Chapter One
London, England
April 1806
The battle raged inside his head, the crack of musket
fire, the thunder of cannonade, hot lead tearing into
flesh and bone, men weeping in fear and despair.
It's a dream, he cried inside his mind, trying to convince
himself, to awaken from another of the nightmares that
plagued his sleep. Inch by inch, clawing his way back to
consciousness, Adam Hawthorne, fourth Earl of Blackwood,
sat upright in his huge four-poster bed. His heart was
pounding. Sweat ran in rivulets down his naked chest and
dampened his hair, urging it into heavy black waves that
stuck to the cords at the back of his neck.
Though a chill pervaded the room, Adam shoved the feather
comforter down past his waist and a shiver swept over him,
pebbling his skin above the crisp linen sheet. He was used
to nights like this one. He had suffered the terrible
images for more than six years. Penance, he believed, for
the part he had played in the war.
Running a hand over his face to erase the last vestiges of
slumber, he swung his long legs to the side of the bed and
stood up. Through a slit in the gold velvet draperies, the
first gray light of dawn filtered into the room. Adam
poured water into the porcelain basin on his dresser and
performed the necessary ablutions, then pulled on buckskin
breeches and a full-sleeved white shirt and shoved his
feet into a pair of high-topped Spanish riding boots.
Making his way downstairs, he headed for the stable at the
rear of the town house for his daily morning ride.
His groom, Angus McFarland, a big ruddy Scotsman, formerly
a sergeant in the Gordon Highlanders, stood waiting, a
beefy hand gripping the reins of Adam's prize black
stallion, Ramses.
"'Ave a care, Major. The lad's a bit full o' himself this
mornin'."
Adam nodded. "We'll give him a run, then." He patted the
stallion's sleek neck. "You'd like a good run, wouldn't
you, boy?" The horse was as black and shiny as polished
jet, with perfect conformation and a surprisingly gentle
disposition. Once Adam had spotted him at Tattersall's, he
had spared no expense to have him. It was his single real
indulgence since he had unexpectedly come into the
Blackwood title and fortune.
Adam patted the soft dark muzzle, then reached into his
pocket and held his hand out, palm up, offering the animal
a lump of sugar. "A little fresh air always makes the
world seem better."
"Aye, and so it does," the Scotsman agreed. Adam swung up
onto the saddle and settled himself on the flat leather
seat. After eight years in the cavalry, he felt more at
home on a horse than he did with his feet on the ground.
He bid farewell to Angus, more friend than employee, and
headed for his daily outing in the park, Ram in high
spirits, dancing and snorting with untapped energy as they
rode through the London streets.
At this early hour, the park was empty. Adam set the horse
into a gallop, nudged him into a flat-out run, and they
pounded around the carriageway. The sun had crested the
horizon by the time horse and rider drew to a halt beneath
a plane tree on a rise near the duck pond. Adam let the
big horse blow, the stallion's sides heaving in and out
with spent effort, both of them feeling the benefits of
wind and early morning sun.
Giving Ram an absent pat, he turned his attention in
another, more interesting direction, scanning the grassy
field below in search of his quarry, spotting her on the
same wrought-iron bench she had been perched on each
morning since he had come upon her three days ago.
The expensive clothes she wore, today a pale green muslin
sprinkled with small embroidered rosebuds, marked her as a
member of the upper classes. She was shorter than average,
with a slender frame and fair, unblemished skin. Beneath
the rim of her lace-trimmed bonnet, he could just make out
her face, the refined lines and straight nose, the nicely
shaped dark copper eyebrows. He imagined her eyes were
blue, but at this distance, he couldn't be sure.
What amazed him was how badly he wanted to find out.
On the bench below, the woman smiled at the growing
cluster of ducks that swam or waddled toward her, fanning
out to surround her feet. To each in turn, she passed out
bits of bread, watching with delight as several of them
plucked a morsel from her hand. She laughed as a mother
duck clumsily waded ashore, six tiny ducklings lined up in
a row behind her.
