LITMIR.BIZ

      LYRICAL PRESS

      An imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

       Chapter 1

       March, 1754

      The library door crashed open, shattering Connie’s peace and admitting the last man she wanted to be alone with. Pretending unperturbed tranquility, Connie put her pen in the standish. She clasped her hands on top of the book she’d been working on to still the trembling his presence caused.

      Wide-eyed, chest heaving, the normally elegant, cool Lord Ripley, slammed the door and put his back to it.

      She met his blank, dark stare and cursed her fluttering pulse. Whatever had put him in this state, it couldn’t be trivial.

      He blinked, straightened and assumed the town bronze most of his sort used like a cloak, covering whatever he felt beneath. He gave the perfectly tied strip of linen at his neck a twitch, arranged his sleeve ruffles, then straightened his wig. As poise and elegance returned, he transformed from a hunted fugitive to a gentleman and pushed away from the door. He strolled to the old, scarred table at which she sat. “Here you are.”

      What a ridiculous statement. “I believe I am.” She read a line in the journal before her, more to look away than because she needed to, and took a steadying breath before she met his eyes once more. “May I help you, Lord Ripley?”

      “I merely wondered why you lock yourself away here every day, Mrs. Rattigan. And I came to see if I may assist you in any way.”

      “I’m perfectly fine, sir. I doubt you could help me, or have any interest in doing so.” She’d avoided him for three days and wanted none of his games. She didn’t care why he’d shot in here, only she wished he’d shoot out again, just as fast.

      “Is it something too difficult for my paltry brain? Are you a bluestocking, ma’am, that you labor here day after day without joining the revelry?” In full control, his society manners polished as ever, he walked to her side of the table and loomed over her.

      Her heart beat faster and her breath quickened. She worked to hide his effect on her and castigated herself for a fool. He wasn’t interested in her in that way, much less when she had her hair scraped back in a knot, wore no cosmetics at all and had donned her old clothes in preparation for the dusty work. She was just an excuse, an escape from something. Or someone. She was no empty-headed miss. She was a respectable widow, but it didn’t stop her becoming tongue-tied. “I—I—”

      “You find yourself bored by our antics. You’d rather study Plautus, or is it Marcus Aurelius?” Chuckling, he leaned over her shoulder, flipped the book closed. With one long finger, he traced the name on the cover. “Saucy stories perhaps?”

      The door opened and admitted Miss Louisa Stobart, one of the young ladies invited here to meet Lord Ripley. Connie’s godfather had confided to her that he might choose a bride from among them.

      Now she understood why he’d shot into this room like a pursued fox. Miss Stobart had been the most assiduous of Lord Ripley’s pursuers, indefatigable in her chase. He’d been escaping her.

      For a change, Connie was in charge. How delicious.

      Lord Ripley straightened and gave Connie such a look of pleading that she almost laughed. “Help me,” he mouthed, before assuming his easy smile and facing his tormentor.

      She would have preferred that he said that in different circumstances, but what she dreamed at night remained between her and her pillow. This would do. A little gentle revenge was called for. She slid the book over to his lordship and pointed at random. “Here is a word I cannot read, sir. Do you see?”

      “No, ma’am.” Bending over her shoulder, he peered then looked at her.

      Far too close, his breath heated her cheek and her heart quickened. This close, he’d see her reaction for sure. Inwardly, she groaned. She hadn’t bargained on him doing that. She should have shoved the book away from her.

      His eyes widened slightly. He turned his attention to the book. “I think it says wormwood. An old spell book?”

      She laughed. “An inventory, sir. As you well know.”

      His shoulders relaxed under his country-coat. In an ordinary man that slight movement might remain unnoticed, but Connie had spent the last few days watching him surreptitiously. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and while she could tell herself that she was merely observing, it did no good. For the first time in her life, she longed to be younger, wealthier and socially higher ranking. Then she could compete. Instead, she’d dressed in a practical country gown that would survive hedgerows and house dust, and hidden away here. “Yes, of course. Wormwood.”

      Thank goodness he straightened.

      Miss Stobart stood on the other side of the table, her delicately draped pink silk gown mocking Connie’s sturdy dark green garment. Miss Stobart’s was a fashionable ideal of a gown to be worn in the country, sprinkled with exquisitely embroidered spring flowers. Miss Stobart’s gaze skimmed over Connie and to his lordship. Her ruby lips pursed in a winsome pout. “Sir, I had hoped we could take a turn in the gardens. I quite thought you had promised me at breakfast.”

      “I had no idea.” He glanced down at Connie. It was her cue to say something.

      “I’m so sorry to interrupt your”—Courtship? Pursuit? —“walk. Of course you must go.”

      Miss Stobart drummed her foot against the wood floor, maddening in the quiet library. “Indeed sir, I quite thought you’d forgotten me, so I came to find you.” Her voice was sweet; her foot was not.

      “I beg your pardon, but I had promised today to Connie for some time now.” He gave her an easy smile.

      Connie stared at him in astonishment. He’d used her first name. She wasn’t aware he even knew it. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she nearly leaped up. His skin wasn’t in contact with hers, due to her modest gown and fichu, but it might as well have been. She felt it like a shock of recognition. Of what she didn’t want to consider.

      “Connie and I are old friends.” The familiarity of her first name implied he was much friendlier with her than anyone had imagined. “When she mentioned her task, I immediately volunteered to help. Her—er—errand is something I am particularly interested in.”

      Not to mention, he didn’t have the faintest idea what she was doing. She’d never discussed her project in company and nobody had expressed an interest except for her godfather, whose commission this was.

      He was casting her as his rescuer when he hadn’t asked her first.

      “It is a special project I’ve been meaning to undertake for some time.” Should she lie, draw out the moment? She wasn’t used to being the center of attention.

      Miss Stobart fixed her cold, blue eyes on Connie, probably for the first time since she’d arrived.

      Connie gave the young woman her sweetest smile. “My visit here provided the perfect opportunity.”

      “A bluestocking?” That was the second time in ten minutes she’d been accused of that. Did everyone in society who opened a book get accused of that?

      Miss Stobart’s lips curved in a superior smile. She clearly considered herself the victor in this encounter. After all, who would not? Connie was below the notice of a young lady of marriageable age and considerable fortune.

      “Not exactly.” She glanced at the book.

      Leaning

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