His Wicked Embrace

by Adrienne Basso

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

ONE KISS IS ALL IT TAKES Damien St. Lawrence, the eighth Earl of Sanders, couldn't believe his eyes. Though the woman standing before him bore a striking resemblance to his late wife, it was her familiar violet eyes that haunted him. . .while stirring his senses to an irresistible longing. FOR A LADY OF VIRTUE Miss Isabella Browning was both frightened and intrigued by her new employer. Rumors and scandalous tales about him were rife, but Isabella was drawn to Damien's tender concern for his children—and the temptation of his arms around her. TO BECOME A MISTRESS OF DESIRE Ignoring her escalating passion for Damien, Isabella threw herself into her work, trying to keep her two unruly charges out of mischief. Yet with each passing day, Isabella found herself succumbing to Damien's spell. But just as her trust grew, Lord Thomas Poole, Damien's brother-in-law arrived, determined to make Isabella his by exposing Damien's dark secrets. Soon the shocking truth about Damien's wife was revealed—a truth that could destroy their love, or prove that it could overcome anything. . .

Release date: October 1, 2012

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 352

Sample

London, England—1820

“You traitorous, lying, deceitful bitch!”

Damien St. Lawrence, eighth Earl of Saunders, shouted his frustration loudly before succumbing completely to his anger and hurling his nearly full goblet of brandy at the portrait hanging over the unlit fireplace. The flying glass hit the painting with remarkable accuracy, considering the lack of light in the room and the earl’s inebriated condition, and he grunted in satisfaction.

Gleefully, Damien watched the shards of glass spray the portrait and several thin streams of brandy slither over the face and form of the stunning woman portrayed on the canvas. Only when the largest piece of broken goblet rolled to a stop on the floor, joining its seven predecessors, did the earl turn his back on the painting.

Damien took several unsteady steps toward the center of the room and literally threw himself into an overstuffed chair, the single piece of furniture in the dimly lit room. With a brooding expression on his darkly handsome face, the earl reached down for the brandy decanter he had left on the floor next to his chair. He lifted the decanter high in the air and eyed its contents, pleased to note it was still half full.

The earl reached down a second time, searching fruitlessly for his brandy goblet. He gave a loud snort when he realized that he had just flung the last remaining glass. Never even considering doing anything as uncivilized as drinking the brandy directly from the bottle, Damien instead bellowed for his servant.

“Jenkins! Jenkins! Get in here at once. And bring more glasses!”

Two young footmen, standing sentry outside the locked doors of the drawing room, exchanged nervous glances.

“I’ll go get the glasses,” the one called Manning volunteered. “You wait here for Jenkins.” Before his companion had a chance to argue, Manning left his post, scrambling quickly toward the back of the house.

The other footman, Banks, even more nervous now that he was left alone, winced noticeably when the booming voice of the earl echoed through the house a second time.

“Is his lordship yelling for more brandy, Banks?” Jenkins inquired in a conversational tone, walking up to the drawing room doors.

“N-not yet, Mr. Jenkins,” Banks stammered, his eyes lighting with obvious relief at the sudden appearance of the older man. “But he is calling for you, sir. And for more glasses.”

Jenkins shook his gray head in understanding. “Been smashing them up pretty good, has he?”

Banks nodded eagerly. “Manning and I have been hearing the glass shattering for the past hour. I suppose it was. the crystal,” Banks responded slowly. “Of course, it might have been the windows breaking.”

“Windows?” Jenkins stated with puzzlement. “I hardly think the earl—”

“I’ve brought the goblets, Mr. Jenkins,” Manning interrupted, calling out to the two men as he rushed into the foyer. The young servant awkwardly juggled five mismatched crystal glasses in his arms while walking quickly across the large hallway. “Sorry I couldn’t find a tray to put them on. Mrs. Forbes has already packed all the plate and flatware. I found these glasses on top of an open crate.”

“Good job, Manning,” Jenkins said with approval. He took the glasses from the lad and gingerly brushed off several pieces of straw. “Now go down to the wine cellar and bring up the rest of the brandy. There shouldn’t be much left.”

“More brandy?” Manning squeaked. “The earl’s already had three bottles brought up since dinner.”

“Aye,” Jenkins agreed wryly. “Not to mention the two bottles of wine he drank for his dinner.”

