Arabella rested until noon, waiting impatiently for Lucien to return. Her mind too fraught with the occurrences of the day, she finally rose and went downstairs. After assisting Mrs. Guinver darn linens for a desultory half hour, she went in search of her aunts to see if they had any commissions for her while she was visiting the tenants.

Lucien had told her to wait until his return, but she had a pressing need to do something, anything. She was just walking through the vestibule when the murmur of voices halted her. Low and feminine, they drifted up the steps from below.

Strange. What were Aunt Emma and Aunt Jane doing in the storage hall? Frowning, Arabella descended the stairs, pausing on the last step when she heard Aunt Emma speaking.

“Oh, Jane! What will you do now? We are sunk. Not even the Captain can help us now.”

Arabella peered around the corner to the old storeroom. Emma was perched on a barrel of flour while Jane paced up and down the narrow aisle between the salted pork and dried herbs.

“I hate Sir Loughton!” exclaimed Jane, her arms crossed beneath her sparse bosom as she marched. “The lecher.”

“It was most ungentlemanly of him,” agreed Emma, swinging her feet to and fro, her heels thudding against the wood.

“I’ve known that bounder was not a gentleman from the first day I met him.” Jane’s booted feet clipped a steady beat as she paced. “That…rapscallion! If I were a man, I would call him out.”

“Yes, but if you were a man, he would not have offered to dismiss your gaming debts for a quick roll in the hay.”

Arabella almost lost her balance, catching the railing just in time. Gaming debts? A roll in the hay? She tried to imagine gruff Sir Loughton making such an improper proposition, but could not.

“Ha!” Jane’s voice rang out. “If that man thinks I will allow him to so much as kiss my hand after such a request, he has another think coming.”

“There’s no need to get so upset,” Emma said, tilting her gray head to one side, her face taking on a dreamy look. “If you feel you cannot make such a sacrifice, then I will…” She stopped and cleared her throat before saying in a brave voice, “Jane, if you think it will help, I will sleep with Sir Loughton.”

Jane halted in her tracks. Arabella could not see her face, but her back was ramrod stiff. “And just what,” said Jane in a thinly stretched voice, “do you mean by that? You have a tendre for that lecher, don’t you?”

“Oh, no! Please, Jane! I can see that you are upset. If I had realized you meant to accept him, I never would have said a word.”

“Of course I am not going to accept him! Do you think I have taken leave of my senses?”

“If anyone has taken leave of their senses, it is Sir Loughton,” said Emma stoutly. “You are perfectly sane.”

Jane resumed her pacing. “I was a fool to think I could talk that man into coming to a genteel settlement on the notes he won from me last month.”

Arabella leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Just how much did Jane owe?

“Yes, but…” Emma’s voice clouded with doubt. “Do you think it was wise to wager him double or nothing on a single card?”

“You do not understand the rudiments of the game,” Jane said in a haughty voice. “Furthermore, you do not understand the code of conduct expected in such circumstances. I could not, in all honor, refuse such an offer. I mean, double or nothing!” She slashed through the air with her hand. “I could have wiped out the entire debt in one fell swoop.”

“Yes, but now we owe twice as much and I don’t know where we are to get it. Ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money.”

Ten thousand pounds. Arabella sank to the top step, dazed.

“Maybe there is one thing we can do,” Emma said.

“What does Sir Loughton want more than anything else?”

Jane stiffened and Emma added hastily, “Besides you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“The sheep tonic. Maybe he would trade us your notes for the sheep tonic.”

For an instant, Arabella’s heart took flight. But then Jane sighed and resumed her pacing. “No, we cannot. While I don’t mind making a small batch of tonic now and then for our particular friends, it would be an error to think of Sir Loughton in such a way. His sheep compete against ours at market. If both of our farms produced an excessive amount of lambs, the prices would fall immediately.”

“Then we would be right back where we started from.” Emma gave a heartfelt sigh. “I suppose our only hope is that the duke will see his way to win Arabella.”

“It is just a matter of time,” Aunt Jane said firmly, “before they realize what nodcocks they’ve been. I’m sure of it.”

Blindly groping for the railing, Arabella rose and made her way back to the foyer. Once there, she sank into the first chair she found and sat staring straight ahead. Ten thousand pounds. Arabella pressed her hand to her forehead. It was yet another care, another impossible feat she had to accomplish. But whatever happened, she could not allow Aunt Jane to exchange her virtue for a few notes.

