LITMIR.BIZ

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to call for help, but Lord Belgrave cut off her scream. She struggled against his grip, but he pinched her nose. With the lack of air, the headache roared into a fury. Dizzy and sick, she stopped fighting, and he dragged her across the gravel. Nausea gripped her, and the agony in her head was so intense, it nearly brought her to her knees. It couldn’t have come at a worse time.

      The baron lowered his voice. ‘You said that any woman would be fortunate to wed me.’ He drew so close, Hannah could see the vengeance in his eyes. ‘It looks like you’re about to become very fortunate indeed.’

      Chapter Two

      Michael returned to the ballroom, his posture stiff with anger. Lady Hannah had all but accused him of stealing her diamonds. He might be poor, but he wasn’t a thief. Yet she wouldn’t believe that, would she? Her blush had revealed how she viewed him: as a lowborn man, a soldier who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a lady.

      True, he had a weakness for beautiful women. But never if they were unwilling. And that was the curious part, wasn’t it? He’d dared to touch Lady Hannah…and she hadn’t protested. The aristocrat with impeccable manners hadn’t slapped him with her fan, nor called out for help. She’d leaned into his touch, as though she were thirsty for it.

      God, she’d smelled good. Like seductive jasmine, haunting and sweet. He hadn’t been able to resist her. He’d wanted to run his mouth over her neck, sliding the ivory gown over those bare shoulders until he revealed more of her delicate skin, but then her brother would murder him where he stood.

      Normally, Michael had no interest in husband-seeking innocents, but Lady Hannah captivated him. He didn’t for a moment believe she would cast him a second glance. Not only because of her suspicions about the necklace, but also because of his status. As a lieutenant, he wasn’t worthy of a woman like her.

      He had no title, unlike the other officers who had bought their commissions. He’d been granted his own commission within the British Army as a gift from the Earl of Whitmore, after he’d saved the Earl’s life five years ago. And last October he’d learned what it meant to give a command, knowing that men would die because of it.

      He’d tried to save whatever men he could, after his Captain had died at Balaclava. But he’d failed to protect the vast majority of his company. Of the six hundred, less than two hundred had returned. He’d been one of them.

      Even now, he could still hear the bullets ripping through flesh, the moans that preceded death. He couldn’t erase the nightmares, no matter how hard he’d tried. A lump tightened in the back of his throat, and he went to get another drink. As he passed the entrance to the terrace, he wondered if he should check on Lady Hannah.

      Though she wanted to find her diamonds, she was far too lovely to be venturing out alone. She needed someone to protect her from unsavoury men.

      Before he could follow her, a gentleman stepped into his line of sight, clearing his throat. He was accompanied by Hannah’s brother Stephen Chesterfield, the Earl of Whitmore.

      ‘Forgive me, Thorpe, but there is someone whom I’d like you to meet.’

      The older man wore a black cloth tailcoat, expertly tailored to his form. His salt-and-pepper beard and mustache were neatly groomed, while the rest of his head was bald. Gold glinted upon the handle of his cane, and every inch of the gentleman spoke of money. Idly, Michael wondered if the man wanted a personal guard.

      ‘This is a friend of my father’s,’ Stephen said. ‘Graf Heinrich von Reischor, the Lohenberg ambassador to England.’

      Lohenberg. Uneasiness slipped over him like a gust of cold air. The mention of the country provoked a distant memory he couldn’t quite grasp. His mouth tightened, and he forced himself to concentrate on the gentleman standing in front of him.

      Whitmore finished the introduction, and Michael wondered if he was expected to bow before an ambassador. He settled upon a polite nod.

      Graf von Reischor leaned upon his cane. ‘Thank you, Lord Whitmore. I am most grateful for the introduction. If you will excuse us?’ The Earl nodded to both of them and departed.

      Now what was this all about? Michael wondered. The Lohenberg Graf fixed his gaze upon him in an open stare, as though he were intrigued by what he saw. Then the man lowered his voice and spoke an unfamiliar language, one that sounded like a blend of German and Danish.

      Michael wondered if he was supposed to understand the words, but he could do nothing but shake his head in ignorance.

      Graf von Reischor’s interest never wavered. ‘Forgive me, Lieutenant Thorpe. I thought you might be from Lohenberg, given your appearance.’

      ‘My appearance?’

      ‘Yes.’ The man’s gaze was unrelenting, though there was a trace of surprise beneath it. ‘You look a great deal like someone I know. Enough that you could be his son.’

      ‘My father was a fishmonger. He lived in London all his life.’

      The Graf didn’t appear convinced. ‘And your parents…they were both English?’

      ‘Yes.’ It didn’t sit well with him that the Graf von Reischor was implying anything about his parentage. He had been their only son, and though it had been four years since they’d died of cholera, he hadn’t forgotten Mary Thorpe dying in his arms. She’d been a saint, his mother. It shamed him that he’d never been able to provide more for them, though he’d done his best.

      Graf von Reischor didn’t appear convinced. ‘It may be a coincidence. But I don’t know what to believe. You have no idea how strong the resemblance is.’

      It was difficult to keep his anger in check. ‘Paul Thorpe was my father. No other man. You have no right to suggest otherwise.’

      ‘We should discuss this more in private,’ the Graf said. ‘Call upon me tomorrow at my private apartment at Number Fourteen, St James’s Street.’

      ‘I have no intention of calling upon you,’ Michael retorted. ‘I know who I am and where I come from.’ He started to leave, but a gold-handled cane blocked his path.

      ‘I’m not certain you understand, Lieutenant Thorpe,’ the Graf said quietly. ‘The man you resemble is our king.’

      

      Michael pushed his way past the Graf, refusing to even acknowledge the man’s words. He had no desire to be the brunt of a nobleman’s joke. A Prince? Hardly. Von Reischor was trying to make sport of him; he wasn’t foolish enough to fall prey to such nonsense.

      As he made his way through the room of people, his anger heated up. Who did the Graf think he was, implying that a common soldier could be royalty? It was ridiculous to even consider.

      A coldness bled through his veins, for the encounter had opened up the dreams that sometimes haunted him. Dreams of a long journey, voices shouting at him and a woman’s tears.

      He gripped his fists. It wasn’t real. None of it was. And he refused to believe false visions of a life that wasn’t his.

      To take his mind off the ludicrous proposition, he decided to find Lady Hannah. She’d been gone a long time, and he hadn’t seen her return to the terrace.

      He retraced her path toward the roses. She’d been wearing a white gown, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find her amidst the greenery. But after an extensive search of the shrubbery and rose beds, there was no sign of her.

      She’d been here. He’d swear it on his life. Michael thought back to the direction she’d gone, and he knelt down near the walkway. It was an easy matter to slip back into his military training.

      Light footprints had left an imprint upon the gravel. Michael tracked her path around the side of the house, when abruptly the footprints were joined by a heavier set. Then something…no, someone, had been dragged off.

      His instincts slammed a warning into him—especially when he spied Lady Hannah’s diamond necklace

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