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THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY

by

MACALISTER, KATIE

 

New York City : Leisure Books : Dorchester Pub. Co., 2004. 

 

ISBN:  0843951443 (pbk.)

 

SUMMARY: When a Regency lady answers an advertisement for a wife, she may have found the love of her lifeif she can keep her new husband out of trouble long enough to find out. 

 

FICTION & BIOGRAPHY

 

CHARACTERS:

   NAME: Harry Haversham, Marquis Rosse

   Gender: Male

   Age: 45

   Attributes: Nobleman, Widower, Single father, Needs to remarry to provide his five kids with a mother

 

   NAME: Fredrica "Plum" Pelham

   Gender: Female

   Age: 40

   Attributes: Divorced, Twenty years earlier she was married to a polygamist

 

GENRE:  Fiction

  Historical

  Romance

    -Regency

 

TOPICS:  Motherless families

  Remarriage

  Secrets

  Scandal

  Blackmail

  Suspicious accidents

  Unexpected love

 

SETTING:  London, England -- Europe

 

TIME PERIOD:  Early 1800s -- 19th century

 

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THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY

 

KATIE MACALISTER

  

LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  

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Copyright (c) 2004 by Marthe Arends

ISBN 0-8439-5144-3

 

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As someone who spends her days typing away at her computer, I've come to cherish the friendships I have with women who share my love of romances, drool with me over dishy men with green eyes, and understand my wacky sense of humor. DeborahAnne MacGillivray is one such friend. Many thanks for all the support and help, Lady A!

 

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Dear Reader:

 

   I'm sure some die-hard Regency-era fans are looking at the cover of this book and muttering to themselves, "I know what the trouble with Harry is-someone has sent a rubber ducky back in time to him."

   I don't think anyone would dispute the fact that bright yellow rubber duckies were not around in the period this book was set. Because I'm sure historical purists will object to the duck's presence on the cover, I feel it best to explain that, yes, we all know that the ducky on the cover is an anachronism. It was placed there not to slap historical inaccuracy in the face, but to reflect the humorous, fun tone of this tale.

   Besides, a time-traveling rubber ducky is definitely not the worst trouble to plague Harry... .

                             

Katie MacAlister

 

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Chapter One

  

   Harry wished he was dead. Well, perhaps death was an exaggeration, although St. Peter alone knew how long he'd be able to stand up to this sort of continued torture.

   "And then what happens?" His tormentor stared at him with eyes that were very familiar to him, eyes that he saw every morning in his shaving mirror, a mixture of brown, grey, and green that was pleasant enough on him, but when surrounded by the lush brown eyelashes of his inquisitor looked particularly charming. And innocent. And innocuous ... something the possessor of the eyes was most decidedly not. "Well? Then what happens? Aren't you going to tell me?"

   Harry ran his finger between his neckcloth and his neck, tugging on the cloth to loosen its constricting grasp on his windpipe, wishing for the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes that he had been able to escape capture.

   "I want to know!"

   Or found another victim to throw to the one who held him prisoner.

   "You have to tell me!"

   Perhaps death wasn't such a wild thought after all. Surely if he were to die at that exact moment, he would be admitted into heaven. Surely St. Peter would look upon the deeds he had done for the benefit of others, deeds such as spending fifteen years working as a spy for the Home Office, and grant him asylum. Surely he wouldn't be turned away from his rightful reward, damned to eternal torment, left to an eternity of hell such as he was in now, a hell dominated by-

   "Papa! Then ... what... happened?"

   Harry sighed and pushed his spectacles high onto the bridge of his nose, bowing his head in acknowledgment of defeat. "After the hen and the rooster are ... er ... married, they will naturally wish to produce chicks."

   "You already said that," his thirteen-year-old inquisitor said with the narrowed eyes and impatient tone of one who is through being reasonable. "What happens after that? And what do chickens have to do with my unpleasantness?"

   "It's the process of producing offspring that is related to your unpleasantness. When a mother hen wishes to have chicks, she and the rooster must... er... perhaps chickens aren't the best example to explain the situation."