Within the space of one short day, her smuggling venture had collapsed about her ears, threatening Wilson’s welfare, if not her own; someone had tried to kill her and Lucien by setting the shed on fire; and now Aunt Jane had been lured into wagering a staggering sum to Sir Loughton. Arabella rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and covered her eyes. What on earth was she to do now?

A knock sounded at the door and Mrs. Guinver bustled forward from the hallway. She stopped when she saw Arabella. “Heavens, missus! What are you doing sitting here in the foyer?” Concern shadowed the housekeeper’s plump face. “Are you ill?”

Arabella gathered herself as best as she could. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“You don’t look fine to me. You look as pale as snow, which isn’t to be wondered at, considering all of the excitement we’ve had this morning. Perhaps you should come into the library and settle yourself on the settee whilst I fetch you a nice pot of hot tea.”

Arabella was long past the point where a cup of hot tea could solve anything, but perhaps if she sat quietly and mulled over her predicament, an idea would come. She managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Guinver. I will—”

The knocking sounded again, this time more insistent. Mrs. Guinver made an exasperated sound. “You run along, missus, and I’ll get the door.” She bustled away before Arabella could get to her feet.

Mrs. Guinver opened the door and Arabella heard Mr. Francot say, “I need to see Miss Hadley at once. Is she—” He caught sight of her at the library door and took an impetuous step forward, crowding the housekeeper out of the way. “There you are! I hope you are feeling better.”

“I’m quite well, thank you.” She wished him to perdition at the moment, but at the relieved look on his face, Arabella softened. “I was going to have some tea. Would you join me?” Somehow, she didn’t really want to be alone just now.

His face brightened. “Of course.”

Mrs. Guinver shut the door and took the solicitor’s hat and gloves. She favored him with a sour glance and said, “I’ll bring ye some tea and cakes, but ye can only stay a minute. Miss Hadley needs to rest.”

He sent a sharp glance at Arabella and must have concurred with the housekeeper, for he nodded once and said, “I won’t tax her, I promise.”

The housekeeper gave a satisfied nod and left as Mr. Francot followed Arabella into the library.

She waited until he had seated himself before she perched on the edge of a chair. “Mr. Francot, I’m glad you returned. I need to speak with you.”

Twin spots of color appeared in his cheeks. “Indeed, I had to come. I wanted to see for myself that you were not harmed this morning.”

Arabella waved an impatient hand. “I’m fine, thank you. Mr. Francot, at one time you—” The words clogged her throat, but she swallowed and continued. “You mentioned you knew someone who might be interested in buying Rosemont.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Do you think the buyer would be willing to renew his offer?”

A brief look of surprise crossed his heavy face. “Of course. I’m sure he would. May I ask what has happened to make you change your mind?”

“I just…I want to sell the house, and as quickly as possible. Would you speak with your acquaintance?” Each word tasted of metal, bitter and cold. “I will need the offer in writing.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Miss Hadley…Arabella, I hate to see you in such a taking. If you could but see your way to…if there is anything you need, I hope you will…” His face turned a bright red, his emotions seeming to grow stronger by the minute. “I—I care for you, and I would do anything in my power to offer you some relief from these horrible circumstances.”

“Thank you, Mr. Francot,” Arabella said, wishing miserably she could think of some other way out of her predicament. But no brilliant idea came forward.

“Yes, but I—”

He stopped and delivered such a look of burning passion that Arabella slapped a hand over her eyes. “Mr. Francot, please don’t—”

It was too late. The solicitor had already dropped awkwardly to one knee in front of her. He reached over and took her hand from her eyes, holding it tightly. “Miss Hadley, I know I am not worthy of you—”

“No, you are much too worthy.” And that was the problem. For some reason she was unable to fall in love with sane, logical men, but must expend her passions on reckless dukes who would soon be comfortably on their way back to London.

“Mr. Francot, please get up.” She tugged to get her hand back, but his grip just tightened until she winced.

“Arabella, just hear me out. I haven’t much to offer, but one day soon, I will be able to buy you anything your heart desires.”

She jerked her hand free and then stood. “Mr. Francot, please get up. Though it is a very generous offer, I cannot marry you. I have my brother and my aunts to think of, and—”

He climbed ponderously to his feet. “I would care for all of your family as if they were my own.”