He thought she might have glanced his way, spotting him on
the knoll, but perhaps he only imagined it. He wondered
who she was and why she came to the pond by herself, so
early in the morning. He wondered if, as he did, she
sought solace from turbulent thoughts.
He wondered if she would be there again when he came to
the pond on the morrow.
Departing the carriage from her morning journey to the
park, Jillian Alistair Whitney whisked through the big
double doors of the Earl of Fenwick's town mansion, a
brisk spring breeze having driven her early from her daily
morning outing. She grabbed the rim of her bonnet to keep
the wind from blowing it off as the butler, Nigel Atwater,
closed the heavy portal behind her.
"A bit chilly, isn't it, to be out gallivanting about?" He
glared down his long beak of a nose with disapproval,
mirroring the sentiment of a number of the servants,
though Atwater was the only one secure enough in his
position to let it show.
"The wind came up rather suddenly," she said matter-of-
factly, refusing to let him know how much his censure
hurt. "Perhaps we're in for a bit of a storm." It wasn't
important what the servants thought, she told herself, and
even if it were, there was little she could do to change
things.
From the start, Lord Fenwick had scoffed at the gossip her
presence in a bachelor household caused. He was, he had
said, old enough to be her grandfather, was, in fact, a
close friend of her father's, a man who had seen more than
forty years by the time he sired a child.
Jillian thought of the proud man who had died sixteen
months past, a man who had doted on her, loved her to
distraction, but left her without a farthing to see to her
needs. If it hadn't been for Lord Fenwick...ah, but the
earl had come to her rescue, and gossip was a small price
to pay for all he had done.
Jillian tugged off her kidskin gloves and started up the
stairs to her bedchamber, a cheery room done in pale blue,
ivory, and gold, her mind on her situation and the
solitude she found each morning in the park. She always
went early, before the fashionable set arrived. She hated
their knowing glances and speculative smiles and at that
early hour, she had the park all to herself.
At least she had until three days ago, when she discovered
she wasn't alone.
"Beg pardon, Miss Whitney."
She had almost reached the top of the stairs when she
heard the butler returning to the entry. "If you please,
Miss, his lordship would like a word with you in his
study."
Jillian paused in the process of untying her
bonnet. "Certainly. Thank you, Atwater."
Making her way back downstairs, bonnet in hand, she walked
along the hall to the suite of rooms in the west wing of
the mansion that included the earl's private study, her
mind still on the tall, dark-haired rider and magnificent
black horse she had spotted on the knoll. There was
something frightening about him. Something dark and
forbidding. Something mysterious and intriguing.
In truth, he was attractive, in a hard, ruthless sort of
way, sitting there astride his horse. At first she had
been frightened, then it occurred to her that he would
scarcely need to press himself on an unwilling woman.
Handsome as he was, likely he could have whatever lady he
chose.
A noise in the study drew her attention. Jillian knocked
on the gilt-trimmed ivory door, then, at the sound of Lord
Fenwick's gruff voice, turned the gold knob and went in.
"Ah, here you are, my dear. I thought I heard you in the
entry. You are certainly one for getting an early start."
She walked to where he sat behind his rosewood desk, his
stained meerschaum pipe gripped casually in an age-spotted
hand. She bent toward him, kissed his wrinkled cheek.
"I'm always up early, my lord, as you well know. Morning
is the best time of day. Everything is bright and
cheerful, and it is quiet enough to hear the birds."
He chuckled, carefully set his unlit pipe down on its
stand, and rose from behind his desk.
Oswald Telford, Earl of Fenwick, was a man well into his
sixties, with patchy gray hair and a paunch beneath his
white piqué waistcoat. He had never been a handsome man,
with his sugar-bowl ears and slightly bulbous nose, but he
was dear to her and she to him.
"Tonight is the Marquess of Landen's soiree," he said. "I
thought you might like to attend."
She shook her head a little too quickly, steadied herself
enough to smile. "Your gout is still acting up, and in
truth I should rather remain at home. I thought perhaps we
might spend the evening playing chess."
