His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

Genres: Historical Fiction; Holiday books; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Blame It On The Mistletoe. . . When Major Lucas Stanton inherited his earldom, he never dreamed his property would include the previous earl's granddaughter. Phoebe Linville is a sparkling American beauty, yes, but with a talent for getting into trouble. Witness the compromising position that forced them into wedlock. Whisked away to Mistletoe Manor, his country estate, it isn't long before she is challenging his rules--and surprising him in and out of bed. . . Phoebe has no intention of bowing to Lucas's stubbornness even though he offers all that she wants. His kisses and unexpected warmth are enticing, but Phoebe is determined to show the earl of Merritt what real love is all about. And if that takes twelve nights of delicious seduction by a roaring fire, she's more than willing to reveal her gifts very slowly. . . "The perfect holiday treat!" --Kieran Kramer "Kelly combines wit, innocent sensuality, and seduction in this tale of a forced marriage between a beautiful plain-speaking pacifist Quaker and a handsome war hero who inherits a rundown earldom." ~Publishers Weekly Praise for Vanessa Kelly and My Favorite Countess "In her latest sublimely sensual Regency historical, Kelly delivers wit, a tightly knit plot, a refreshingly different hero, and a realistically complicated heroine, who could give Scarlett O'Hara a good run for her money." -- Booklist (starred review)

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 401

Sample

A quiet knock sounded on Phoebe’s bedroom door. Straining to open her eyes, she tried to clear the fog of exhaustion and lingering illness from her brain. When the maid entered the room, holding a tea tray in her sturdy hands, Phoebe pulled herself upright and stifled a yawn.

“Good morning, ah . . .”

“It’s Agatha, miss. Mrs. Poole asks, please, that you step downstairs to the drawing room. She sent me to help you dress.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s gone on nine o’clock, miss,” Agatha said as she deposited the tray on a dressing table.

Phoebe gaped at her, and then her brain lurched into function. She struggled out from under the covers, thumping onto the floor to search for her slippers.

“Why did she not send to wake me earlier? The morning is half over!”

As soon as they arrived in London last night, Phoebe had wanted to dash off a note to her grandfather’s town house. But their hostess, Mrs. Poole, had deemed it too late. Almost dead on her feet from the grueling journey up from the coast, Phoebe had capitulated. With the maid’s help, she had crawled into the blessedly clean and comfortable bed in the small guest room before falling into a heavy sleep, only awakening just now to Agatha’s knock.

Not that she felt much better for her night’s rest—not after the nightmare voyage from America. The winds had pushed against them the entire way, lengthening the crossing to almost seven weeks instead of three. Storm after storm pummeled them, and sickness had hit both crew and passengers hard. Phoebe had held out longer than most, but finally succumbed the week before they docked. Even now, her legs still wobbled and her temples throbbed with a headache.

She stumbled to the washbasin and splashed water on her face.

Agatha opened Phoebe’s trunk and started sifting through it, her pleasant face registering dismay. “Lord, miss. Who packed your clothes? Everything’s a right mess.”

Phoebe grimaced. She’d been too ill to properly repack her trunk before leaving the ship. Fortunately, she did have one clean dress for her visit to Grandfather. She had hung it in the wardrobe, the only unpacking she had managed before dropping into bed.

“Take the one from the wardrobe,” she said as she stepped behind the screen to pull off her night rail.

A few moments later, Agatha joined her behind the screen, gown in hand. She didn’t look any more impressed than she had when she looked through Phoebe’s trunk.

“Miss, this dress is clean but it could use a good press. It’ll only take me a few minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“It does not matter. I am sure my grandfather will not care, and I must be on my way as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid not, miss, seeing as one of your relatives is waiting for you downstairs. That’s why Mrs. Poole sent me to wake you.”

Phoebe gaped at the maid. “My grandfather is here?” She felt breathless, even though her stays were barely laced up. “Mrs. Tanner must have sent a note around.”

“It ain’t your grandfather, miss, I can tell you that,” Agatha said, turning her around to finish lacing the stays. “The man downstairs is no more than forty, and a fine-looking fellow he is, too. And he’s dressed like a proper lord.”

Phoebe’s mind went blank. Her grandfather had never mentioned anyone like that in his letters. “Did he say who he was?”

“I’m sure, but Mrs. Poole didn’t tell me. Miss, let me help you with your gown, and then you can have a nice cup of tea while I fix your hair.”

