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  “No,” she murmured. “Not entirely.”

  “I’ve been wrestling with the notion that I’d be better off without you. Trying to convince myself you were a cold-hearted jade. But I’ve been finding it a hard row to hoe, convincing myself of that. No matter the evidence.” His arm tightened around her. “I knew you were not,” he said, softly but with conviction. “What is it the French say? That the heart has reasons that reason knows nothing of.”

  “Mm.” She could not resist burrowing her nose into his waistcoat for a moment. He smelled wonderful.

  “I hope you will explain to me exactly why you lied. And, for that matter, why you confessed just now.”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” She was starting to feel a little tipsy. All this truth-telling was going to her head. And snuggling Derek in the starlight wasn’t helping her equilibrium, either. “I was afraid I could not resist you, and I thought I must,” she said recklessly. “So I lied. Hoping that you would then dislike me. Or, at the very least, stop hanging about. And that, of course, would have helped me resist you.”

  “And the confession?” Laughter quivered in his voice.

  “Once again, I was motivated chiefly by fear. Do you see a pattern emerging?” Her light tone took on a self-mocking edge. “This time, I was afraid I had gone too far and that you really would stop hanging about. And I am no longer quite as certain as I was—” She stumbled, suddenly appalled by her own frankness. And then she realized that if she stopped now, she would, yet again, allow fear to dictate her conduct. Anger at her own cowardice swept through her. She took a deep breath, and defied it. “I am no longer certain of much, Derek, but I do know what I feel. And the last thing in the world I want is to drive you away before you’ve had a proper chance to—to change my mind. It may be selfish of me—”

  His kiss interrupted her, scattering her thoughts like feathers in the wind. Heaven. She let her lips cling to his, almost delirious with desire. This would be her undoing. She knew it, and despaired—but even the despair felt too good to resist. How could she be virtuous, while Derek Whittaker tempted her with his kisses? She was only human.

  His mouth lifted from hers. She tilted her chin higher, blindly seeking more, but he kept his face out of reach. “Marry me, Cynthia,” he said hoarsely. “Must I kneel and beg? I will, if you want me to.”

  “No.” She opened her eyes, dazed. “No, don’t do that.”

  “But you will marry me.” His arms went possessively round her. “You will.”

  “No,” she said desperately. “Derek, I can’t promise that. A hundred things may prevent it. My mother—”

  “Hang your mother! Sorry,” he added, as Cynthia stiffened. “I mean no disrespect. But it’s bad enough, letting Lady Ballymere decide your future. Now she’s deciding mine as well.” He took Cynthia’s shoulders, holding her gently away from him so he could look into her face. “Don’t you realize, sweetheart, that if you agree to marry me I can protect you from her? From all of them. No one shall lecture you or scold you, ever again. Does your mother really have the power to say us nay?”

  It sounded wonderful, but it wasn’t real. Cynthia sighed. “Yes, actually, she does. I shall be one-and-twenty in two months’ time, but—”

  “Then we’ll marry in three months’ time. June’s a lucky month for weddings.”

  “Derek, stop it! It’s not that simple.” She pulled herself out of his grip and turned away, feeling flustered and depressed. “There is more at stake, here, than your happiness and mine. It’s not simply a matter of flouting my parents’ authority and forcing them into genteel poverty for the rest of their lives—although that is bad enough. I love them. And I love Ballymere. I love the land on which I was born, and all the dear people...” Her throat constricted with emotion. “Everyone is depending on me. If I marry well, I replenish my family’s fortunes. By saving my father’s land for him, I rescue everyone who depends upon that land.” She turned back to him, pleading. “Derek, don’t you understand? It’s an awesome responsibility. I shall feel terrible if I fail at this. It’s too important.”

  He studied her face, his expression troubled. “Well. In that case, we shall have to contrive a little. There must be something we can do. How much does your family need? Do you know?”

  She shook her head miserably. “I’ve no idea. Not in any real terms.”

  “What had Filey promised them?”

  “Thirty thousand,” she said reluctantly, and saw his jaw drop in disbelief.

  “Thirty thousand pounds?”