   Lady India Haversham, eldest daughter of the Marquis Rosse, tapped her fingers on the table at her side, and glared at her father. "You said you were going to explain the unpleasantness! George says I'm not going to die despite the fact that I'm bleeding, and that it's a very special time for girls, although I do not see what's special about having pains in my stomach, and you said you'd tell me and now you're talking about bees and flowers, and chickens, and fish in the river. What do they have to do with me?"

   No, Harry decided as he looked at the earnest, if stormy, eyes of his oldest child, death was distinctly preferable to having to explain the whys and hows of reproduction-particularly the female's role in reproduction, with a specific emphasis on their monthly indispositions-to India. He decided that although he had been three times commended by the prime minister for bravery, he was at heart a coward, because he simply could not stand the torture any longer.

   "Ask Gertie. She'll explain it all to you," he said hastily as he jumped up from a narrow pink chair and fled the sunny room given over to his children, shamelessly ignoring the cries of "Papa! You said you'd tell me!"

   "You haven't seen me," Harry said as he raced through a small, windowless room that served as an antechamber to his estate office. "You haven't seen me, you don't know where I am, in fact, you might just decry knowledge of me altogether. It's safer that way. Throw the bolt on the door, would you, Temple? And perhaps you should put a chair in front of it. Or the desk. I wouldn't put it past the little devils to find a way in with only the door bolted."

   Templeton Harris, secretary and man of affairs, pursed his lips as his noble employer raced into the adjacent room.

   "What was it this time, sir?" Temple asked as he followed Harry. Weak sunlight filtered through the dingy windows, lighting motes of dust sent dancing in the air by Harry's rush through the room. "Did McTavish present you with another of his finds? Has Lord Marston decided he wishes to become a blacksmith rather than inherit your title? Are the twins trying to fly from the stable roof again?"

   Harry shuddered visibly as he gulped down a healthy swig of brandy. "Nothing so benign. India wished to know certain facts. Woman things."

   Temple's pale blue eyes widened considerably. "But... but Lady India is only a child. Surely such concepts are beyond her?"

   Harry took a deep, shaky breath and leaned toward a window thick with grime. Using his elbow he cleaned a small patch, just enough to peer out into the wilderness that once was a garden. "She might be a child to our minds, Temple, but according to nature, she's trembling on the brink of womanhood."

   "Oh, those sorts of woman things."

   Harry held out the empty brandy snifter silently, and just as silently Temple poured a judicious amount of smoky amber liquid into it. "Have one yourself. It's not every day a man can say his daughter has ... er ... trembled."

   Temple poured himself a small amount and silently toasted his employer.

   "I can remember when she was born," Harry said, as he stared out through the clean patch of glass, enjoying the burn of the brandy as it warmed its way down his throat. "Beatrice was disappointed that she was a girl, but I thought she was perfect with her tiny little nose, and a mop of brown curls, and eyes that used to watch me so seriously. It was like she was an angel, sent down to grace our lives, a ray of light, a beam of sunshine, a joy to behold." He took another deep breath as three quicksilver shadows flickered across the dirty window, the high, carefree laughter of children up to some devilment trailing after them. Harry flung himself backward, against the wall, clutching his glass with fingers gone white with strain. "And then she grew up and had her woman's time, and demanded that I explain everything to her. What's next, Temple, I ask you, what's next?"

   Temple set his glass down in the same spot it had previously occupied, and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief, trying not to grimace at the dust and decay rampant in the room. It disturbed his tidy nature immensely to know that the room had not seen a maid's hand since they had arrived some three weeks before. "I assume, my lord, that as Lady Anne is now eight years old, in some five years' time she will be demanding the very same information. Would you not allow a maid to just clean around your books? I can promise you that none of your important papers or items will be touched during the cleaning process. Indeed, I would be happy to tend to the cleaning myself if you would just give me leave-"

   Harry, caught up in the hellish thought of having to repeat with his youngest daughter the scene he'd just-barely-escaped, shook his head. "No. This is my room, the one room in the whole house that is my sanctuary. No one but you is permitted in it, not the children, not the maids, no one. I must have someplace that is wholly mine, Temple, somewhere sacred, somewhere that I can just be myself."

   Temple glanced around the room. He knew the contents well enough, he'd had to carry in the boxes of Harry's books, his estate papers, the small bureau of curios, the horribly muddied watercolors that graced the walls. "Perhaps if I had the curtains washed-"

   "No," Harry repeated, sliding a quick glance toward the window before daring to cross the room to a large rosewood desk covered in papers, scattered quills, stands of ink, books, a large statue of Pan, and other assorted items too numerous to catalog. "I have something else for you to do than wash my curtains."

