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were not within the realms of possibility.

      ‘Your shirt, my lord, and your boots.’ Hedges materialised with the expressionless efficiency achieved only by the most highly trained English butler. ‘And I have taken the liberty of borrowing one of the late master’s neckcloths.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Ashe dressed in silence, got his hair into some sort of order, submitted to Hedges whisking the clothes brush over his jacket and followed the butler downstairs. In the blaze of silver lace and frogging he felt distinctly overdressed, but sartorial errors were apparently the least of his faux pas.

      ‘Luncheon will be served in about twenty minutes, my lord.’ Lady Felsham had not changed the function of the downstairs rooms around, he noted as Hedges opened a door, cleared his throat and announced, ‘Major the Viscount Dereham, my lady.’

      Taking a deep breath Ashe tugged down his cuffs and strode into the drawing room to confront the straitlaced widow whose home he had invaded.

      The breath stayed choked in his lungs. He had expected a frowsty middle-aged woman in black. Standing in the middle of the room was his Venus of the night before, regarding him with steady grey eyes, the colour high on her cheekbones.

      Only she was now decently dressed in an exquisite green gown that made her elegantly coiffed hair gleam like polished wood. Pearls glowed softly against her flushed skin and the memory of the scent of her almost drove his scattered wits to the four corners of the room.

      ‘Lord Dereham.’ Straight-backed, she dropped the very slightest formal curtsy. She could not be a day over twenty-six, surely?

      ‘Lady Felsham.’ He managed it without stammering like a callow boy, thank God, and bowed. There was a slight movement at the back of the room and he saw a plainly dressed woman of middle age in the shadows. A chaperon. Where the blazes had she been last night when he had needed her?

      ‘Please, sit.’ Her ladyship gestured at a chair and sank down on the chaise opposite. The woman at the back sat too. Not a chaperon, then, or she would have been introduced. Her dresser no doubt. ‘I am glad you are able to stay for luncheon, Lord Dereham.’

      ‘Thank you, ma’am. I am delighted.’ And I’m gaping at her like a nodcock. Pull yourself together, man! ‘I must apologise for invading your home last night. There is no hiding the fact that I had been celebrating rather too enthusiastically.’ A faint smile curled the corner of her lips. The lower lip had the slightest, most provocative, pout. What would it be like to nip gently? He dragged his eyes away from it. ‘I am somewhat confused about what then transpired. This is not helped by recollections of a white bear, which leads me to believe I was rather more in my altitudes than I had imagined.’

      ‘Horace.’ She might have been naming a relative. ‘He is a polar bear skin on the floor in front of the fireplace.’

      ‘Horace.’ The damned bear was called Horace. What sort of woman gave her hearthrugs names, for heaven’s sake? But at least he was not losing his mind. ‘I think I must have tripped and measured my length on your Horace,’ he added, the memories coming back now he knew the white bear was not a dream.

      Ashe had thought her colour somewhat heightened when he entered the room. Now she flushed to her hairline. What the devil had he said? Lady Felsham could no longer meet his eyes. He closed them, searching the blurred pictures behind his lids. She had been lying on the fur. It was not Horace he had landed full length upon, it was her, and all those tantalising dreams of warm female curves, of the scent of her skin, of, Heaven help him, following the whorls of her ear with his tongue, were accurate memories.

      Chapter Three

      Ashe stared at his hostess and Lady Felsham gazed back, sitting there, outwardly composed, while inwardly she must be desperately wondering just what he could recall of all this—and whether he was going to gossip about it, or worse. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more anxious he realised she must be—he could ruin her reputation in one minute of indiscreet talk. It was not something he could hint about, and he had no idea to what extent she had confided in her dresser.

      ‘Might I crave a private word, ma’am?’ Her polite smile vanished and a shadowed look came into those frank grey eyes.

      All she said was, ‘Step outside for a few moments, please, Philpott, and close the door behind you.’

      Ashe waited for the snick of the catch before speaking. ‘I have placed you in a difficult position—’

      ‘Not as difficult as the position in which I found myself at three o’clock this morning,’ she interrupted him with some feeling. Ashe almost smiled; she could have been tearful or furious or even hysterical. As it was, her tart tone was refreshing.

      ‘No. I imagine not. I am also aware that there is very little I can do to make things better other than to offer my profound apologies and to give you my word that I will not speak of this to anyone.’ She nodded acceptance, her lips still unsmiling. The colour had ebbed from her cheeks somewhat, he was relieved to see; it seemed she trusted him. ‘It must have been terrifying for you and I can only wonder at the fact that you did not have me thrown out on to the street the moment you were free to do so. To have given me a comfortable bed and the attention of your servants is charity I am far from deserving.’

      ‘I doubt my nerves would have stood the results of screaming the house down and then being discovered pinned to the floor beneath an unknown gentleman,’ she said gravely. ‘Once you were on your somewhat unsteady feet I considered what to do and decided that my butler needed his sleep. In any case, the sight of your supine body on the front step would hardly have added to my consequence with the neighbours. I had plenty of time to assess you my lord, and I came to the conclusion that you were harmless enough.’

      She was laughing at him now the anxiety was gone. The spark in those fine eyes was not mortification, nor indignation, but amusement. Ashe found an answering bubble of laughter rising and got it firmly under control. Lady Felsham might be prepared to see the funny side of this, but he still felt his own part to have been unforgivable.

      ‘You are too generous, ma’am. I trust I did not injure you.’

      ‘Not at all. Horace has thick fur and the carpet beneath was also good padding. I have slept more comfortably, I must admit.’ She smiled at last, a generous, warm smile that had him yearning to press his lips to it. ‘But after almost two years in mourning, living in rural seclusion, a small adventure is not unwelcome.’

      There was a discreet tap at the door. ‘Come in!’

      ‘Luncheon is served, my lady.’

      ‘Have you an appetite, Lord Dereham?’ Lady Felsham rose to her feet with a graceful sway that had him fighting to keep his eyes away from her hips. ‘I can promise you that Mrs Hedges is an excellent cook.’

      Mrs Hedges had indeed done them proud. Bel was thankful for the distraction the formalities of eating in company provided. Lord Dereham had greatly relieved her mind with his assurances of discretion and the impeccable way in which he was behaving, but even so, the sensations conjured up by even referring to the incident were physically most agitating. Bel shifted uncomfortably on her seat and tried not to fidget.

      ‘Butter, Lord Dereham?’ She helped herself to braised ham, then found herself staring at the big, capable hand with its long fingers and the healing scar across the knuckles as he replaced the butter dish on the table. It was the hand of a fighting man, a strong man, and she could not help but contrast it with Henry’s white, soft and carefully manicured digits.

      ‘You have not been back in England long?’ She tried to imagine that she was presiding over a vicarage luncheon party and not to remember his mischievous twinkle as she had remarked that a small adventure was not unwelcome. ‘Your agent led me to understand that you were with the army in Belgium.’

      ‘I arrived the night before last from Ostend and reached London late yesterday afternoon.’

      ‘Then no wonder you felt so…unwell yesterday. You must have been exhausted.

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