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  Deciding he could either retreat to his club or do his best to resurrect the evening, Marshall went in search of Evelyn.

  It took only a few minutes to find her.

  "We seem to be forever walking out on one another."

  Evelyn turned to find the marquis standing surprisingly close. She blamed herself for being engrossed in a bout of self-pity. Had she been thinking clearly, she would have heard his boots on the flat stones of the walkway. She looked at the black onyx pin in his cravat, rather than his face, and replied, "Perhaps it is because we are at cross purposes, my lord."

  "A situation I am doing my best to rectify, if only you will stop seeing me as a seducer of innocents. My motives may not be those of a saint, but I do want to be your friend."

  She met his gaze then, and for a brief second she could almost believe him. "It may be obdurate of me, my lord, but I cannot allow myself to entertain a friendship that will gain me nothing but the title of mistress."

  Marshall had thought his anger under control, but it rose again, like a trout to a well-baited hook. "Then allow this, my lovely Miss Dennsworth."

  Before she could think to stop him, Evelyn found herself in his arms. Instead of the gentle, arousing kisses he had given her in the past, his mouth was hard and hungry, pun­ishing her in the most seductive way possible.

  She trembled, both in response to his kiss and to the knowledge that she wasn't being nearly as stubborn as she should be.

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  One

  London, 1862

  Marshall Hanley Bedford, Marquis of Waltham, looked down at his cards and decided the royal flush he'd just been dealt was the best thing that had happened to him in days. He'd come to Brook's on St. James Street as he did each week that Parliament was in session to play cards with a se­lect group of friends. The club had become his sanctuary of late, the only place he could escape the responsibilities and constant chatter that came with having a younger sister taken up by the Season.

  Normally his stepmother would be seeing to Winnifred's introduction into society, but Constance had taken to her bed several weeks ago, and Marshall now realized that she in­tended to stay there. She'd always been a frail woman. The death of her husband had added to the frailty, bringing on an extended period of mourning that Marshall feared was being taken to the extreme.

  As a result, he had no choice but to sponsor Winnifred's activities. The endless circle of balls and soirees was an or­deal Marshall had hoped to avoid. Until recently, the mania that overtook English mothers during the Season had never failed to amuse him. However, being forced to actively chaperone Winnie had him seeing things in a different light. The sooner he found his sister a suitable husband the better.

  He looked around the table, thinking the solution might be close at hand. A survey of his friends, all current bache­lors, ended quickly. As much as Marshall loved his sister, Winnie wasn't a match for any man in the room.

  The Earl of Granby sat to his right. Norton Russell Foxhall was undoubtedly an eligible bachelor, but his reputation as a ladies' man, and Marshall's personal knowledge of just how worthy Granby was of that reputation, immediately removed the earl's name from the suitable-as-a-husband list.

  William Fitch Minstead the Earl of Ackerman, was a far more fitting candidate, but Marshall feared his friend had too much on his mind having recently inherited a title he had never thought to gain. A second son. Fitch, as the group affectionately called him, had returned from the Crimean War with scars Marshall couldn't see but knew existed. Fitch didn't need the distraction of a wife right now. Duty and the necessity of an heir would force him to the altar soon enough. As it would them all.

  Marshall's gaze moved around the table as the Viscount Rathbone stubbed out a smoking cheroot. Benjamin Edward Exeter was the last man Marshall would solicit for a brother-in-law. The youngest of the group, the handsome viscount pos­sessed an alarming and scandalous enthusiasm for departure from the acceptable path. Although Marshall considered him a trusted friend that trust didn't extend to his sister's happiness.

  The last man at the table was the fourth Duke of Morland. Orton Leopold Haversham was the reason Marshall and his friends walked dutifully through the doors of Brook's each Wednesday night. Now in his late sixties, the duke had known and befriended each of their fathers. That friendship had been inherited by the younger men along with their ti­tles. Stodgy on his best days, crotchety on his worst, the duke was a scholarly statesman who wasn't averse to med­dling in their lives whenever the fancy struck him. Though they complained of it outside his presence, none of them had the discourtesy to refute the elderly lord.

  "I suppose I'll be seeing you at Lord Trehearn's this weekend" the duke said as he reached for a glass of port. "I understand the eldest son has expressed some interest in Winnifred."

  Lord Trehearn's heir wasn't on Marshall's suitable list, ei­ther. The young man was known to enjoy drinking far too much for the marquis to allow his pursuit of Winnie to progress to the point of a proposal. "The young man can ex­press all the interest he wants," Marshall replied as he waited for the duke to place his bet. "He won't drain the Bedford coffers along with his father's."

  Granby laughed. "Poor Winnifred. I fear no one will meet your sterling qualifications for a brother-in-law, old friend. Since the Season is upon us, you've developed the scruples of a monk. Look all you will, Waltham, you'll find few sheep among London's flock of wolves."