Anxiety surged in a hot rush through her veins, making her dizzy. Why had Grandfather not come himself to fetch her? Was he ill?

Taking a deep breath, Phoebe forced her head to clear. “No. I have to see this man right away.”

Agatha took her by the arm and steered her to the dressing table. “He’ll wait. If you don’t have something to drink, you’ll keel right over. Now, have your tea while I brush your hair.”

A half cup of tea later, Agatha grimaced and finally let Phoebe rise from the dressing table. “You won’t be winning any prizes with that hair, miss, but I’ll take you down.”

The maid led her downstairs and through a simply ornamented entrance hall to the door of the drawing room. “There, miss. They’re waiting for you.”

Phoebe nodded, suddenly so nervous her knees shook. She silently ordered the starch back into her muscles and opened the door. What she saw brought her up short.

Mrs. Tanner sat in a low chair by the fireplace. A very tall, broad-shouldered man stood opposite her, on the other side of the chimneypiece. He was very handsome—quite the handsomest man Phoebe had ever seen. And when his attention, narrowed and intense, jumped to her, it struck her with an almost physical force.

Alarm skittered along her nerves. Absurdly, she had the impulse to back out of the room as quickly as she could.

Silly. Why be afraid of someone you have never met? But as they stared at each other, she sensed some ill-defined peril, and she instinctively knew something dreadful was upon her.

Mrs. Tanner rose from her seat, momentarily splintering the tension. “Phoebe, please come in. This is a member of thy grandfather’s family, Major Lucas Stanton, come to welcome thee to London.”

Phoebe slowly entered the room, trying to shake the notion that she was approaching something awful and irrevocable. The guarded expression on Mrs. Tanner’s face did nothing to dispel that impression.

Major Stanton took a step forward, looming—and looming seemed the only correct description—over her. He was broad across the chest and shoulders, and every part of him looked hard and muscular. Phoebe did not make a habit of dissecting the male figure, but he wore a well-tailored, dark coat, pale, skin-tight breeches, and tall leather boots, all of which showed off every line of his impressive physique. Just looking at that brawny, masculine strength made her body hum with tension.

Cheeks flushing, she fixed her gaze on his face. She found it disconcerting, too, since his hard-cut, impassive features served as a stark contrast to eyes the color of a stormy sea. The emotions she thought she perceived in their depths struck her as dangerous as the gales that had bedeviled her trip across the Atlantic.

“Major Stanton,” said Mrs. Tanner, “this is Miss Phoebe Linville.”

Phoebe stared up at him a moment longer, transfixed by his slashing cheekbones and the granite line of his jaw. All the men she knew were farmers and shopkeepers, simple men who dressed plainly and looked nothing like this man. Next to them, he resembled . . . well, she did not know what. But she knew she had never met anyone like him, though they had yet to exchange even a simple greeting.

His gaze, somber and wary, turned to one of puzzlement, jolting her into motion. The poor man must think she was a wordless half-wit.

Though Quakers generally made it a point not to bow or curtsy before those of higher station, she dipped low, ignoring Mrs. Tanner’s tsk of disapproval. Why risk offending the first relative coming to greet her? “Major Stanton, thank you for coming to meet me. It was kind of you to do so,” she said, offering her hand in greeting.

His big hand closed around hers and he lifted it to his lips, brushing a lingering kiss across her sensitive skin. The breath seized in her throat. Quaker men did not go around kissing hands, much less making a show of it.

Fortunately, he returned her hand, and her lungs recommenced function.

“Phoebe,” said Mrs. Tanner, sounding horrified, “please sit.”

Her friend nudged her to a sturdy, brown-colored sofa next to the fireplace. With a severe nod, Mrs. Tanner indicated to the major that he should take the seat facing them. He did not bother to repress a low sigh as he carefully settled on a small caned chair that gave an alarming creak in response. The sofa would have been a more appropriate choice for his large frame, but Mrs. Tanner clearly intended to punish him for his forward behavior.

“Major Stanton, how is my grandfather?” Phoebe asked impulsively. “Did he ask you to fetch me?”

The swift glance he exchanged with Mrs. Tanner brought Phoebe’s anxiety rushing back. Its choke hold tightened when the older woman reached over and took her hand in a comforting clasp. “Phoebe, thee must prepare for unfortunate news. But I ask thee to remember that the Father’s hand is in all things, and that He will watch over thee always.”