  “Yes.” She bit her lip. “I know it sounds utterly mad. And that was just in marriage settlements, mind you. I have the impression they expected he would offer additional help from time to time, as the need arose.”

  “Good God.” He looked stunned. “I can’t possibly offer that.”

  “No. Scarcely anyone could.”

  A new thought seemed to occur to him. He looked skeptically at her. “You know, the Ellsworths may have pots of money, but I can’t picture them handing over a cool thirty thousand just to secure a bride for their John. Not even if the bride were you, my love. Why should they? If Lady Hannah is carrying a torch for him, he can’t be as hopeless as you and I think he is.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Mama expects to receive another offer like Sir James’s. Those circumstances were—” She swallowed hard. “Unique.” She didn’t like to think of those days. Her engagement to Filey had been extremely unpleasant.

  Was Derek guessing her thoughts? She steadfastly regarded his topmost waistcoat button, but felt his eyes on her, filled with compassion. “He must have wanted you very badly,” said Derek softly. “Could he not have you for less?”

  “No,” said Cynthia numbly. “He could not. Mama is a skillful negotiator. And, as you say, he wanted me badly.” She took a deep breath and leaned against the doorframe, trying not to show the agitation that churned in her whenever she thought of her first Season. “Sir James had a well-known weakness for young girls—the virginal sort, you know, with pale hair and pale skin and no experience of life. At seventeen, I fit the bill perfectly.” She was trying to speak lightly, but could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “Mama exploited this weakness of his. She chose her target very well. Sir James was exactly what she wanted, and I was exactly what he wanted.” She gave an almost hysterical little gulp of laughter. “And I have no idea why I am telling you this.”

  “Because I asked,” said Derek steadily. “And because you trust me. Am I right to feel deeply angry on your behalf?”

  Unexpected tears stung her eyes. She shook her head, trying valiantly to smile. “You know perfectly well, this sort of thing is commonplace. Traps are set every day for wealthy men, and they generally walk into them willingly enough.”

  “I asked if I should feel angry on your behalf, Cynthia. Not his.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her and shivered. “No one has ever asked me that before.” Her smile wavered. “I have heard people express sympathy for the fish wriggling at the end of the hook, but no one thinks how much worse it is for the bait.”

  “And you were the bait. My poor sweetheart.” He took her back in his arms, cradling her against his body. Her arms went around him and she clung, feeling comforted even as she sensed the peril in letting him hold her like this.

  She felt a craven impulse to tell him everything, to tell him exactly how degrading it had been—appearing publicly in nearly-transparent clothing, the tips of her breasts rouged beneath the sheer silk to ensure their visibility, all to entice Sir James. She wanted to confess how humiliated she had felt, seeing the slack-jawed lust in Filey’s face as his eyes followed her everywhere, rarely looking at her face even when he spoke to her. Mama had taken care, at first, not to let Sir James get her alone, and for that Cynthia had been stupidly grateful—until it became clear that it had all been part of the plan, to withhold what he wanted in order to tease him into offering marriage. The first time Mama had allowed Sir James to spirit Cynt
hia away and paw her was the night at the opera house, when Cynthia had met Derek. And within a fortnight, her engagement had been announced and her doom sealed—or so she had thought. That had been the worst period of all.

  No. She would not tell him. She would not unburden herself at the expense of causing Derek pain. Sir James was dead and buried, and Cynthia must look forward, not back. She was safe, forever, from Sir James Filey. She would not let hideous memories poison this moment. It was Derek’s arms that encircled her now. And they would not always, she reminded herself. This was a stolen moment. Derek Whittaker was not hers to keep. Not if she fulfilled the bargain she had struck with Mama.

  “I am still the bait,” she told him quietly. “But my mother has promised me that we will try to hook a different sort of fish.” She leaned back against the circle of his arms, trying to smile. “It was worth trying to snag John Ellsworth, you know. At least he was young. Young rich men are hard to find.”

  “No doubt.” He looked grim.

  “But the ten thousand we received from Sir James relieved the worst of Papa’s obligations, so that enabled us—briefly—to be more choosy. And it made my parents feel generous toward me, so they stopped pressuring me about marriage altogether. Again, briefly.” Those days were ending. Cynthia did not want to think about that.

