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  Pain moved in Derek’s heart. He stared woodenly out the small window carved into the coach’s door. Lord Stokesdown was right. Every instinct Derek had was screaming that it could not be true—but it was. What her reasons were, he could not fathom…but, in the end, it mattered not a jot what her reasons were. She had cut the acquaintance. There was no more to be said. Once a lady had done that, only a churl would pursue her. A gentleman must bow out of her life and not trouble her again. Those were the rules.

  “I shall endeavor to keep my chin up, sir,” he said, mustering his pride. “After all, I scarcely knew her. And whatever the old wives may say, people don’t die of broken hearts.”

  But he soon came to think that if they did, he would even now be stretched out in the plot reserved for him at Crosby Hall.

  His sufferings over the next interminable days were intense…but silent. He owed that much to his employer. And besides, a man had to keep his self-respect. He said nothing and forced himself to appear cheerful, but his health soon began to deteriorate. The difficulty was that nothing interested him, including food. And sleep was well-nigh impossible. His mind raced over the same tired ground, night after night, grappling with unanswerable questions. Dark circles formed beneath his eyes. His skin took on an unhealthy pallor. He began to look haggard, and his clothing seemed to be growing looser.

  Fortunately, before there was time for him to fall into the decline Lord Stokesdown had warned him of, an end to his grief arrived. It was printed for all to see, in the pages of the Morning Post. Derek was at his desk, composing a letter to the Prime Minister, when Lord Stokesdown walked in, opened the newspaper to the page in question, and silently tossed it down before him.

  The announcement seemed to leap off the page and shout itself inside his head. He stared dumbly at it. He read it several times over. At first he did not believe what he was seeing. Then he took a deep, ragged breath, and—through an enormous force of will—believed it.

  And sheer, cold fury swept through him in a bracing tide, wiping his misery away.

  Cynthia was engaged. And the man she had agreed to marry was Sir James Filey.

  Chapter 3

  March, 1806

  Derek reached down and gave his horse’s neck a reassuring pat. “Almost there, Max,” he told the big gelding. “You’ll sleep in a duke’s stables tonight. What d’you think of that, eh?”

  Max blew softly through his enormous nostrils and nodded his head. Derek chuckled. “Right you are. I’ll see that His Grace’s best oats are saved for you. You deserve them, my friend.”

  It had been a long journey on horseback from Crosby Hall to the Duke of Oldham’s estate near Saddleworth Moor. The chill had been penetrating, and there had been little in the scenery to divert him; winter’s drab palette of brown, gray and white had not yet yielded to the rainbow hues of springtime. Still, he did not regret his decision to ride Max rather than make the trip boxed into a stuffy coach. Winter had been harsh this year, and the roads were in sad shape. He had made better time, riding, than he would have in a coach. And time was of the essence.

  His sister Natalie, the person he loved best in the world, was about to deliver her second child. It had been a difficult pregnancy, she was far from home, and she was feeling low. That had been enough to bring Derek to her side as swiftly as Max would carry him. He had tossed her letter aside the instant he had finished reading it, and taken the stairs two steps at a time in his haste to pack. Crosby Hall could muddle along without him for a few weeks. Natalie needed him.

  It seemed ridiculous to have to travel so far to reach her, when she and her husband were Derek’s nearest neighbors. Lord Malcolm’s property, Larkspur, adjoined his land, and their houses were within easy walking distance of each other. But Natalie was not at Larkspur. She had been whisked off to the Chase family seat—again—as soon as her pregnancy had been confirmed. Malcolm’s elder brother, the Marquess of Grafton, had improvidently filled his nursery with daughters…so it was incumbent upon Lord Malcolm Chase, the duke’s second son, to sire a boy. Malcolm’s late wife had given him only a daughter, and, so far, Natalie had done no better. But hopes were high once more, and Malcolm had dutifully brought Natalie to the ducal palace in Lancashire so that the long-awaited male child—should this prove to be he—might be born on the estate he would one day rule.