Fear swept through her. “What are you talking about?”

When Mrs. Tanner hesitated, Phoebe shook off her restraining hand and jumped up. The major rose immediately.

“Please, sir,” she implored. “Take me to my grandfather.”

Compassion softened the grim lines of his face. He struck her as a man not much given to that tender emotion, so whatever the cause, it must be dire.

He stepped closer, reaching out to take her hand in a gentle grip. “Miss Linville, you must sit.” He had a firm, deep voice that held a compelling note of authority. As it washed over her, she had to resist the impulse to automatically obey. He smiled, as if to soothe her, and one finger stroked lightly over the back of her hand. “I’m certain you should have a cup of tea before we have any further discussion.”

Unnerved by his touch, she pulled her hand away. “I do not want a cup of tea. I want you to tell me about my grandfather.”

He ran a thoughtful gaze over her face, as if taking her measure. “Very well. Miss Linville, it grieves me to inform you that your grandfather—my great-uncle, Lord Merritt—died from an infection some weeks ago. I didn’t write to you, since my letter would not have arrived prior to your departure. I hope you will believe I would have spared you this trip, if it was at all possible.”

A strange buzzing noise arose in her ears, then her knees buckled and she sank onto the sofa. Her heart throbbed in her chest, straining against the shock. For a terrible moment, she could not draw a breath.

Mrs. Tanner gasped her name and Major Stanton let out a low curse. Swiftly, he came down on one knee before her and gripped her shoulders, holding her steady. Until he touched her, Phoebe had not realized she needed someone to keep her upright.

“Hold her while I get some water,” exclaimed Mrs. Tanner as she rushed from the room.

“Steady on, Miss Linville,” Major Stanton murmured in her ear. “Just lean against me.”

Coming up onto the sofa, he eased her into his embrace, resting her head against his broad chest. As if controlled by some unseen force, her eyelids fluttered shut as, for the first time in her life, she found herself in the arms of a man other than her brother or father. Her morals registered a faint objection, but her body wanted nothing other than to collapse against that solid wall, her cheek nestling comfortably against the soft wool fabric of his coat. Tumult swirled in her brain, but his gentle embrace staved off the screeching panic that hovered at the edge of thought.

The door opened. Footsteps hurried across the floorboards as Mrs. Tanner rustled up to them with a glass of water in her hand. “Major, thee must allow me to tend to Miss Linville. Please let her sit up.”

Phoebe flinched at the note of censure in her friend’s voice. Mrs. Tanner had every right to be offended because Phoebe had no business clinging to a man, no matter what the circumstances. But she could not help shrinking farther into his embrace. Her stunned brain had latched on to the idea that as long as she remained in his arms she would be safe, that all the hurtful things in the world could not harm her.

Ridiculous, whispered the voice of reason. She started to pull away, but Major Stanton gently adjusted his hold to keep her close. Phoebe had to bite down on the whimper of relief that almost escaped her lips.

“I assure you, Mrs. Tanner,” he said, “I will release my cousin as soon as I know she won’t keel over in a dead faint.”

Phoebe frowned. She never fainted. And now that her wits were slowly returning, she felt the first flush of humiliation that she had allowed a perfect stranger to hold her so intimately. Pushing herself upright, she began to withdraw from his arms. For a second he resisted, keeping her fast in his embrace. And, for a second, she did not want him to let go.

Finally, he allowed it.

“Thank you, Major,” she managed, feeling oddly winded. The strange emotions swirling through her resulted, no doubt, from shock. They could not possibly have anything to do with the man who had captured her in an embrace that somehow felt more like a possession than support.

The major’s smoky gaze narrowed with skepticism, likely fostered by the squeaky tremor in her voice, but he moved back to his chair.

Mrs. Tanner took his place and handed her the glass of water. Phoebe gave her a faltering smile, sipping slowly as she tried to bring her rioting emotions under control. She wanted to weep with grief for her grandfather, but she kept her tears in check. When she could be private again, she would give way to the sadness wrenching her heart. But at this moment she needed to understand what would happen next. And however unprepared she was, she had decisions to make, ones that already caused her heart to sink.

She sat up straight, meeting Major Stanton’s gaze with as much equanimity as she could muster. His expression revealed nothing other than a calm readiness to respond to whatever he might be called upon to do. Phoebe knew nothing of military men or matters, but she could well believe that this hard-eyed man across from her could handle any situation without turning a hair. Even one as awkward and dreadful as this.