For an instant, a twinkle appeared in eyes a cloudy shade
of blue much paler than her own bright hue. With a look of
regret he shook his head. "I should like nothing more than
to stay here and trounce you soundly, my girl, but I am
not getting any younger, and I need to see you settled. It
is beyond time I found you a husband, and the only way I
can accomplish the feat is- -- "
"You are not that old! And at any rate, I am already on
the shelf."
"At one and twenty? I hardly think so."
"We've had this conversation before. I thought you
understood my feelings on the subject." Those being that
she didn't want a husband. At least not the sort the earl
would have to buy for her. She wanted a man she could
love, one who would love her in return. She wanted the
kind of happiness her father had found with her mother.
Jillian had never known Maryann Whitney. Her mother had
died giving birth to her only child, but her father had
never remarried. He had loved his wife that much. And
Jillian refused to settle for anything less than that same
sort of devotion.
"Every woman needs a husband," Lord Fenwick grumbled, but
he didn't press her further and Jillian was grateful.
"There are endless soirees," she said, "as evidenced by
the stack of invitations on your desk." But the stack
continued to dwindle as the gossip about them mounted.
As usual the earl ignored it. He was set in his ways and
taking her in was as far as he was willing to go in her
regard. "I refuse to have that old battle-ax of a cousin
of mine in the house just to still the wagging tongues,"
he had said.
But sooner or later, without a proper chaperon, they would
be ostracized completely.
Jillian summoned a smile she suddenly didn't
feel. "Perhaps by the end of the week you'll feel better."
The earl fought not to show his relief. "Yes, I'm certain
I shall."
But Jillian was worried about him. He'd been looking a
little more peaked every day. She would have to make
certain he got plenty of rest and brew him some rose hip
tea.
He had come to her aid when she had no one else to turn
to. He had lost his only son the year before and perhaps
he was lonely. Whatever the reason, he had taken her into
his home, become the father she had lost, and she meant to
take care of him.
And she didn't give a damn what the gossipmongers said.
Adam sat astride his black stallion at the top of the
knoll. The day was fair, the breeze no more than a
whisper. Ramses pawed the ground and snorted, lifting his
magnificent head to study the lean bay gelding standing
placidly beside him. Today Adam wasn't alone.
"Nice view." Clayton Harcourt Barclay, Duke of Rathmore,
stared down at the woman seated on the wrought-iron bench
near the duck pond.
"So I discovered several days past." Adam had known Clay
since Oxford, where they had been close friends. Since
Adam's exit from the cavalry and subsequent return to
London, they had become good friends again. "Do you have
any idea who she is?"
Clay flashed a roguish grin. He was a handsome man, tall
and broad-shouldered with thick, dark brown hair, the sort
who could charm the garters off a lady with little more
than a smile, which he had done with considerable
regularity before he had wed.
"Actually, I do know who she is." Clay had recently
married the Viscount Stockton's rebellious little red-
haired daughter. Though the two had their problems in the
beginning, they had worked them out, and Adam had rarely
seen a happier man.
"The lady's name is Jillian Whitney. We met several months
back at one of Stockton's dinner parties. Lately there've
been rumors about her. They say she's the Earl of
Fenwick's mistress."
Adam felt as if he had just been hit in the
stomach. "Fenwick? I can scarcely credit that. The man is
thrice her age and more."
"True, but he's still a man, and Miss Whitney is a very
attractive young woman."
Adam silently agreed, wishing he could get a closer look
at her.
"As the story goes, her father was a longtime friend of
the earl's. When he died, Miss Whitney was left near
penniless. She lived with an elderly aunt until the woman
died, then Fenwick took her in. He claims she is merely
his ward, but there is speculation she is far more than
that."
Adam swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. Little
surprised him anymore, jaded as he was, yet it was
difficult to imagine the smiling young woman who sat
placidly feeding the ducks had been spreading her thighs
for the ancient Lord Fenwick.
"Fenwick has never been known for his charity," Adam
said. "I'd say he got a nice bit of muslin in return for
his generosity."
"I suppose so...if the gossip is true."
Adam's attention swung away from the woman and fixed on
his friend. "You're saying it isn't?"