  Derek judged that he and Max had reached the last five miles of their journey. He slowed the tired animal to a walk, looking around him with interest. Watery sunshine had taken some of the damp out of the air this morning, and breathed a bit of life into the drabness of bare trees and frozen earth. To his right, the distant hills of the Peak District added variety to the landscape. This country would be beautiful in another six weeks, he supposed. And his sister might be giving birth to a child who would one day be its most important resident. A strange thought, that.

  “My nephew, the duke,” muttered Derek, trying the notion on. The absurdity made him grin.

  What strange twists his life had taken in the past couple of years. It was miracle enough to find himself master of Crosby Hall, against all odds; prosperous, independent, and an important man in his community. But also, thanks to his sister’s marriage, he was closely connected to one of the most prominent families in the kingdom. The swiftness of his unexpected rise had been almost dizzying.

  He rounded the bend and saw, not far ahead, a bright splash of cranberry red, brilliant against the muddy colors of winter. It was a lady’s riding habit, and the lady in it was leading a lame horse.

  Since the lady was heading in the same direction as Derek, her back was to him. He ran an appreciative eye over her slim form. She looked well in that habit, he thought. His opinion of the duke’s neighborhood rose a notch. Really, it perked a chap up, knowing that a lady who looked that good in a riding habit might be entering his orbit. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that was blond hair glinting under her hat. He’d always been partial to blondes.

  Then, as if feeling his eyes upon her, she turned and looked at him. For one crazy instant, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Derek almost swore aloud from the shock of it. The lady looked exactly like Cynthia Fitzwilliam.

  Damnation! The lady was Cynthia Fitzwilliam!

  It was fortunate that he was on horseback. Max carried him calmly forward despite the sudden paralysis that seized him. But there was no time to compose himself, no time to recover from the reflexive rage coursing through him, before he pulled even with her and was forced, through common courtesy, to rein Max to a halt. He stared down at her, his jaw set. He could not bring himself to speak.

  Damn her. She was as lovely as ever. A little pale, and her jaw as firmly set as his, but apparently the witch who had troubled his dreams for three years still walked the earth in human form. He had often wondered whether his fevered imagination had embellished the memory. Apparently not. She was exactly as he remembered her, from the impossible blue of her eyes to the soft curve of her lower lip. Every plane of her face was familiar. The way she held her head. The set of her shoulders. The deceptive softness of her skin, which looked like porcelain but felt like…

  God help him.

  The pretty lips parted. She spoke, in a voice that shook only slightly. “You do remember me. I wondered if you would.”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I remember you.” Ten thousand times a day, I remember you. What the devil was she doing, dropped into the wilds of Lancashire like a meteor fallen from the sky?

  “Thank you for stopping, Mr. Whittaker.”

  He hoped his smile didn’t look as bitter as it felt. “I never could resist a damsel in distress.”

  Painful thoughts of their first meeting flashed almost visibly in the air between them, like swords crossing. He could almost hear the jarring clang of steel.

  Cynthia looked away. “It is a noble quality.” She was plainly trying to sound arch, but her voice was barely audible. She cleared her throat and looked back at him. “I would have greeted you with more dig
nity, but my mare has cast a shoe.”

  “So I see.” Then the import of her words hit home. He frowned. “You were expecting to meet me here?”

  She nodded. “I thought it only fair to…to forewarn you. I thought it might be strange for you to walk in and find me at Oldham Park.”

  An indescribable mix of emotions crashed over Derek like a wave. Chief among them were disbelief and horror, but rage, grief and chagrin were discernible as well. Cynthia at Oldham Park! Fate must have a cruel sense of humor, to deal him such a blow.

  His expression must have reflected some of what he felt, for after glancing at his face Cynthia dropped her gaze nervously to the ground. “I thought if you walked in and saw me—if you remembered me at all—you might say something, or—or do something that would betray our…our prior acquaintance. And I thought it would be better if…if you did not. So I rode out to meet you. I did not want my presence to take you by surprise.”

  She peeked at his face once more. Whatever she saw there caused her to look away again. She turned to stroke her mare’s nose, as if unconsciously seeking comfort. “I meant it kindly,” she said defensively.