Although he did study her with a caution suggesting he thought she might faint after all.

“I assure you, Major,” she said, “I will not faint. I am yet recovering from an illness contracted on shipboard and have not regained my full strength.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Perhaps you should retire to your room. We could finish this discussion later if you find it too distressing.”

Irritation began to edge out her shock. “I would have to be a fool not to be distressed by such news. That does not mean I am incapable of having a rational conversation.”

Mrs. Tanner sighed, but the major appeared unoffended by her sharp words. In fact, he seemed to bite back a smile, which Phoebe found more than a little surprising.

And annoying.

“If you are satisfied I will not keel over, perhaps you might tell me what happened to my grandfather,” she said in a tight voice.

The glint of humor in his eyes vanished. “Of course. Lord Merritt died nine weeks ago. As I said, I knew a letter would not reach you in time to prevent your sailing. Your grandfather would not have wanted that, in any event.”

She bit her lip to hold back a sudden welling of tears. All these weeks had passed and she had assumed her grandfather was alive. All these weeks she had thought of him, imagining what he looked like, what he would say to her when they finally met. She had imagined a future of memories, built on the foundation of their shared loved for Elspeth Linville, her dear mother and Lord Merritt’s only daughter. In the worst of the voyage, when she lay ill in her bunk, the image of her grandfather’s joy at their reunion had kept her spirits buoyant.

But all that time, her grandfather had been dead. She had been alone for weeks. All hope of home, of family—of her family—had been extinguished forever.

She sat quietly, blinking her eyes and refusing to cry in front of the handsome stranger who had shattered her world.

He and Mrs. Tanner waited patiently until she regained her voice. “I am grieved to be robbed of the chance to have known my grandfather. I wanted to be with him more than all else.”

Major Stanton nodded. “He shared that desire. My great-uncle was most concerned for your well-being after his death. The Stantons are your family now, and Lord Merritt’s express wish was that you remain here with them. With us,” he corrected with a slight frown.

She stared at him, not comprehending. “Are you saying my grandfather wished me to remain in England with strangers who could only be considered distant relations?”

His brows arched with an arrogant tilt. “Your family will not be strangers for long, Miss Linville, and your mother was never considered a distant relation. I am charged by General Stanton, the head of the family, to bring you to him and Lady Stanton as soon as can be arranged. I assure you there is no safer place for you than under his protection.”

Mrs. Tanner made a sharp intervention. “That will not be necessary, Major Stanton. Miss Linville will never be without protection. Her father’s family in New Jersey will be eager for her to return, and I will escort her back to her home. Her real home.”

Phoebe looked at her friend’s determined expression, and the despair she had been holding off finally gripped her. Of course she must return to America. Her brother would wish it, and even though she loathed the idea of spending the rest of her life as his dependent, there was no other choice. No matter what her grandfather had wished for her, she could not throw herself on the mercy of total strangers, London aristocrats who knew nothing of her and her way of life.

Major Stanton’s eyes narrowed with a look of stubborn determination. “I think we can agree, Mrs. Tanner, that Lord Merritt’s last wishes for his granddaughter should take precedence over those of a half brother. And from what Lord Merritt communicated to me before he died, there is little Mr. Linville could offer his sister that could not be bettered by her family in England.”

Phoebe opened her mouth in automatic defense of George, but Mrs. Tanner squeezed her arm in warning. “Phoebe is not without resources,” she said. “Her father left her a modest income—”

“Modest being the operative word,” he replied sarcastically.

Mrs. Tanner’s lips thinned. “Her brother is well able to take care of her. Phoebe will live in peace and comfort, well removed from the frivolous life that would no doubt be forced upon her by thy relatives.”

The major bristled at the insult, but Phoebe jumped in before he could respond. “Major, I thank you for your concern, but my friend is correct. There is no longer any reason for me to remain in England. I will be happy to visit with the Stantons, but I will be returning to America with Mrs. Tanner.”

Just saying the words opened a well of desperation inside, but she clamped down hard. She would only shame herself and offend God by railing against what could not be changed. If only it did not feel so much like her own life was coming to an end, along with her grandfather’s.

Major Stanton switched his focus from Mrs. Tanner to Phoebe and she stiffened, resenting his skeptical examination. He seemed to be peering right past her pitiful defenses to what she struggled to hide. “Is that what you really want? To return to America?”