A telling look passed between the two young footmen. “I suppose his lordship will be f-falling asleep soon?” Banks finally ventured.

“You mean passing out, don’t you, boy?” Jenkins replied with an easy grin. “Well, if he does, it will be the first time I’ve ever seen it happen. And I’ve been with the earl for almost twenty years.”

With that said, Jenkins unlocked and entered the drawing room, leaving the two young footmen once again alone in the foyer, their mouths gaping.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“And a pleasant good evening to you too, your lordship,” Jenkins replied to the husky voice that spoke from the shadows.

The valet stumbled awkwardly into the room, blinking his eyes rapidly in the semidarkness. The only source of light, a single candle on the far side of the room, cast an orb of illumination throughout the vast, empty room. Jenkins suppressed a shiver. In addition to the gloomy darkness, the room was ice cold. “Good God, how can you see anything in here? It’s like a bloody tomb.”

“I prefer it this way,” the earl retorted. Damien sighed and leaned his head back in his chair, restlessly stroking the neck of the brandy decanter he gripped tightly in his left hand. “And since when do you address me as ’your lordship’?”

“Since you stopped acting like one,” Jenkins shot back. “I thought a subtle reminder that you are a peer of the realm might help you sober up.”

The earl laughed loudly and lifted his head toward his servant. “I swear, Jenkins, you have always held a romantic and unrealistic opinion concerning the conduct of the nobility. By drinking myself into a bloody stupor, I am acting precisely as a true earl would. Furthermore, you do not, as I recall, possess one subtle bone in your entire body.” Damien reached out and took the glasses the valet was balancing in his arms. He carefully lined them up on the floor by his feet. “Besides, I believe I am still far too sober for my own good.”

Jenkins made a face at that remark but did not comment. Instead he walked to the mantle and found a hand of candles with the majority of the tapers still a considerable length. The valet located a flint and lit the candles, then bent down over the cold hearth and started building a fire.

“Watch out for the broken glass,” the earl warned, when he saw his servant kneeling in front of the marble fireplace.

“I would have to be a blind man to miss it all,” Jenkins replied smoothly. “ ’Tis everywhere.”

“I think I actually hit her eyes with the last shot,” the earl mused aloud, staring up at the portrait, now brilliantly illuminated. “I do believe, my friend, my aim has improved over the course of the evening.”

“But not your temper,” Jenkins insisted, kicking a jagged fragment of glass out of his way. “Young Banks thought you might be in here smashing the windows.”

The earl paused, his fresh glass of brandy halting in midair. “Smashing windows? How positively barbaric.” The earl shook his head, dismissing the servant’s remark, and took a long swallow of his drink. Reaching down to the floor, he picked up a second goblet. After filling it, Damien silently held it out to his valet.

Jenkins stood up on his feet and accepted the glass with a rueful grin. He looked down at the earl, a man he had known and served for nearly all his adult life. A man whose sense of honor, intelligence, and strength of character were the finest Jenkins had ever encountered. “This behavior will accomplish nothing.”

The earl nodded his head in agreement. “I know, Jenkins. It is a totally irresponsible, perhaps even idiotic way to spend an evening. Yet I am determined to drink every last drop of brandy on the premises. It is my way of bidding a proper farewell to this house.”

“You didn’t have sell the place,” Jenkins insisted, still holding his untouched glass in his hand. “Lord Poole could have waited for his money.”

“Ah, Lord Poole, my illustrious brother-in-law,” the earl drawled, the name bringing a light of anger to Damien’s steely gray eyes. “The only moment of satisfaction I have received from this entire fiasco was being able to throw that bank draft in Poole’s face this afternoon. You have no idea what a relief it is to no longer be in debt to that swine. And his scheming bitch of a sister.”

Jenkins’s eyes traveled automatically toward the portrait of the stunning woman over the fireplace. “It is bad luck to speak ill of the dead,” the valet suggested softly.

“Emmeline is not dead, Jenkins,” the earl insisted vehemently. He tossed off the remainder of his brandy and refilled his glass. “I don’t know what sort of scheme that bitch is playing at this time, but I firmly believe my traitorous little wife is still alive. Somewhere.”

“Her death was an accident,” Jenkins pressed on.

