hallway, hoping that she could make it to the sanctuary of her bedchamber before her father made his way up to the second floor. Downstairs, a voice was raised, angry and deep, and was followed by a response. Irene paused, her brows drawing together, wondering who was talking to her father. There was a loud smack, as of flesh hitting flesh, followed by another crash.

      Irene darted to the railing at the top of the stairs and peered over it to the foyer below. Her view was partially obstructed by the lower tier of the sweeping staircase, but she could see her father sprawled on his back, the remnants of a shattered vase scattered around him on the Persian rug. The old-fashioned powdered wig that he insisted upon wearing, despite the fact that it was quite out of fashion, had been knocked askew and now tilted precariously to one side, rather like some small furry animal clinging to his bald head. A line of blood trickled down from his nose.

      As Irene stared, astonished into momentary immobility, a man moved into her line of vision, striding rapidly over to Lord Wyngate. The stranger’s back was turned toward her, so she could see only that he was tall and was dressed in the same sort of formal black suit that her father wore, though he eschewed the unfashionable wig and his black hair was hanging loose.

      As Irene watched, the stranger reached down and grasped her father by his lapels, yanking him to his feet. Lord Wyngate put both his hands up to the other man’s chest and shoved ineffectually.

      “Damned puppy,” Lord Wyngate growled, his voice slurred. “How dare you?”

      “I dare a bloody lot more than that!” the other man snapped, drawing back his fist.

      Irene did not wait to see the blow land, but whirled around and ran to her father’s study. She raced across the room and jerked open one of the glass-fronted cabinets, then pulled out a case from one of the shelves, laid it on the desk and opened it.

      Inside, on red velvet, rested a set of dueling pistols. Her father, she knew, kept them loaded, but she quickly checked, just to make sure, before she ran back out of the room, carrying one in each hand. The sounds of fighting and shouting grew louder as she neared the staircase. She could not see the men; they had moved. But it was clear from the sounds that the fight was still being waged in earnest.

      Irene fairly flew down the first set of stairs to the landing. As she turned the corner, she could see them again, grappling at the bottom of the stairs. Just then, the younger man broke free and slammed his fist into Lord Wyngate’s stomach. As her father doubled over, the other man brought his fist up sharply, landing a hit flush on the older man’s chin. Wyngate staggered back and crashed onto the floor.

      “Stop it!” Irene shouted. “Stop this at once!”

      Neither man paid the slightest attention to her, didn’t even turn to look at her. The stranger pursued her father, reaching out to grab him and pull him up again.

      “Stop!” Irene shrieked once more. When she was again ignored, she raised one pistol and fired up into the air. She heard the ping as the ball hit the chandelier above, and a few prisms fell, crashing to the floor.

      Both men froze. The stranger straightened and swiveled his head to look up, and her father, too, turned his wavering eyes upon her. Irene scarcely noticed her father’s gaze. Her eyes were riveted to the other man.

      He was tall, and his wide shoulders filled out the suit admirably. Clearly his tailor was not required to resort to padding to give the jacket the shape it needed. His hair was black as coal in the light from the wall sconces, and he wore it a trifle longer than was strictly fashionable. His face was all sharp angles and flat planes—handsome, yet hard and unreadable. The only signs of temper lay in the faint color along the line of his cheekbones and the unmistakable glitter of anger in his eyes.

      She had seen other men more handsome than he; there was something a little raw and rough about him that was different from the more elegant gentleman she was accustomed to. Yet he affected her far more than any gentleman she had ever met. Looking at him, she felt a strange, visceral tug, a sort of twisting deep in her core, and she found it difficult to pull her eyes away from him.

      “Irene?” Lord Wyngate croaked, and struggled to his feet.

      “Yes,