She started to say yes, but could not bring the lie to her lips. Her father had always taught her to reject falsehood, but neither could she bring herself to tell the truth. Not to this man. “I do have a life in America, sir.”

“Is that so?” he asked. “What exactly will you do?”

She recalled her dreary existence in her brother’s household, and latched on to the one thing that gave it meaning. “I will help care for my brother’s children.”

“Ah. So, you will be the spinster aunt, dwindling into obscurity. Is that truly all the life you wish for?”

Her right hand balled into a fist as resentment brought a hot flush to her cheeks. Sharp words sprang to her tongue, but she bit them back. Major Stanton clearly possessed a knack for making the most gentle of souls—which did not include her—lose his temper.

Relaxing her hand, she tried to remember that he was genuinely concerned for her, however poorly he might express it. “I must trust that eventually my path will become clear. In truth, sir, it matters little what I might desire. I have no choice but to return to my family. I know God will provide for my safety and comfort.”

There. The decision was made. She had accepted her fate with good grace, and would prepare to return home. She glanced at Mrs. Tanner, seeking support. All she wanted now was to retreat to her room and mourn her grandfather—and the death of all her dreams—in peace.

Mrs. Tanner gave her a tiny nod. “Thee has made a generous offer,” she said, addressing the major, “but Phoebe already has a family who will protect her. Now that her grandfather is dead, it makes little sense for her to remain in London”—she raised her eyebrows in a pointed fashion—“with strangers.”

Major Stanton leaned forward to dispute the point, but Mrs. Tanner held up a restraining hand. “Besides, she is young and it would be a mistake to assume she will never marry. Thee cannot know such a thing.”

Mortified, Phoebe dropped her gaze to the floor. Her, marry? Not likely. Only two men had ever offered, each much older than she. Much to her brother’s dismay, Phoebe had refused to marry either one. Even worse, at least from George’s point of view, her unconventional upbringing had tainted her in the eyes of almost every man in their Quaker fellowship.

A fraught silence hung in the room, one that neither her friend nor the major seemed inclined to break. Finally, Phoebe lifted her head and met his gaze. He studied her calmly, as if she were a slightly vexing puzzle to be solved. Then he seemed to reach a decision.

“Mrs. Tanner, I would be grateful if you would give me a few minutes alone with my cousin.”

Phoebe gaped at him, alarm making her heart flutter. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with this intimidating, hard-eyed soldier. A man who would no doubt start handing down orders the minute they were alone.

She made a slight, frantic shake of her head in her chaperone’s direction. Unfortunately, Mrs. Tanner’s attention was directed entirely at Major Stanton. “I wonder why thee would need to see my friend alone, sir.”

The contours of Major Stanton’s face remained unchanged, but Phoebe sensed impatience in every line of his muscular physique.

“I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Tanner. I give you my word that your charge is safe with me. But my uncle left private instructions for Miss Linville and I’m loath to discuss them with anyone but her.”

His compelling gaze locked with Mrs. Tanner’s as they took each other’s measure, not as enemies but surely not as friends. Then he seemed to let go of some troubling notion that had stood like a bulwark in his mind, and his face relaxed into a smile. A charming smile, Phoebe noted with surprise, one so engaging and warm she felt something inside her give way, too.

Mrs. Tanner, as mature as she was, was obviously not immune to such masculine charm, either. She cast a glance at Phoebe and then inclined her head in a surprisingly gracious nod. “Very well. I see no harm in leaving thee alone with Miss Linville for a few minutes. But I would ask thee to remember that she has suffered a terrible shock. Nor has she recovered completely from the illness that struck her on the crossing.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. They had all suffered on board the ship, and Mrs. Tanner even worse than the rest of them. In fact, Phoebe had nursed her and several other women and children through the depths of the sickness before falling ill herself. Still, Mrs. Tanner, like most of the people in Phoebe’s life, too often insisted on treating her as little better than a helpless child.

Major Stanton placed his hand over his heart, as if making a vow. “You have my word that I will do my best not to upset Miss Linville. Her well-being is more important to me than anything else.”

“But, surely—” Phoebe began.

His intent gaze shifted to her again, silencing the protest on her lips. Some invisible force arced between them, and Phoebe’s breath snagged in her throat. How could eyes that studied her with such cool regard make her feel so . . . hot? As if he wanted something from her that was both unknown and forbidden.