The corners of the earl’s mouth curled up in a mocking grin. “Don’t you mean suicide? Poole is still spewing that nonsense. He was exceedingly disappointed when his loathsome accusations didn’t get a rise out of me this afternoon.”

“It was an accident,” Jenkins repeated firmly, but he could see his comments were being ignored.

Jenkins sighed audibly. He and the earl had already had this conversation more times than Jenkins could recall. Even after two years, Damien could not accept Emmeline’s death. It had all happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. Two years ago, while making a rare appearance at Damien’s country estate, Whatley Grange, Lady Emmeline had gone out riding. Alone. Several hours later, her horse had returned without her.

At first there seemed no great cause for panic. Damien himself led the initial search team. Although their marriage was not a particularly happy one, the earl took his responsibilities toward his wife, the mother of his two children, very seriously. By darkness that night, Emmeline had not yet been found and the atmosphere of The Grange changed to one of fear and trepidation.

Mid-morning of the following day, a gruesome discovery was made at the large lake bordering the edge of the property. Muddy horse prints and torn-up grass led to the possible explanation that Emmeline had been thrown from her horse and accidently landed in the lake. There was no sign she had emerged from the water.

For three weeks the reed-choked waters were dragged. Emmeline’s riding hat, handkerchief, and left riding glove were recovered, giving further credence to the theory that she had somehow fallen into the lake and drowned. Because of the unusual depth of the water and the presence of thick, choking reeds, the local constable finally concluded the countess’s body had been claimed by the depths of the lake and would forever remain on the bottom of its murky floor.

Damien adamantly refused to acknowledge Emmeline’s death. After a few weeks, Emmeline’s brother, Lord Poole, insisted on conducting a funeral service for his dead sister in the village church, but Damien would not attend, nor did he permit his two young children to be present. The earl’s behavior infuriated Lord Poole, and he took it upon himself to spread all kinds of nasty rumors about the earl, hoping to discredit him in society’s eye.

Damien considered Lord Poole’s actions merely a nuisance, having little interest in the activities of the ton. He was more concerned over the fate of his missing wife. Over the next two years, Damien’s search for Emmeline yielded nothing, and yet, although he had no evidence to substantiate his claim, the earl still clung stubbornly to the belief that his wife was alive.

“Almost from the first Emmeline was displeased with our marriage,” Damien said reflectively, remembering with distaste his hasty courtship and wedding. “I know I am to blame for the coldness of our relationship. Emmeline told me often enough how unhappy I made her.”

“As I recall, she did her fair share of spreading unhappiness,” Jenkins insisted.

“Perhaps.” The earl shifted in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Emmeline craved excitement and romance. She longed for a grand passion. She told me once that she wanted an adoring husband, someone to spoil and cosset her. I am afraid I fell far short of the mark.”

Jenkins heard the edge of self-loathing in the earl’s voice and instantly responded. “You did not marry Emmeline because you loved her, Damien.”

“No, Jenkins,” the earl confessed softly. “I married Emmeline for her fortune. And she came to despise me because of it. Yet she knew of my motivation before we were wed. I never made a secret of my need for her money.”

“You had to marry an heiress. It was the only choice left to save The Grange,” Jenkins declared. “It certainly was a shock for both of us coming back from the war and finding your father had lost nearly everything.”

Damien nodded in solemn reminder. “Poor Father. He had an endless streak of bad luck while we were fighting in the Peninsula. It was an almost unbelievable combination of several years of crop failure, falling agricultural prices, unwise investments, and lavish spending habits. At the time of his death, he was on the very brink of financial ruin. Emmeline’s—or more specifically her brother’s—money saved The Grange, Jenkins.”

The valet took a long swallow of his drink. “Their money helped, Damien,” Jenkins insisted. “But it’s your hard work that has saved The Grange from complete ruin.”

Damien modestly knew his servant spoke the truth. He had worked tirelessly to reduce the mortgages and repay the piles of debts his father had incurred before his death. Saving The Grange from the creditors had become an obsession for the earl. Still, Damien often wondered if the personal sacrifice he’d made had been too high a price.

“I’ve never been able to determine precisely why she married me, Jenkins,” Damien continued. “With her looks and fortune, she could had her pick of young bucks of the beau monde. I have come to believe her brother forced Emmeline into accepting my suit, but I cannot think of one single reason Poole would do such a thing.”