For one brief, horrible moment, she considered his proposal. Marriage to him would mean a life of normalcy such as she’d never had; her own home without the worry or repairs or bills, a garden she could tend, maybe even children. Her heart twisted painfully. She’d spent so much of her passion and effort on Rosemont, she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury to think about children.

Arabella raised her gaze to his. Though his passion shone brightly, the only feeling she could discover within the depths of her own heart was a mild disappointment that his eyes were not green. Like Lucien’s.

It wasn’t a fair comparison. Lucien was ten years younger and possessed all that came with good birth and fortune. Or he had, until his father had mismanaged the estate and then left Lucien to deal with the consequences. In a way, his case was much like Arabella’s.

For an instant, she wondered if this was what it had been like for Lucien. Faced with pressing obligations, a failing estate, a sea of debt, and the care of his little sister, he must have thought he was in the grip of a relentless nightmare. To a desperate twenty-year-old, Sabrina and her fortune must have seemed like an answer wrought from God. A tightness settled in Arabella’s chest as she remembered the stark desolation on Lucien’s face when he spoke of Sabrina. Some things were far more important than security. “Mr. Francot, I cannot let you sacrifice yourself in such a way. I must refuse.”

His brow lowered. “Please, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”

“You may not think so now. But later…No, it wouldn’t do for either of us.”

His hands dropped to his sides and for a moment she feared he would cry. But when he lifted his head, his eyes shone with a bright eagerness that made her take a step backward. Her retreat seemed to fuel him, for he reached out, grabbed her to him, and then planted an awkward kiss on her lips. Arabella struggled to free herself, but he only tightened his grip, his wet mouth moving over her lips with bruising force.

“Mr. Francot!” Mrs. Guinver’s voice whipped across the room.

He release Arabella so suddenly that she fell back against the cushions.

The housekeeper slapped the tray on the table so hard that the plates jumped, then she pinned a glare on the solicitor. “I’m going to get Ned.” With that, she turned and marched out the door.

“No!” Mr. Francot said, but she was already gone. He raked a shaking hand through his hair. “Good God, what have I done? Arabella, I didn’t mean to upset you. I love you too much for that.”

“Please just go.” Arabella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And do not return to Rosemont.”

The front door opened in the foyer and Arabella could hear Ned’s booted footsteps as he crossed the vestibule. His mouth white, Mr. Francot bowed and, with one last anguished look, he left.

She watched him go, angry tears slipping past her lashes. “This must be the worst day of my life.”

As the steps came closer, Arabella patted her face dry and turned to welcome Ned with a pacifying smile.

But it wasn’t Ned. Lucien stopped on the threshold, looking darkly handsome in his greatcoat and riding boots. “There you are,” he said. “Are you ready to—” He stopped, his brows suddenly drawn. “What’s happened?”

It was strange, the way her stomach warmed at the sight of him. Strange and disturbing. She managed a watery smile. “Nothing. I was just discussing some business matters with Mr. Francot.”

Lucien’s face darkened and he crossed the room until he stood directly in front of her. “You’ve been crying.”

For one mad moment, she thought about tossing her crumbling pride to the winds and throwing herself in his arms. But all that would win was momentary comfort and a lifetime of regret. So instead, she applied herself to the task of tucking her handkerchief away. “I am still distressed by the events of this morning and it has made me weepy. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

Lucien looked down at her bent head as she slowly restored her handkerchief to her pocket. Though she managed the words very credibly, there was an air of tragedy about her that tightened his throat and made him want to bury his fist in the face of whoever had caused her to cry.

An image of Mr. Francot’s strained expression as he passed Lucien in the doorway suddenly came to mind. “Did that popinjay insult you?”

“Which popinjay?” she asked, her voice strained.

“You know exactly which popinjay I am talking about.”

“I have already told you that I’m fine. Are you ready to leave? I really must deliver Aunt Jane’s basket to the March family before the weather breaks.”

Lucien placed his finger under her chin, very gently tilting her face toward his. Her eyes were damp, the lashes spiky with tears, but it was her mouth that caught his attention. Swollen and bruised, it told its own story. Lucien swore and turned on his heel, hot anger flooding through him. He would find that opportunistic bastard and thrash him within an inch of his life.

Arabella caught Lucien’s arm before he reached the door. “Leave him be, Lucien! He’s already apologized and he is very sorry.”