  When he still said nothing, her cheeks began to turn pink. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I am stopping at Oldham Park as the guest of Lady Hannah Chase. Lord Grafton’s daughter, you know. My mother thought it would be prudent to accept her invitation, at least until the roads clear. When they do, I promise you, we will be off to London for the Season. Please believe me, Mr. Whittaker, I had no idea—that is, I knew that Lord and Lady Malcolm would be there, but I did not know that you…” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed hard, then tried again. “When I learned that Lady Malcolm’s brother was expected to visit, I never dreamed it would be you. I did not know her maiden name, or anything about her. Even when she mentioned her ‘brother Derek,’ I…I thought it was only coincidence. And then I heard them speaking of ‘Mr. Whittaker’ and…” She shook her head helplessly. “All I could do was wait until the morning you were expected, and then ride out to warn you. I was not even sure whether a warning would be necessary, but…but I see that it is. So I’m glad I did.”

  He supposed that once his anger had cooled, he would be glad as well. But he could not bring himself to thank her.

  “We should not keep the horses standing,” he said. His voice sounded perfectly flat. “Hand me your lead rein.”

  She hesitated, then did as he asked. Despite their gloves, she was careful not to touch his hand—a futile gesture, since she would have to do so in a moment. He gathered the reins in his right hand and silently held his left hand out to her. She stared at it, her expression blank.

  “Take my hand, and step on my foot.”

  Comprehension flashed across Cynthia’s face, and with it, dismay. “Oh, I—I couldn’t.”

  He smiled derisively. He had no intention of showing her any extraordinary courtesy. She didn’t deserve it. “What would you like me to do, my lady? Give you my horse, and gallantly walk beside you all the way to Oldham Park? No, thank you. It’s been a long journey, and I’m tired.”

  Color flooded her lovely face. She bit her lip. “Of course. How silly of me.”

  She took a deep breath, then resolutely grasped his hand. As she stepped on his foot, he pulled her neatly up onto the saddle before him. Their movements seemed to synchronize naturally, rendering the difficult maneuver as smooth as if they had rehearsed it a hundred times. But the jolt of touching her again, of having her actually in his arms, was almost more than Derek could bear.

  “Well done,” he said, hiding his pain behind sarcasm. “It’s hard to believe we’ve never even danced together.”

  He felt her stiffen, but she said nothing. He could not see her face. Was she blushing? He doubted it. He doubted if she had the grace to feel shame over her treatment of him. From what he knew of her, Cynthia was rarely moved to feel shame—or, indeed, much of anything.

  He had made it his business, after it was too late, to learn what he could about her. It had been almost an obsession, trying to make sense of what had happened. He had thought that if he understood her, if he found that there had been compelling reasons why she had acted as she did, it would help him achieve some peace of mind. The attempt had failed. He had never made his peace with Cynthia’s rejection. But he had learned to despise her, and that had answered nearly as well. By nursing his anger he had been able to set the incident aside and move on with his life. For that’s all that his association with Cynthia had been: an incident. He would not ruin his life over a girl he had known for less than an hour.

  He had to remind himself of that resolve frequently during the next few minutes.

  Five miles to Oldham Park, he promised himself desperately. Five miles only. He hoped his calculations were wrong and it was less. Much less. At this excruciatingly slow pace, leading a lame horse, sharing a saddle with Cynthia was sheer torture. How long must he hold her like this? An hour? It might kill him.

  The silence between them was louder than thunder. It was deafening. He had been so sure, so absolutely certain, that if he ever saw her again—which he had confidently expected he never would—he would be completely unmoved. He had worked so hard, cultivating his resentment. He had hardened his heart against her, to the point—he thought—where he was, if not completely indifferent to her, at least reliably angry. But the longer she perched on his saddlebow, soft and warm and beautiful, the more difficult it was to hate her.

  He had to despise her. He would lose his mind else. He cast about, striving to find his rage again.

  Finally he thought of something snide enough to say.