“I always suspected Lord Poole had his eye on The Grange,” Jenkins interjected, warming to the subject. He finished his glass and held it out for the earl to replenish.

“Naturally, I feel The Grange is an exceptional estate,” Damien answered as he poured out the brandy. “But there are many other choice pieces of real estate in Harrowgate. Poole is a rich man. He could have bought any number of estates that are far greater in value. There has to be another reason.”

“Perhaps,” Jenkins ventured, “but I doubt we will ever discover what it was.”

The room fell to silence as both men contemplated the idea. A soft knock on the door broke their concentration.

“I believe that will be young Manning with the rest of the brandy,” Jenkins remarked to the earl. “I told him to bring up the remaining stock from the wine cellar. I had a premonition you would attempt to consume it all tonight.”

“You know me too well, Jenkins.” The earl flashed a genuine smile. “When do we have to vacate the house?”

“I informed your solicitor that we would be gone by noon tomorrow.”

“Have you gotten all the staff settled?”

“Just as you requested,” Jenkins responded. He opened the drawing room doors and accepted three bottles of brandy from the footman. Then he quietly shut the door. “Those servants who were not offered positions with the new owners have all been offered jobs at The Grange.”

“Good.” The earl rose from his chair and stretched. “I don’t suppose any of the housemaids will be accompanying us?”

Jenkins shook his head. “Lord Poole’s lies about your reputation are taken very seriously in London. The only reason we were able to keep any female staff at this house was because you came to town so rarely.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the earl insisted, hearing the trace of bitterness in Jenkins’s voice. The valet’s unwavering loyalty could still move the earl, even after all their years together. “Since you have completed your duties so admirably, Jenkins, I was hoping you would keep me company for the remainder of the evening.”

Jenkins smiled regretfully, knowing it would be useless trying to talk the earl out of his plans. Selling the London town house had been a very difficult decision for Damien. And if he was determined to spend the rest of the evening drinking himself into a stupor, no one was going to be able to dissuade him. Lord knew the man had been through enough in the past few days.

“I shall endeavor to keep pace with you, my lord,” Jenkins responded soberly. “I cannot, however, guarantee how long I will remain on my feet.”

Miss Isabella Browning could not dispel the persistent feeling that she was being watched.

This unsettling feeling came upon Isabella soon after entering the small park with her three young charges in tow. She quickly made a sweeping glance of the immediate area, but did not spy anyone exhibiting the least bit of interest in her or the children. Yet the feeling persisted.

“We want to race our twigs in the water, Miss Browning,” a young voice called out.

Isabella shifted her attention to the small boy addressing her. Master Robert Braun, age five, stood on the grassy slope near the shallow lake and fidgeted restlessly with the two sticks he held in his chubby hands. For once the child appeared to actually be waiting for Isabella to give her permission before he went blithely along his way.

Of course, Robert hadn’t exactly asked if he and his two sisters could play in the water, but at least he had paused a moment to voice his intentions to his governess. Isabella sighed. Did she dare hope nine months of constant battling with Robert were finally starting to pay off?

“You and your sisters may race your sticks as long as you promise to be very careful and not get too close to the water’s edge,” Isabella decided. “If you become too excited and boisterous, however, you will not be allowed to continue. Is that understood?”

With a barely perceivable nod, Robert turned his back on his governess and ran toward the water. His two sisters, Guinevere and Caroline, trailed dutifully in his wake. Although both girls were older, seven and nine respectively, they blindly followed their parents’ lead and deferred to Robert in all things. Consequently, the young boy was treated like a royal prince in the Braun household.

As the children’s governess, Isabella strived constantly to temper Robert’s spoiled and demanding attitude. It was a thankless and often frustrating task, but rare moments such as this morning provided Isabella with a glimmer of hope that she was finally achieving some measure of success with the headstrong boy.

Isabella followed behind the children slowly, climbing the sloping embankment where they were gathering. She kept a keen eye on their activities, but became distracted when she again felt prickles of awareness along her spine, and the uncomfortable sensation of being under the observation of a stranger’s eye. She whirled around suddenly, half expecting to see someone standing behind her. There was no one, but the vague sense of uneasiness would not leave.