  "Don't remind me," Marshall groaned as a white-gloved servant refilled his brandy glass. "No wonder my father's hair was silver before its time. Three females in a house is three too many. If it isn't Constance lying abed, complaining of one ailment or another, it's Winnie insisting that she needs a new gown. She can't possibly be seen in the same one twice. And Catherine . . . I swear all the girl knows how to do is giggle."

  "What about Apsley?" Fitch's suggestion followed the show of Marshall's royal flush and the raking in of a sizeable pot by the marquis. "He's a decent enough chap. Winnie could do worse than a baronet with profitable estates and—"

  "And a mother with apron strings longer than my arm," Marshall inserted.

  "I would recommend Lansdowne," the duke said. "Comes from good stock with a sound head on his shoulders. Old enough to know what being a husband requires from a man."

  "Lansdowne," Marshall said rolling the possibility around in his head. The duke's advice usually proved worthy of con­sideration. Nathaniel Linton, Earl of Lansdowne, was a man of wealth and property with a cordial disposition. "He does seem to be aroun
d whenever Winnie needs to be partnered in a quadrille. He might do."

  The debate over the town's best and worst bachelors con­tinued as the deal fell to the Earl of Granby. By the time the evening drew to a close, Marshall was weary of discussing the pedigree of Britain's male aristocracy. He climbed into his carriage, ironically thinking that he could use another woman in his life; an amicable mistress came to mind. Unfortunately, there was no discreet address to which he could direct his driver. Although he was a lusty man, the last year and a half had been monopolized by his responsibilities to his family and title.

  As the carriage clattered over the cobblestone streets on its way to Mayfair where he kept a comfortable London house, the marquis decided the lack of womanly comfort in his life was an oversight that needed to be addressed. A merry widow perhaps, London had them aplenty.

  Selecting a mistress required the same painstaking atten­tion as choosing a wife. Whoever he decided upon would have to be attractive, attentive, and amicable. There were other qualifications, as well. His preferences ran toward slen­der women with long legs and light-colored eyes. The size of a woman's breasts had never been a major concern for him. He also liked spirit. Of course, he would expect a mistress to conduct herself discreetly. Whatever wantonness she pos­sessed would be reserved for his personal enjoyment alone.

  When it came to bedding a woman, Marshall stripped off his social status along with his clothes. He enjoyed sex too much to let his title impede his actions. One of his past lovers had complimented him on his open-mindedness after confessing that her previous protector, a duke, had insisted on always being on top. Marshall wasn't snobbish about po­sitions. If a woman wanted to ride him, he was more than willing to lie on his back and enjoy the experience.

  A kindred spirit would be nice, too. Someone who could satisfy his needs in and out of bed. A woman he could talk to before and after making love. The image came close to that of a wife, but Marshall shied away from admitting that he might be ready to marry. Once Winnifred was respectfully wed and his stepmother showed signs of resuming her life or had a grandchild to dote over, he might consider mar­riage. But not now. He was only thirty-two. There was plenty of time to find a wife and beget the heir his title required. Duty and obligation could wait for a few years. In the in­terim, he would concentrate on the finer things in life.

  "There you are," Winnifred said her tone a bit impatient. "Have you forgotten that I have an appointment with Madame La Roschelle?"

  "Of course not," Marshall replied leaning down so she could kiss his cheek. Winnifred was a brown-haired younger version of her mother. "Druggs marked my schedule accord­ingly. The carriage is being readied as we speak."

  Like other young women her age, his sister understood that she had been brought to London for the express purpose of finding a husband. It was an acceptable objective, one that came as naturally as breathing for the young ladies who were among the privileged of society. Knowing that goal, and having an eye for fashion, Winnie was anxious to have the most dazzling gown possible. The Trehearns' ball was at the end of the week, and Madame La Roschelle had promised a dress that would turn any young man's head. The style was French, the money English, coughed up by her dutiful older brother.

  "What will you be about while I'm being fitted?" Winnie asked.

  "I have business that will hold my attention until Madame La Roschelle has finished with you," Marshall an­swered thinking that an afternoon at Brook's might prove helpful in ferreting out a few eligible ladies. Rathbone al­ways knew the latest gossip, having created most of it him­self. His young friend would probably be able to produce a list of satisfactory names in less time than it took for Marshall to settle into an easy chair and light a cigar.

  The carriage ride from the town house to Madame La Roschelle's shop didn't take long. Bond Street ran through the heart of Mayfair, from Oxford Street in the north to Piccadilly in the south. Aside from fashionable couturiers, such as the one they would be visiting, the district also pro­vided jewelry, millinery, and specialty shops.

  Marshall gazed out the window, seeing nothing that he hadn't seen a hundred times before, but finding himself elated at the prospect the new day had brought with it. Suddenly he had an overwhelming urge to find a woman, strip her naked and spend the next three days in an orgy of exhausting sex, French wine, and sated sleep.