Clay shrugged his powerful shoulders. "It wouldn't be the
first time the gossipmongers have been wrong."
Adam pondered that. He had felt the vicious bite of
slander himself, on more than one occasion.
And yet in his experience -- which, where women were
concerned, was quite extensive -- most of those he had
known would sell their souls for a few expensive baubles.
Clay lifted a knowing, dark brown eyebrow. "Since it is
highly unlikely that mere coincidence brought us here this
morning, I assume you would like an introduction."
Adam's mouth only faintly curved. It wasn't exactly the
reason he had led Clay in this direction. Or maybe it was.
"Why not?" he said, and nudged his boot heels into the
sides of his horse.
Jillian straightened as she saw the two men riding off the
knoll in her direction. It took her a moment to recognize
the Duke of Rathmore as the man on the right, but she had
met him and his wife a couple of months ago, and he wasn't
a man a woman would forget.
She stood up as they slowed their horses and both men
swung down from their saddles. Rathmore went through the
formalities, making polite morning greetings, then
introduced her to the tall, raven-haired man beside him,
Adam Hawthorne, Earl of Blackwood, the man who had watched
her from the knoll.
"I've seen you here before," Blackwood said to her, more
candidly than she would have expected.
"Yes, I'm quite an early riser. I prefer to enjoy the park
before the crush arrives."
"That is my preference as well." He was lean, his skin
darkly tanned, as if he often spent time in the sun. His
features were strong, even harsh: black slashing brows and
lean cheekbones, a mouth that looked hard, but was
perfectly curved, except for a faintly cynical lift at one
corner. A thin scar ran from his temple along his jaw,
giving him a dangerous air, and yet it was a face of
uncommon beauty, the sort a woman would notice the moment
he walked into a room. His looks combined with the
powerful presence he exuded to make the earl a potent
force.
"Morning is the very best time of day," Jillian went on,
groping for something to say that wouldn't sound inane,
forcing herself not to look away from the midnight blue
eyes that assessed her with such bold regard.
Blackwood barely nodded. "Yes...the sunlight has a way of
sweeping the demons away."
It was an odd thing to say. She studied him with renewed
curiosity and thought she saw something shift behind his
eyes, as if the door he had accidentally opened had once
again slammed closed.
"Lord Blackwood was in the cavalry for a number of years,"
the duke said mildly. "I don't think he'll ever get used
to spending much time indoors."
"I can understand that. I prefer the country myself."
Jillian smiled a bit wistfully, thinking of the small, ivy-
covered cottage where she and her father had lived in
Buckland Vale, a little village near Aylesbury.
"Is that where you got your interest in birds?" the earl
asked.
"The ducks, you mean?" She glanced down at the creatures
once again wobbling toward her from the pond. "I've grown
quite attached to them, I'm afraid. That's Harold, there;
and this little brown hen with the spots on her face,
that's Esmerelda. If I don't bring them a bit of bread in
the mornings, I worry they won't get enough to eat. Silly,
isn't it?"
The duke cast her a glance. "You sound like my wife,
Kassandra. She adopts every stray animal that comes her
way. Just yesterday she ran across a litter of abandoned
kittens in the mews. She was up half the night feeding
them with a rag dipped in milk."
But he didn't look disturbed about it. In fact, he looked
rather proud of her efforts.
The earl -- Blackwood -- however, continued to watch her
as if he played a game of cat and mouse. There was no
doubt which one of them was the prey. Jillian shivered
beneath that intense regard and returned her attention to
the duke.
"I hope your wife is well."
"Quite well, thank you. I'll be certain to give her your
regards."
She nodded, hoping they would leave, but Blackwood seemed
in no hurry. Since that was the case, she made ready to
depart. "It has been a pleasure to see you again, Your
Grace, but I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. It's past
time I returned to the house."
"Yes..." Blackwood cut in, assessing her in that
unsettling way of his. "Should you be overly late, I'm
certain Lord Fenwick would become quite concerned."