That he did want something she felt certain. And some inner sense told her that even if she was not prepared to give it, Major Stanton was the kind of man who would take it anyway.

The door closed, leaving Phoebe alone with her newly found relative. She supposed they were cousins of a sort, although she could hardly think of him that way. A cousin was a comfortable sort of creature—family, but without all the loving complications and tender hardships imposed by mothers and fathers, or even half brothers and sisters-in-law.

But there was nothing easy about Major Stanton. Too big and too worldly, he had an arrogant cast to his handsome face and soldier’s body. And despite his polished manners and fine clothes, she sensed a restless temper in him—one tightly leashed, but never far from the surface.

She recognized that restless temper because it lived inside her, too. It was a feeling she had fought all her life to repress. But she suspected the major had it in abundance, and it unnerved her.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak privately,” he said, not sounding intimidating at the moment.

Her fluttering nerves settled a bit. “You left me little choice, Major. I am surprised Mrs. Tanner succumbed so readily to your town manners and worldly charm.”

His jaw slackened, and she felt a guilty tingle of satisfaction. Then his eyes sparked with amusement. “You surprise me, Miss Linville. And here I was thinking you nothing more than a meek little Quaker from the country.”

She bit the inside of her lip, resisting the temptation to bristle at his playful jab. “I may have been raised in a Quaker household,” she finally said, “but you will find I am no rustic from New Jersey. My father was a well-educated man, and my mother had several Seasons in London before she married. Between them, I believe my education to be as accomplished as that of any English girl of good family.”

“Probably better,” he said, his eyes retaining a hint of laughter. “But I stand corrected. I will not make the same mistake twice.”

She nodded, then asked him the question that had been preying on her mind for some minutes. “Major, before you tell me what my grandfather wished me to hear, could you explain why he asked you to impart this information? What is your exact relation to him, and to me?”

He looked rueful. “It seems I owe you yet another apology. I should have explained that right off.”

Phoebe liked that he apologized to her so freely, unlike many men—even some Quakers. Major Stanton appeared not to have any such false pride, and it made him seem less overwhelming, at least for now.

“I am your cousin, Miss Linville, although removed by several degrees. Our grandfathers share a grandfather on the Stanton side.”

He paused, and a black scowl fleetingly crossed his features. She shivered as the engaging man who sat before her became once more the grim, hard-eyed stranger of their initial encounter. What had caused the change?

“As you know,” he continued in a carefully neutral voice, “your grandfather, Lord Merritt, had only two children, your mother and her brother, Robert. Your Uncle Robert died two years ago, leaving your grandfather without a direct heir.”

She nodded. “He wrote several months after that sad event, asking me to travel to England. I was all that remained of his immediate family, and he believed it was right to return home to him.”

Home. The word floated through her mind, teasing her with its elusive promise of security.

She clamped her lips shut, holding back the swell of grief. If only she had ignored her brother’s attempts to hold her back, which had delayed her departure for months. She should have taken the packet to England as soon as she received her grandfather’s first letter.

Major Stanton nodded. “He told me that. He also told me he regretted nothing more than his estrangement from your mother, which he blamed entirely on himself. His greatest wish was to see you before he died, and your name was the last word he spoke on this earth.”

A confusing tangle of emotions welled up in Phoebe’s chest, squeezing so hard she hunched her shoulders against it. She fought it, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. When a few unwelcome tears leaked from her eyes, Major Stanton rose from his seat and moved to sit next to her. Startled, she edged away until she hit the arm of the sofa. It could not be appropriate for him to sit so close with no companion or chaperone in the room.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in a kind voice. “I regret distressing you, but I thought you would want to know exactly how Lord Merritt felt about you, and about your mother.”

He extracted a handkerchief from some mysterious inner pocket and handed it to her. She took it with a grateful, half-suppressed sob and carefully blotted her cheeks. The snowy white fabric felt soft against her skin, and so much finer than the prosaic cotton squares she usually carried in her pocket. His had a cool, silky texture, and it reminded her of a beautiful old scarf her mother had once owned.

She dabbed her cheeks one more time but when she tried to return his handkerchief, he pressed it into her hands.

“I thank you for telling me,” she said, touched by his compassion. “You must excuse me. It is simply the effects of that wretched voyage that make me act so foolishly.”

He reached over and took her han