  Reaching their destination, Marshall pushed his personal thoughts aside and handed Winnifred down from the car­riage. They entered the shop where tables were artfully arranged, displaying an assortment of ribbons, fans, and other female accessories. Madame La Roschelle, a petite woman with flaming red hair, wearing a perfectly sewn blue silk dress, came rushing toward her newest customer. Marshall responded to the couturiere's greeting, but his gaze found something far more interesting.

  She was undoubtedly one of Madame's assistants, tall and slender with light brown hair fashioned into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. A seamstress's apron was tied around her waist, its pocket bulging with pins and fabric chalk. The apron covered a modest black skirt worn with a starched white blouse. There was no definable beauty to her features, but she caught his eye, nevertheless. Perhaps be­cause she moved calmly amidst a chattering flock of fe­males. Quiet where they were loud. Shy where they were bold. A head taller than any other woman in the shop, she moved with an easy grace. Her complexion glowed with health, giving Marshall the impression that she could be a country lass recent to the city. She looked in his direction for a fleeting second and he saw that her eyes were blue.

  A patron, whom the marquis recognized as Lady Monfrey, chose that moment to come charging out of one of the fitting rooms. The woman was a tedious gossip, but her husband's fortune and sizeable earldom placed her at the top of the so­cial pedestal. She spoke briefly to Winnifred then, apparently realizing that she was late for one appointment or other, turned so quickly she all but trampled the shop girl into the floor.

  The bolt of fabric the young woman had been carrying went in one direction, the pins in her hand another. She man­aged not to fall, but only because she was as graceful as a ballerina. Lady Monfrey staggered precariously for a mo­ment before Madame La Roschelle, always aware of every­thing that went on in her shop, rushed forward to catch the older woman by the arm and steady her. A stream of harshly spoken French followed admonishing her employee for being so clumsy.

  Before Madame could finish the scolding, Marshall was bending down to gather up tiny silver pins. Madame turned her attention to Lady Monfrey, apologizing profusely.

  "Please, my lord" the young woman whispered to him. "I know you mean well, but you'll only make matters worse. Madame will dismiss me for incon-veniencing you as well as Lady Monfrey."

  Her voice was soft. Her enunciation clear and precise. If she was a country lass, she'd received some formal educa­tion. He watched as she frantically reached out to collect the scattered sewing pins. Her fingers were long and elegant, her nails manicured and clean. So close their shoulders were al­most touching, he inhaled the fresh scent of her. Unlike the heavy French perfume that followed Madame La Roschelle about the room, the girl smelled of soap and . . . He inhaled again. Spice. Something herbal and wild, as if she'd gathered up the morning sunshine and rubbed it over her body.

  "Let me worry about Madame La Roschelle," he replied picking up a piece of tailoring chalk and handing it to her. "The mishap wasn't your fault."

  When the last of the pins had been collected and returned to the young woman's apron pocket, Marshall stood up. He was well over six feet tall. The girl came to his shoulder. His stepmother would call her unfashionably tall, but she seemed a perfect height to him.

  "Thank you, my lord" she whispered, then turned and hurried toward the rear of the shop.

  Marshall watched her go, his gaze focused on the grace­ful sway of her hips beneath the coarse black skirt. Her legs would be long. Very long. He took a deep breath and fanta­sized about them being wrapped around him. Her body would fit his
perfectly. Unfortunately, she wasn't a widow. One look into those blue eyes had confirmed her innocence. Yet, he'd seen a fire burning in their depths, a thirst for life that only a man could recognize.

  As the bell over the door tinkled, confirming Lady Monfrey's departure, Marshall found himself wondering what it would take to convince a Bond Street shop girl to expand her horizons. The life he could offer her, a comfortable home with someone to cook and clean, a fashionable wardrobe, an allowance for her personal use, would certainly be better than the life she had now. Neither London nor the girl's pro­ficiency with needle and thread offered her any real security. The city gobbled up young women. She could spend her life working for Madame La Roschelle, never having more than the clothes on her back and a few shillings to her name. Worse, she could end up married to a man who drank up his wages, then staggered home to beat her because his supper had grown cold.

  Marshall imagined the grim future she might face if she didn't become his mistress, knowing all the while that he was simply justifying his desire by telling himself that he'd be saving her rather than ruining her. Until that moment, he hadn't thought to take anyone but an experienced woman into his bed but having looked into those blue eyes, having heard the soft whisper of her voice, he knew he had inadver­tently found the woman he wanted.

  Desire, after all, was the motive for taking a mistress.

  "My apologies," Madame said, joining Marshall and his sister. "Evelyn is not usually so awkward."

  "She wasn't awkward now," Marshall said, coming to the girl's defense. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. "A mishap, nothing more," he added. "Think nothing of it."

  Winnifred was busy selecting a length of ribbon to go with her new gown. She'd seemingly dismissed the accident the moment after Lady Monfrey had left the shop. Marshall glanced at his sister, then back to Madame La Roschelle. "I will return in two hours. Is that adequate time?"