  Derek’s brows climbed. “You received ten thousand from Filey even though you hadn’t married him?”

  “Yes. And, luckily, his death did not obligate Papa to repay it.”

  He emitted a low, thoughtful whistle. “Ten thousand pounds. I must say, my love, that I think your parents have wrung a sufficient sum from your charms. After landing a fish of that size, you ought to be—to continue the analogy—let off the hook.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Ugh.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled at her, his features softening as he studied her face. He lifted one finger and traced her cheekbone, as if marveling at it. The tenderness in the gesture tugged anew at Cynthia’s heart. “I can’t give you up,” he whispered. “Don’t ask it of me.”

  “I might have to.” A lump had formed in her throat, making it difficult to speak. “But I haven’t thought it all out. Give me time, Derek. Just a little time. If I can find a way—” Emotion choked her. She knew perfectly well that, absent a miracle, no way would present itself.

  His expression was both grave and tender. “You don’t believe there is a way.”

  Cynthia shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  He pulled her to him with one arm, turning her to face the sky, and held her close. “Do you see those stars out there?” he murmured, nuzzling her ear. She smiled, shivering at the touch of his mouth, and nodded. “One of them is my lucky star.”

  Amusement brought her voice back. “Which one?”

  “That, I have never been able to determine. But one of them most certainly is.”

  He sounded so confident. Cynthia had to laugh. “It seems a bit chancy to rely upon an unknown star.”

  “It has never yet let me down.”

  She turned her face up to his, smiling in spite of her heartache. “I have never had a lucky star. Do you think you could share yours with me?”

  “Stand closer,” he suggested, “where it can shine on both of us at once.”

  She was already touching him, but she nestled closer somehow, fitting herself snugly against his body. “Like this?”

  “Closer,” he whispered. His face was so near hers, it looked out of focus.

  Smiling, she let her eyes drift shut. “It must be shining on me now,” she murmured. “I can feel it. Like the sun.”

  His lips felt hot against her chilled skin as he trailed them softly across her cheekbone. “Trust me, love,” he murmured. “A lucky star is better than money in the bank.”

  I hope so, she thought wistfully, praying he was right. Then his lips took hers and she stopped thinking at all.

  Chapter 14

  Lady Ballymere stood, half hidden behind a tall column, and watched her daughter walk composedly down the stairs with Mr. Whittaker. Cold rage seized her. Cynthia’s demeanor was completely unruffled, but Lady Ballymere was no fool. Her sharp eyes took in the slight disarrangement of Cynthia’s hair and the fact that her pearls no longer laid quite so neatly against her collarbone. Mr. Whittaker’s cravat was a bit askew, as well. The tell-tale signs might be invisible to the casual observer, but Lady Ballymere was no casual observer.

  She had noticed twenty minutes ago that the two of them had gone missing. Heaven only knew how long before that they had actually disappeared. Seeing them together now, and remembering Cynthia’s ridiculous suggestion that she be allowed to set her cap for Mr. Whittaker, Lady Ballymere felt almost sick with anger. She had never before known Cynthia’s head to be turned by a handsome face, but the dreaded day had evidently arrived.

  Her hands had clenched into fists so tight that, even through her gloves, her nails were digging grooves into her palms. She made a conscious effort to relax, breathing deeply to ease the tension in her muscles. Cynthia was not the only member of the Fitzwilliam family who could hide her emotions beneath a bland exterior. Lady Ballymere would smile, and behave pleasantly, and bide her time while she thought of a plan. For this budding romance, or whatever it was, must be killed.

  She gave no sign that she had noticed anything untoward. She was civil to Mr. Whittaker and affectionate with Cynthia, and even allowed her daughter to sit across from him again during the return to Oldham Park—although it stuck in her craw to permit it. She wanted to move cautiously. There was nothing more certain to go awry than blatant attempts to keep them apart. She even pretended to believe Cynthia, the next morning, when Cynthia told her that she and Mr. Ellsworth were going to explore Saddleworth Moor on horseback—in company with Hannah and Mr. Whittaker.