Was that mockery she heard in his voice? Had he heard the
gossip about her? It always seemed ridiculous to her,
considering the earl's age and health. She couldn't
imagine how it had ever got started. The duke didn't seem
the sort to be amused by such things, but Blackwood...he
was difficult -- no, impossible to read. Her stomach
clenched to imagine what the men might be thinking about
her.
"Farewell, Your Grace," she said to the duke.
"Have a pleasant day, Miss Whitney."
She tipped her head to the earl. "It was a pleasure to
meet you, my lord."
Dark blue eyes swept over her. "The pleasure was mine,
Miss Whitney, I assure you."
Still uncertain what she heard in his voice, Jillian
turned and started walking away. She expected the shuffle
of boots as the men remounted their horses and rode off
the way they had come. Instead, only one of them departed.
Without looking back, Jillian knew which one remained. She
could feel the dark earl's gaze on her back until she
disappeared out of sight on the path leading off into the
trees.
In the early mornings, he rode. At night he walked the
streets. His years in the army, days and nights of living
out of doors, made it nearly impossible for him to fall
asleep without at least a little fresh air. More than a
year ago, after the death of his older brother, Carter,
Adam had sold his commission in the Eleventh Light
Dragoons and returned to London to assume his duties as
earl. His nightly outings had quickly become a habit, and
Adam knew every lane and alley in the West End.
He knew the exact house, a huge Georgian mansion in Brook
Street, where the Earl of Fenwick lived.
What he didn't understand was what had drawn him there
this evening.
Adam swore an oath into the darkness. For God's sake, the
girl is the old man's mistress! She had bartered herself
like a piece of meat for the expensive clothes she wore,
for the fancy black coach and flashy matched grays that
carried her each morning to the park.
He knew about women like Jillian Whitney. He had nearly
married Caroline Harding, would have, if he hadn't found
her in bed with his cousin, Robert.
And there was Maria. His face bore a constant reminder of
her betrayal. The duel he had fought with her husband left
a far deeper scar on the inside than the one he carried
along his jaw.
And yet when he imagined the young woman beside the pond,
when he remembered the sound of her laughter as she fed
the ducks, he didn't feel the anger and hostility he felt
when he thought of Caroline or Maria. Instead, he felt an
odd sort of calm, a peacefulness he hadn't known since
before the war.
The huge house loomed ahead, lamplight gleaming from a
dozen different windows on the first and second floors. He
wondered which room was Jillian Whitney's, wondered if the
old man was brazen enough to install her in the countess's
bedchamber next to his own. He imagined how the servants
must feel about the old earl's mistress being kept right
there in the house, and suddenly felt sorry for Jillian
Whitney.
He paused in the shadows across the street, leaning back
against the trunk of a tree. Had she really been so
desperate? Had her father left her with no other choice?
Other speculations rose into his mind, but the echo of a
gunshot brought them to a sudden end. There was no
mistaking the sound, not after eight long years in the
army. And the shot had come from inside the Earl of
Fenwick's house.
Adam moved in that direction, careful to stay in the
shadows. A scream came from somewhere inside and a few
seconds later, the front door burst open.
"Help! Someone call a watchman! The Earl of Fenwick has
been shot!"
From the corner of his eye, Adam caught a flicker of
movement between the mansion and the house next door. A
small, cloaked figure ran from the rear of the house
toward the alley behind the mews. Moving silently,
ignoring the shouts of the servants who streamed out into
the street, he rounded the house next door and headed
toward the mouth of the alley to stop the fleeing figure
he had seen.
Waiting in the darkness at the entrance, he could hear the
pounding of light, frantic footfalls. Hidden beneath the
hood of a billowing cloak was the barely discernible shape
of a woman. Adam stepped out of the shadows directly in
front of her and she careened hard into his chest.
His arms clamped around her as she struggled to break
free. "Let me go!" She tried to twist away, but he merely
tightened his hold. "Please. Dear God, please let me go!"
Adam stared down at her, a grim smile etched into the
corners of his mouth. "Why, Miss Whitney. I hadn't
expected we would meet again so soon."
She looked up at him and the breath seemed to stall in her
lungs. "Blackwood," was all she said.