The echo of the softly closing door slid through him like the edge of a blade. His body still pulsed with desire, ached with unspent need. He had wanted her so badly, more even than he had guessed. And yet the feeling that washed through him now could only be described as relief.

      There was no denying that over the years he had become somewhat jaded, somewhat insensitive where women were concerned. But he had never stooped so low as to attempting the seduction he had planned tonight.

      He could have justified the results. As his mistress, Victoria, along with her sister, would have been well taken care of. He would have seen to their financial security, even after his liaison with Victoria was over.

      And yet, in some perverse way, he was relieved that she had not agreed. In the weeks she had been in his employ, he had come to respect, even admire her. She did her job—no matter the little cooperation she received from the rest of the servants. She was intelligent and clever, spirited, and loyal to those she loved. And she had a strong set of morals—she had proved that tonight.

      She deserved far better than the brief sexual liaison she would have had with him.

      Still, he wanted her. Even as he stripped off his shirt and breeches and prepared himself for bed, his body throbbed with desire for her. He remembered her innocently passionate kisses and groaned with the ache the memory stirred.

      But Victoria Temple was safe from him now. Cord had given his word and he would not break it. She would remain his housekeeper, nothing more.

      Six

      In some ways, at least, fate seemed to be on Tory’s side. As the days continued, nothing more surfaced about the theft of the necklace or the attack on Baron Harwood. Undoubtedly there would be gossip among the ton, but Lord Brant was far too busy to pay attention to rumors and scandal.

      Brant. Tory did her best not to think of him. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to look into those tawny eyes and remember his scorching kisses, the way her body had melted into his the moment he had touched her. She didn’t want to feel the awful, wicked temptation that she had felt that night.

      Or battle her desire to be with him that way again.

      Fortunately, she had succeeded in hiding her turbulent thoughts from Claire. Her sister had been waiting when Tory returned downstairs. She had told Claire the note had simply been a misunderstanding, that the earl had written midnight but meant midday and that he had merely been interested in discovering whether she and Tory were happy in their jobs.

      It was an utterly ridiculous story, one that only someone as completely naive as Claire would believe. Tory felt guilty for the lie, but thanked the Lord that her sister had accepted it and put the matter to rest.

      Since that night, she saw the earl only when they chanced to pass in a hallway. Each time he was exceedingly polite and reserved. Maddeningly so, Tory secretly thought.

      In his study, the chessboard sat forlornly in the corner, and whenever Tory saw it, she battled the urge to move one of the pieces, to challenge him again. She didn’t, of course. She knew where that would lead and the road was one that could only end in disaster.

      Then this morning, at the bottom of today’s London Chronicle, a reference was made to the search still being conducted for crimes against Baron Harwood. Fortunately, Tory made this morning’s newspaper, like the last, mysteriously disappear.

      Still, she wondered how much longer she and Claire could continue hiding in Lord Brant’s household. They were madly saving every farthing should the need arise for a hasty escape, but the longer they were gainfully employed, the more money they would have and the better their chances of getting safely away.

      And there was always the slim hope the baron might tire of his search and simply return to Harwood Hall, or that he might believe they were hiding somewhere in the country. Tory prayed each night that happenstance would occur.

      In the meantime, the earl had left word that he would be having a small dinner party that evening. The guest list included his cousin Sarah and her husband, Lord Aimes; Colonel Pendleton of the British War Office; and Lord Percival Chezwick. The Duke of Sheffield was also invited, along with Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Chastain and their eldest daughter, Grace.

      The last name on the list gave Tory’s heart a jolt. She knew Gracie Chastain. They had attended finishing school together. At Thornhill’s, Gracie had been her dearest friend.

      That seemed eons ago. Another time, another life. After the baron had forbidden her return to school, Tory had heard little of Grace beyond an occasional letter. With the troubles facing her at home, Tory’s replies had been sluggish at best and the friends had drifted apart.

      Still, Grace would know her immediately, even in her dreary housekeeper’s uniform. Tory would have to make a point of staying well away from the dining room.

      “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Temple.”

      Tory stiffened at the sound of the familiar deep