There was no obvious explanation for Isabella’s unease since she was very familiar with this small park. She and the children came here at least three times a week, weather permitting. Still, Isabella would have felt calmer if the coachman, Hodgson, had been able to stay with them today as he usually did, instead of driving off to Bond Street on the orders of the mistress of the house. Hodgson would be returning to collect Isabella and the children after he finished his errands. She hoped the coachman would not be too long in arriving.

Isabella continued to experience an unfamiliar sense of foreboding, but she was determined to remain calm. The park was not very crowded at this hour of the morning, yet it was not deserted either. There were other nurses walking with their charges, as well as several gentlemen on horseback. Surely the gentlemen could be counted upon to lend assistance if the need arose.

Isabella shook her head and forced her mind to clear itself of these ridiculous notions. She was behaving skittishly and for no apparent logical reason. A sudden vivid recollection of a gruesome article she had read in the Morning Gazette about a young child being kidnapped off the streets of London caused a quickening of Isabella’s heart rate. Perhaps she was not being foolish. Maybe she was being watched. Although not of the gentry, Mr. Braun was a very wealthy man, and devoted to his three children. He would, without question, pay any ransom necessary to gain their safe release.

Isabella spared an instant of pity for anyone foolish enough to target the boisterous Braun siblings for an abduction. After one hour of the girls’ sniveling and Robert’s belligerent shouting, any man, no matter how hardened a criminal, would be regretting his rash actions.

Isabella silently chastised herself for her unkind thoughts. The Braun children might not be the most likable individuals she had ever encountered, but she had a duty to care for them, and she would perform her duty to the very best of her abilities. Including keeping the children safe from kidnappers, real or imagined.

In all honesty, Isabella admitted to herself, she was very fortunate to have this particular position. At twenty-five, she had already been dismissed from three previous jobs, and she could ill afford to lose another post.

Isabella’s eyes darted speculatively around the park, searching again for signs of danger. The Braun children were alone by the edge of the pond, engaged in a heated verbal battle Isabella feared would soon escalate into a physical one. She began walking toward them, deciding she had merely been allowing her active imagination to override her common sense, when a deep voice behind her nearly startled the wits out of her.

“My God, Emmeline, is it really you?”

Isabella stiffened in alarm. She jerked her head quickly toward the voice, not certain what to expect. She held her breath in fear, but slowly let it out when she viewed the man who had spoken.

He was standing behind her, a fair distance away, but even at that range Isabella’s experienced eye could see that his clothes were cut of the finest cloth, with a graceful, tailored fit that only Weston could achieve. A criminal would never be so well turned out. Besides, the stranger had called her Emmeline. He obviously had been observing her, not because he was waiting for an opportunity to snatch the Braun children away, but because he believed she was someone he knew.

“I am afraid you are mistaken, sir,” Isabella stated in a prim voice that carried a trace of relief. “My name is not Emmeline. And I am quite certain we are not acquainted.”

Isabella squared her shoulders and waited expectantly for the stranger to turn and walk away. As she waited, she studied him openly, from his muscular torso, with its forest-green, form-fitting jacket, to his skin-tight, fawn-colored leather breeches and high black Hessian riding boots. The cream-colored embroidered waistcoat called her attention to his flat abdomen, and his snowy white cravat emphasized his deeply tanned features. Although the fit and quality of his clothes proclaimed him a gentleman, he possessed an air of dishevelment that seemed oddly out of character.

The stranger was returning her direct stare with equal scrutiny. Isabella did not wither under his heated gaze, but when her eyes met his penetrating gaze, she felt a rush of uneasiness. She knew for a certainty she had never met this man before, and yet she felt he was clearly under the misconception that they knew each other.

“It truly is you, Emmeline.”

The sound of the stranger’s low, husky voice jolted Isabella out of her musing. His voice matched the rest of him—bold, strong and resonant. He advanced on her and she found herself looking directly up into his handsome face. Hard, steely gray eyes that held all the arrogance and confidence in the world focused intently on Isabella.

“I cannot believe I have finally found you, Emmeline. After all this time.”

Up close, the stranger’s features were uncommonly handsome—angular, chiseled, and decisively classic. He carried himself with a military bearing Isabella found both intriguing and intimidating. He did not openly threaten her, yet she had the distinct feeling he was holding himself in tight control.