  Lady Ballymere perceived the true nature of this outing at once, but forced herself to smile and acquiesce, pretending she was well-pleased with the plan. Sick at heart, she even watched the foursome depart, riding sedately down the drive with Cynthia’s mount beside Mr. Ellsworth’s and Hannah bringing up the rear with Mr. Whittaker, just as Cynthia had led her to believe it would be. She knew, of course, that the instant they were out of sight of the house, the party would regroup.

  She returned to her rooms. There she paced restlessly, thinking. No matter which way she looked at the problem, the best solution to all their difficulties was Cynthia’s marriage to John Ellsworth. She simply must bring it about. He was young and rich and kind and, frankly, rather simple—all advantages in a husband. And a swift betrothal effected here would save the expense of yet another London Season, a Season the Fitzwilliams could ill afford.

  A plan occurred to her. She halted her pacing, pressing her fingertips to her mouth as she turned it over in her mind. Oh, it was devious—actually underhanded, if truth be told. But would it work? If so, the end would clearly justify the means. She was prepared, at this stage of the game, to overlook moral qualms. Decency wouldn’t pay the bills. What good was honor when the wolf was at the door?

  No, there was no point in being squeamish. There was only one important question, only one she need consider at all. She stood frozen in her tracks, her mind working feverishly on that one, overriding question.

  Would it work?

  * * *

  Cynthia was wearing that cranberry-colored riding habit again. She looked good enough to eat. The sunlight sparkled in her hair, strands of which had worked themselves loose in the fresh wind and were now flying about her face like glittering ribbons. Her cheeks were rosy. Her face glowed with laughter. Every time he looked at her, Derek felt his spirit soar in a kind of amazed delirium. When she smiled at him, which was frequently, he thought his heart might burst and kill him on the spot. Could a man die of love? If not, and he survived this day, he would never forget it.

  By tacit agreement, they soon left Hannah and Mr. Ellsworth in the dust. Hannah was a nervous rider, and too unskilled to leave the bri
dle path. Ellsworth seemed glad to have an excuse not to pit his horsemanship against Derek’s; he accepted, with alacrity, the role of Hannah’s companion. In contrast, Cynthia rose instantly to Derek’s challenge, her eyes flashing with the delight of competition. She had willingly raced him across the moor—and she had really raced him, neck or nothing, lying nearly flat against her horse’s mane and heedless of danger. In fact, she had dashed near won.

  He pulled Max up barely a second before Cynthia arrived at the rock formation they had designated as the finish line. She pulled her own mount to a stop, laughing and crying out, “Unfair!” Her mare skidded slightly in the mud and danced beneath her, snorting and tossing her head. Cynthia patted the animal’s neck and held her together with no fuss and seemingly no effort, still laughing. “Max knows you too well. This poor little mare doesn’t trust me yet. If I were riding my Westwind, I would have given you a race. You must come to Ballymere one day and give me a rematch.”

  “Gladly! But you gave me a race today, all right and tight.” He grinned at her in undisguised admiration. “Lady Cynthia, you are a marvel. I hesitate to admit this, but honesty demands it. You are the first female who has ever raced me this well. Most ladies have too much regard for life and limb—and an equal anxiety about their hair.”

  “Pho! Who cares for that?” She tossed her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Another few strands fell out of her coiffure and danced ecstatically in the wind. “I wouldn’t have missed that gallop for the world.”

  “Where is your hat?”

  She gave an airy wave. “Back there somewhere. With the pins still in it, I hope. Did you expect me to check my horse for such a trifle?”

  “Lud, no. What’s a hat, when all’s said and done? A good gallop is much more important.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  He had never seen her appear so relaxed. They turned their horses and started leisurely back the way they had come, eyes peeled for Cynthia’s hat among the scrubby vegetation that covered the moor. She sat beautifully in the saddle, her posture graceful and natural. The glint of the sun on her platinum hair, bared to the blazing light, was nearly blinding. The tendrils that had escaped their confines streamed like gold spun on the wind. To Derek, it was like riding beside a goddess.