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and far between.’

      ‘You’ve noticed,’ Lucy said.

      ‘Don’t be modest. A woman is always flattered to learn a man finds her attractive.’

      ‘As you will know,’ Lucy said laughingly. ‘It’s evident Jamie is head over heels in love with you.’ She glanced at Jamie talking animatedly and loudly to Mr Portas.

      Coral looked over at her beau thoughtfully. ‘Jamie’s had far too much to drink already and was vociferously declaring himself the greatest English playwright since Shakespeare as we walked along the street. He’s just finished writing his new play and is testing the great man out to see if he might be interested in reading it, but I don’t hold out much hope. Mr Portas doesn’t like new productions.’

      ‘That’s because they’re expensive, risky and time-consuming. We both know they can be damned into oblivion by the audience on the first night. The cost of new scenes, costumes and music often make it ineligible to a director of a theatre to accept a new play, especially when it’s considered that the reviving of a good play would answer his end of profit and reputation.’

      Coral sighed. ‘Unfortunately I think you’re right. Mr Portas always favours a good old English drama. Duels, brooding heroes and doxies, bloodshed and battles, that’s what the public want. I don’t think Mr Portas will give Jamie a moment of his time, but he lives in hope. I’d best go and rescue him, although I have a favour of my own to ask the great man.’ Leaving Lucy to talk to a cheeky reporter, Coral sidled over to ask Mr Portas, a portly, much-liked dramatist—volatile and mercurial when things weren’t going his way—in a slightly rumpled blue suit, if he would consider her for a walk-on part in The Merchant of Venice.

      * * *

      It was close on midnight when the guests began to depart—some to stagger out in jovial good humour. Lucy was about to say goodnight to Jack when Polly came to her. The girl looked agitated, for she kept wringing her hands.

      ‘Polly? Whatever is the matter?’ Lucy enquired.

      ‘There’s a gentleman to see you,’ Polly said hurriedly. ‘He’s in the parlour.’

      Lucy looked at her with a measure of amusement. ‘The parlour? Why on earth didn’t he join us?’

      ‘He said it’s a private matter, Miss Lane. He seemed very anxious to see you, but said he’d wait until your guests had gone.’

      Momentarily surprised and curious as to who this visitor could be to call on her at this time of night, Lucy stared at the closed parlour door.

      On the point of leaving, Jack came to stand beside her. ‘I think I’d better stay.’

      Lucy started to speak, but before she could do so, the parlour door was flung open and a man strode out. He was so tall that the top of his head nearly grazed the door frame under which he instinctively ducked. He wore a black military-style coat with brass buttons and a white linen shirt and neckcloth. His narrow hips and muscular thighs were encased in black breeches and his gleaming black boots came to his knees. His unfashionably long hair was drawn back to the nape and secured. It was as black as his coat. His eyes were as cold as Antarctic ice floes, and gave his face with its high planed cheekbones a harsh expression. His mouth was wide and full, the lower lip with that cruel curve she remembered. A thin scar ran down his left cheek in a tanned face harder than iron and a gaze that could only be described as impudent. The scar only served to add a touch of glamour to the nobility of his perfect features.

      Lucy caught her breath in her throat and for a moment the world seemed to stand on its end. Although she had not set eyes on this man for four years, she recognised at once that proud and arrogant form. There could be no mistake.

      It was Nathan Rochefort, the man whom she had almost married four years ago, the man she loved—had loved—with all her heart and soul, and now he was the man she most hated in all the world.

      The blood drained from her face as she stared at him, unable to comprehend that he was here, in her house. Her heart pounded and her knees grew weak. She steadied herself, willed herself to hold the hysterics at bay. She was paralysed, unable to speak for the moment. The reality didn’t frighten her at all. She was shaken, yes, alarmed, too, and she was mad as hell, but she wasn’t at all frightened as she stared at Nathan. She drew air in her lungs and calmed her trembling body, eyeing him surreptitiously.

      There was a health and vitality about him that was almost mesmerising. In all, he was even more handsome than she remembered. It unnerved her, especially when those thoroughly light blue eyes locked on her and slowly raked her. She had forgotten how brilliant and clear they were. In some magical way they seemed capable of stripping the deceit from whatever had passed between them before. It was all she could do to face his unspoken challenge and not order him out of her house.

      In that moment the locked chamber in her mind burst wide open against her will and the memories came flooding back, bringing with them all the pain and anguish she had suffered four years ago. As she looked at him, at his fine strong body, she could almost feel again his hands cupping her breasts and a mouth, hot and sweet, caressing the softness of them, kisses bruising her lips and searing down the length of her throat, strong arms crushing her against a hard body, and the bold thrust of this man between her thighs. She blushed profusely at her own musings and immediately banished the memory, stiffening her spine as she recollected herself.

      After a courtship of considerable length and a date set for their wedding, without warning to anyone, overwhelmed with anger, humiliation and a deep sense of betrayal when she had discovered his affair with her closest friend, Lucy had broken off their engagement and disappeared from his life.

      And now here he was, as large as life, about to insinuate himself into her world once more.

      ‘I would appreciate a moment of your time,’ he said in low, clipped tones.

      ‘Indeed! You have no right to come to my home unannounced,’ Lucy said coldly.

      ‘That is a social nicety I chose to waive. The nature of my visit cannot wait.’ His glance flicked to Jack, who was unable to conceal his astonishment. ‘Please excuse us. What I have to discuss with Miss Lane is of the utmost importance.’ Without more ado he strode to the door which led on to the street and held it open.

      Jack looked at Lucy. ‘What the devil is this about, Lucy,’ he demanded. ‘Who is this fellow? I’m damned if I’ll leave you alone with him.’

      Lucy knew she had to reassure Jack. He clearly feared for her. What did he expect? What did she expect? ‘It’s all right, Jack. Please don’t worry. This gentleman means me no harm.’

      ‘You know this man?’

      ‘Yes. This is...’ She faltered, not knowing how he should be addressed after all this time.

      ‘Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Rochefort,’ he provided sharply.

      His voice had the same rich timbre and Lucy began to wonder if he had any flaw she could touch upon and draw some strength from. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Rochefort and I are acquainted. Don’t worry. Please go, Jack. I’ll speak to you tomorrow at the theatre.’

      ‘Very well.’ His voice sounded mulish. Turning, he strode in the direction of the stern-looking stranger holding the door open with an impatience that he was clearly finding hard to control. Jack paused, looking into a face a foot above his own. ‘If you touch her, I’ll...’

      ‘You’ll what?’ Nathan’s lips curled with mild contempt. ‘Goodnight.’ Without more ado he closed the door almost before Jack had time to pass through.

      ‘You must also leave,’ Lucy said, her tone brisk.

      Nathan’s eyes slid towards her and trapped her in their burning gaze. ‘Not yet. We have to talk—if you please—’

      ‘I do not please,’ Lucy cut him short disdainfully. ‘If you have anything to say to me, you may write to my aunt Dora, who deals with most of my correspondence and engagements. She

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