  “Is it too late to offer my condolences for the loss of your fiancé?” he inquired, with false politeness. “Apoplexy, wasn’t it? I heard that he died very suddenly, and only a few weeks before the wedding. So tragic.”

  He felt tension ripple through her before she replied. “You, of all men, know exactly how tragic it was for me.” Her voice was low, but he heard every word.

  “On the contrary. I know nothing about it.” He scarcely recognized himself, he sounded so harsh. “I know nothing about you, in fact. Why don’t you tell me how it was?”

  She squared her shoulders. “I accept your condolences,” she said coolly. “Let’s leave it there, shall we?”

  Ah, that was better. Anger whipped through him like a tonic, clearing his head.

  She obviously felt that she owed him no explanations. Very well; he needed none. He knew she had not suddenly, over the course of a week, moved from fearing Sir James to loving him. She had chosen Filey despite her loathing of him, and had agreed to marry him for the coldest of reasons. His investigation, superficial as it had been, had easily uncovered that much.

  Sir James Filey, with all his myriad flaws, had been fabulously wealthy. Cynthia had simply sold herself to the highest bidder. Derek had never had a chance of winning the Frost Fair’s hand, because the Frost Fair’s hand was not winnable. It could only be purchased.

  In fact, the more he thought on it, the more suspicious he became of her presence at Oldham Park. Why would a mercenary mantrap like Cynthia Fitzwilliam waste her time hanging about in a house full of females? The duke’s two sons were married and unavailable. He wouldn’t put it past Cynthia to make a play for the elderly duke, but there would be no profit in that, either; the duchess was in excellent health for her age. Cynthia certainly had not landed on the duke’s doorstep in expectation of Derek’s arrival. For one thing, his visit had been unplanned; it was Natalie’s letter that had brought him. For another, even now, in possession of Crosby Hall, his fortune was not large enough to tempt the likes of Cynthia Fitzwilliam.

  What, then, was her game?

  They finished their journey in silence. His arms ached from the effort to avoid touching her more than strictly necessary, and he’d warrant her back ached from her own efforts along that line. She had sat up, stiff as a poker, rather than rest her body against his.

  When
their little procession wound its way up the last of His Grace’s graveled drive, a groom came running to meet them, concern in every line of his features. Derek pulled his weary horse to a halt and the groom reached up to help Lady Cynthia alight.

  “Lack-a-day, what’s this, then? Did she cast a shoe? I hope you were not hurt, my lady,” exclaimed the groom.

  “No, of course not, Jacobs. I am perfectly well.” She landed on her feet, a bit unsteadily, and straightened her hat. “Thank you.” She did not turn to thank Derek. Instead, she walked toward the house without a backward look.

  Derek climbed stiffly down, tossed the groom a coin, left instructions for Max’s care and stabling, and followed where Cynthia had gone. The few items he had brought with him would be carried up to the house in good time. Meanwhile, he wanted to forget Cynthia and turn his attention where it belonged, to Natalie.

  The enormous foyer was empty when Derek trudged up the steps to Oldham Park’s grand entrance. Cynthia had disappeared. Just as well. He discerned the duke’s butler, a dapper old gent with a kindly mien, hastening toward him down the side passage.

  “Mr. Whittaker, sir! We’ve been expecting you all morning, but I never saw you arrive. I’m sorry to leave you hanging about in the hall.”

  “Not your fault, Cummings; I came by way of the stables. How are you?”

  “Oh, very well, sir, thank you. Well as ever. I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey?” Derek supposed that his expression, whatever it was, spoke volumes. Cummings’s quick eye ran over him and, before he had a chance to reply, the butler’s smile widened with sympathy. “Ah, well—you needn’t answer that. It’s over and done with, at any rate! Might I bring you a little something in the library, sir? Or would you rather I show you to your room?”

  “My room, please. I think a wash would do me as much good as a glass of brandy.”

  “You shall have both,” Cummings promised, leading the way. “We’ve put you in the blue room, sir. I hope it meets with your approval. It’s not as large as the suite you had when last you visited, but we’ve put the Ellsworths in those rooms, so it can’t be helped.”