As the stranger continued to regard her with a ruthless expression on his darkly handsome face, Isabella felt the hair on the nape of her neck raise. There was something dark and dangerous about this man. Everything about him seemed hard, unyielding and determined.

“I . . . I am sorry,” Isabella stammered, annoyed at allowing a tremor to slip into her voice. “As I previously informed you, sir, you have me confused with someone else.”

The stranger cocked his dark head slightly to one side. A stray lock of midnight-black curls fell onto his forehead. It made him look even more dangerous.

“Come now, Emmeline,” he responded in his deep voice. “Is that is all you have to say to me after two long years?”

He took another step forward, and Isabella had the distinct impression he was having to restrain himself from taking hold of her. Instinctively she stepped backward. The stranger halted instantly when he saw her hasty withdrawal.

Damien St. Lawrence held his breath as he glared in mute astonishment at the women standing before him. It took every ounce of military training and discipline he possessed to control the desperate urge he felt to rush at Emmeline, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her until her teeth rattled. But the earl would not succumb to his baser desires. Silently, methodically, he cautioned himself to be very, very careful. He did not want to startle Emmeline. Now that he had finally cornered her, the last thing Damien wanted was for his victim to bolt.

The earl continued to observe her beneath hooded eyes, his face lined with hawkish determination. Damien could barely credit what his eyes told him. After all this time, here was Emmeline, standing calmly in front of him, denying she knew him. Hadn’t he just been telling Jenkins he believed she was alive?

Damien had been drawn to her slender cloaked figure the moment he entered the small park. Drinking brandy with Jenkins into the wee hours of the morning had left Damien feeling numb and lightheaded, and he sought the fresh air to clear his head. After riding his favorite stallion through the streets of London, the earl stopped at the small park to rest his horse. And then he saw her.

At first the earl had been unsure it was Emmeline. Perhaps it was a trick of the morning sunlight or the effects of too much brandy. Damien continued observing the mysterious woman from a distance, with each passing minute becoming more and more convinced it was indeed his wife who stood a few hundred yards away. Finally he approached her, and when he stared fully into the woman’s beautiful, deceitful face, the earl knew Emmeline was alive.

Of course, his wife had changed. The changes were subtle, yet noticeable. Her fair complexion was paler than he remembered and her nose looked smaller, her mouth fuller. She was dressed as Damien had never seen her before, demurely, almost somberly, in a long, loose-fitting navy blue coat and a matching bonnet that completely hid her glorious auburn curls.

Well, she could change her clothes and her hairstyle, but there was one thing Emmeline could not change about her appearance. Her extraordinary violet eyes. Damien had never seen their like before. And he stared ruthlessly into them now.

She returned his hard glare with a mixture of barely concealed confusion and fear, but Damien understood her reaction. After two years he hardly expected Emmeline to politely greet him. She was probably as shocked to see him as he was to see her. And she was determined to deny her true identity. But again, Damien was not surprised. Emmeline had gone to a tremendous amount of trouble to “die” two years ago. He hardly expected her to so easily give up her masquerade.

Before Damien could question her further, a young boy’s cry shattered the turbulent atmosphere flaring between them.

“The children!” Isabella shouted in genuine alarm.

Dismissing the disturbing stranger, Isabella turned and raced down the embankment towards the pond.

She reached the edge of the water just in time to save Caroline from being pushed into the small lake by her brother.

“Caroline is cheating!” Robert shrieked in a high voice. “She said her stick won, but it was my stick that crossed the line first.” He stamped his foot in anger and lunged for his sister.

Isabella thrust her hand out automatically to intercept the blows Robert aimed at Caroline. His young face was twisted in a mask of rage. “You will control yourself at once, Robert!” Isabella admonished in her sternest voice. “Your behavior is thoroughly disgraceful.”

Caroline and Guinevere began sobbing loudly, frightened by Isabella’s tone and the physical violence exhibited by their younger brother. Isabella managed to subdue the girls with a threat to cancel all outings to the park for the next two weeks. The girls sniveled noisily, but ceased their howling and Isabella focused her attention on young Robert.

She held the struggling child tightly by his collar, at arm’s length, in an attempt to keep him from physically harming either her or himself. She shook him once, forcing h. . .