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      “Ah, perfeito! With greatest glee will I serve him, mistress. And you—wear something to show off the eyes, in violeta.” She clapped her hands, looking absurdly pleased. “He is beautiful and rich, no?”

      “Francesca…”

      “Bah, I will be silent no longer. You are young, querida. Too many years you have been without a man. If this great lord, one of your own people, desires you, I say ’tis a gift.”

      “Francesca, don’t!”

      “You know I adored the comandante, your husband, may he rest with the blessed saints!” With a swift gesture she crossed herself. “But he is dead, mistress, morto! You must go on.”

      Emily put her hands to her eyes, too tired to stem the tears. The passage of years seemed to have hardly dulled the edge of anguish.

      “I know,” she whispered. “Do you think I want to linger in a past that holds only pain? I want to go on, truly I do! But how?”

      Francesca wisely remained silent. After lighting the lamp, she patted Emily’s shoulder and walked out.

      Emily drew blank paper from her drawer and stared down at it, soft amber in the pool of lamplight. Ignoring the lump that lodged in her chest, she reached for her pen and scrawled an invitation.

      Over dinner she would offer Lord Cheverley her grateful thanks. And then, while he sipped his brandy, she could delicately hint…

      Her imagination failed her and a tide of heat flooded her cheeks. Just how did a lady go about “hinting” so brazen and immodest a proposal? One could not just bluntly say, “My lord, you have expended sums on my behalf that I cannot repay. However, if you are interested, I could warm your bed until such time as you consider the debt canceled.” No, ’twas impossible!

      Merely considering how to word such a proposition made her head ache and tied her stomach in knots.

      But mayhap she misjudged him. Perhaps he would prefer cash, however slowly repaid. After all, so rich, handsome and highly titled a gentleman undoubtedly already possessed a mistress, doubtless one more beautiful and skilled than she.

      The fire she remembered in his eyes didn’t lend much substance to that wistful hope. Since when had powerful gentlemen felt any compulsion to limit themselves to one woman at a time?

      She’d worry about that later. With a deep breath, before her nerve failed, she sealed the note and propped it on the desk for Francesca to deliver.

      In the tiny kitchen behind her she could hear the trickle of water and clinking of pots as the maid prepared their frugal dinner. Twisting her hands together in her lap, Emily stared sightlessly into the darkened salesroom. She should go in to dine. But at the thought of what she must do if Lord Cheverley refused cash repayment, her normal appetite vanished.

      Chapter Three

      His hands holding the ends of the untied neckcloth, Evan gazed again at the note propped on his dresser. “Lord Cheverley, I would be most pleased if you would honor me with your presence at dinner this evening at eight of the clock…Mrs. Emily Spenser,” he repeated to himself, though he had no need to look at the paper to recall the words.

      Closing his eyes as he worked the knots, he could see her again as she’d looked that afternoon in the tiny garden behind her shop: thick, glossy black hair pinned in simple curls atop her head, a plain lavender gown that emphasized her elegant figure, the long fingers as fine as the bone china teacup she held.

      In less than an hour he would present himself. A whirlpool of desire, anticipation and excitement spiraled in his gut at the thought. The maid would admit him and Madame would receive him, probably in some upstairs room.

      Would she be wearing that proper lavender gown, or a shimmering sweep of satin night rail? At the image, his breath caught, his heart pounded and his fingers clutched at the linen cloth.

      Get hold, he told himself, taking a deep, calming breath. She asked you to dine merely. Probably she just wishes to thank you, quite properly, for your kind intervention.

      Ah, but if she intends more… After all, a virtuous middle-class lady didn’t ask a man to dine alone with her. And a widow, if discreet, might allow herself liberties forbidden a wife or unmarried girl.

      How would he get through dinner without touching her? If she made him no offer, how could he compel himself to leave without taking her?

      He looked down at his clenched fists and realized he’d just ruined another neckcloth. With an oath, he pulled off the crumpled linen and tossed it on the heap with the other failures. Already he’d dismissed his valet, insolent lad, who’d laughed after he’d hopelessly wrinkled his fifth attempt. If the fellow hadn’t been with him since Oxford, he’d have boxed the man’s ears.

      Lord, he thought in disgust, Brent was right, he was behaving more like a green sapskull enamored of his first wench than a seasoned man of eight and twenty. He’d enjoyed the favors of a number of women, appreciated their company and paid cheerfully for services rendered. Even with his mistresses, he’d dallied in their beds and forgotten them the moment he’d left. Why should this be different?

      With mercurial speed, his irritation faded and he grinned. Because I feel like the greenest sapskull, for the first time truly enamored of a woman. He’d been distracted and out of sorts ever since her note arrived, consumed by a fierce desire to be with her again. Ah, what a woman!

      In just a short while he would see her once more. Somehow, he would restrain himself, concentrate on exerting all the charm a bevy of ladies had previously found irresistible. And then, this very night, she might be his….

      If he ever got his bloody neckcloth tied. With a growl, he took another cloth from the stack and set to work.

      

      “Excellent dinner,” Lord Cheverley complimented Francesca as she poured his coffee.

      “Obrigado, my lord.”

      “Have you set out the port?” Emily asked. At the maid’s nod, she continued, “You may go, then. Thank you, Francesca. My lord, if you please?”

      With a smile, she indicated a small settee poised beside a woven floral carpet that adjoined the dining area. Lord Cheverley carried his cup and placed it on the side table. She followed him and took the adjacent armchair.

      So far, so good, she thought, her nerves on edge but under control. Dinner had been excellent, one of Francesca’s best, and conversation had flowed with no awkward pauses.

      Over the meal she’d drawn out her noble guest about his family and interests. He’d remained in town through the winter, he informed her, because of his work for the Army Department, something to do with the always-tangled supply routes for Wellington’s forces. She learned he was the sole protector of a mother and a younger sister soon to make her come-out, that he had estates in three different counties, that he loved riding and hated peas.

      “You’ve discovered all my secrets,” he remarked, taking a sip of the strong brew, “and yet I know almost nothing of you. Your late husband was with Wellington, I understand?”

      Careful, her inner voice warned. “Yes. He fought in almost every peninsular battle.”

      “And you followed the drum?”

      “Yes.”

      “You must have been very young when you married.”

      That brought a smile. “Indeed. I was but sixteen.”

      “Sixteen! I’m astonished your family permitted you to marry and hie off to the Peninsula at such a tender age.”

      Her smile faded. “Neither family approved the match. We eloped. After our scandalous runaway marriage, my father cut me off completely, so I had no choice but to follow the drum. Though never did I regret it, I assure you! I cherished every moment with—” Biting her tongue, she stopped herself before

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