“He hasn’t begun to be sorry.”

She planted her feet firmly and refused to budge an inch, her hands tight about his arm. “Leave him alone. I owe him so much. And today…today was just a mistake.”

It angered Lucien that she could so easily forgive Francot, but could dredge up only tolerance for him. He snarled, “That arrogant fool wants you in his bed, and nothing more.”

“And you?” she snapped, releasing his arm to glower at him. “Why are you helping me, Lucien? Why did you fix the steps and the fence and the shutter and all the rest? Because you wished to see Rosemont returned to her former glory?” Her mouth tightened. “Or because you found it convenient to hide here while you hunted for your jewel thieves?”

She was too sharp by far, Lucien thought with grudging admiration. “I admit that I knew the jewelry was being brought to auction somewhere nearby. But I didn’t have to stay at Rosemont, Bella. I could have lodged at any of a dozen inns along the coast.”

“Then why did you stay here?”

“Because you needed me.”

Her eyes flashed. “I am not a charity case.”

“No, you are not, and neither am I. What matters is you, Bella. You, and Robert, and Aunt Jane, and Aunt Emma, and Wilson, and everyone else at Rosemont. I don’t wish to see any of you harmed.”

“And that’s why you stayed?”

Lucien nodded once. “And because I know I wronged you. I thought perhaps I could make it up.” She made a move to turn away and he held up a hand. “I know I can’t, but I wished to try. Surely that is worth something.”

“I’m sure it would have been, had it occurred ten years ago. As it is, it’s nothing more than a careless afterthought. And I have more than enough afterthoughts of my own without borrowing yours.”

Lucien took a step closer, caught by her words. “You are having afterthoughts? About what?”

She made an exasperated noise, though her cheeks colored hotly. “I have afterthoughts about why I ever let you stay here. About how you have done nothing but plague me since you arrived. About how I wish to heaven I had left you in the road where I found you.”

“So all of your afterthoughts have been about me. Interesting.” He captured her hand so she could not back away. She bit her lip, but didn’t attempt to free herself.

Lucien smiled at the small victory. “Tell me more about these dreams you are having,” he said, his voice warm.

“Afterthoughts,” she corrected, her gaze fastened on his thumb where it rubbed a warm circle on the delicate skin of her palm.

“Ah, yes.” Lucien lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers, one at a time. She watched, her lips parted, seemingly fascinated. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to erase the pain he’d witnessed when he’d entered the room, and restore some measure of her pride. He carefully curled her fingers over his. “Tell me, Bella. In these…afterthoughts, am I naked?”

Her gaze flew to his and an unmistakable quiver of amusement crossed her face, though she quickly contained it. “You were fully dressed. In fact, you were bound and gagged, lying in the road where I found you,” she said defiantly.

“Ah, and then I suppose you rode up on a gallant horse and rescued me. Like in a fairy tale.”

She showed her teeth. “No, I was in a farmer’s cart. But after I ran over you, I did back up to make sure you were dead.”

“How…how thorough of you, my dear.”

Her lips quivered with laughter and Lucien knew he had succeeded. She pulled her hand from his and managed a very natural grin. “You are absurd. But we should leave now if we are still going to visit the tenants.”

Lucien bowed. “I am at your disposal, Miss Hadley.”

Her lips twitched. “Thank you. If you will excuse me, I must go and put on my boots. Please see if you can find Aunt Jane and get the basket we are to deliver.”

Lucien watched her go, his heart lighter than it had been in days. She was warming to him, though it would take time before she completely trusted him. Unfortunately, time was the one thing he did not have.

He wished he could plan a gentle wooing, one of kisses and candles, of whispered compliments and heated touches. But with Harlbrook pushing the constable toward an arrest, and the mysterious Mr. Bolder out to seek revenge, it would be madness to consider such a thing. Lucien had to find a way to get Arabella to marry him, and quickly.

But how? How could he gain her acquiescence? Winning a smile was one thing; winning her hand in marriage, another. He turned toward the door, his gaze drawn to the portrait over the fireplace. The Captain’s roguish smile seemed like a challenge.

Lucien found himself grinning back. “Easy for you to say. In your day and age, all you had to do was toss the woman of your choice over your shoulder and she was yours. Today—” Lucien raised his brows, a sudden thought occurring. Today it might be even simpler.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Lucien strode from the room, calling for Aunt Jane as he went.