   Temple, about to admit that he hadn't intended on washing the drapery himself, decided that information wasn't relevant to his employer's happiness, and settled with a sigh into the comfortable leather chair to one side of the desk. He withdrew a memorandum notepad and pencil from his inner pocket. "Sir?"

   Harry paced from the desk to the unlit fireplace. "How long have you been with me, Temple?"

   "Fourteen years on Midsummer Day," that worthy replied promptly.

   "That's just a fortnight away."

   Temple allowed that was so.

   "I had married Beatrice the summer before," Harry continued, staring into the dark emptiness of the fireplace as if his life were laid out there amid the heap of coal waiting to be lit should the warm weather turn cold.

   "I believe when I came into your service that Lady Rosse was ... er ... in expectation of Lady India's arrival."

   "Hmm. It's been almost five years since Bea died."

   Temple murmured an agreement.

   "Five years is a long time," Harry said, his hazel eyes dark behind the lenses of his spectacles. "The children are running wild. God knows they don't listen to me, and Gertie and George are hard put to keep up with the twins and McTavish, let alone Digger and India."

   Temple's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. He had a suspicion of just where the conversation was going, but was clueless to envision what role the marquis felt he could serve in such a delicate matter.

   Harry took a deep breath, rubbed his nose, then turned and stalked back to the deep green leather chair behind the desk. He sat and waved his hand toward the paper in Temple's hand. "I've decided the children need the attention of a woman. I want you to help me find one."

   "A governess?"

   Harry's lips thinned. "No. After Miss Reynauld died in the fire ... no. The children must have time to recover from that horror. The woman I speak of-"he glanced over at the miniature that sat in prominence on the corner of his desk-"will be my marchioness. The children need a mother, and I..."

   "Need a wife?" Temple said gently as Harry's voice trailed off. Despite his best intentions not to allow himself to become emotionally involved in his employer's life-emotions so often made one uncomfortable and untidy-he had, over the years, developed quite a fondness for Harry and his brood of five hellions. He was well aware that Harry had an affection for his wife that might not have been an all-consuming love, but was strong enough to keep him bound in grief for several years after her death in childbirth.

   "Yes," Harry said with a sigh, slouching back into the comfortable embrace of the chair. "I came late to the married state, but must admit that I found it an enjoyable one, Temple. You might not think it possible for someone who is hounded night and day by his rampaging herd of children, but I find myself lonely of late. For a woman. A wife," he corrected quickly, a faint frown creasing his brow. "I have determined that the answer to this natural desire for a companion, and the need for someone to take the children in hand, is a wife. With that thought in mind, I would like you to take down an advertisement I wish you to run in the nearest local newspaper. What is the name of it? The Dolphin's Derriere Daily?"

   "The Ram's Bottom Gazette, sir, so named because the journal originates in the town of Ram's Bottom, which is, I believe, located some eight miles to the west. I must confess, however, as to being a bit confused by your determination to place an advertisement for a woman to claim the position of marchioness. I had always assumed that a gentleman of your consequence looked to other members of your society for such a candidate, rather than placing an advertisement in an organ given over to discussions that are primarily agricultural in nature."

   Harry waved away that suggestion. "I've thought about that, but I have no wish to go into town until I have to."

   "But surely you must have friends, acquaintances who know of eligible women of your own class-"

   "No." Harry leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the corner of his desk. "I've looked over all my friends' relatives, none of them will suit. Most of them are too young, and the ones who aren't just want me for the title."

   Temple was at a loss. "But, sir, the woman will be your marchioness, the mother of your yet unborn children-"

   Harry's feet came down with a thump as he sat up and glared at his secretary. "No more children! I'm not going through that again. I won't sacrifice another woman on that altar." He rubbed his nose once more and re-propped his feet. "I don't have time to hunt for a wife through conventional means. I mean to acquire one before anyone in the neighborhood knows who I am, before the grasping title-seekers get me in their sights. Cousin Gerard dying suddenly and leaving me this place offers me the perfect opportunity to find a woman who will need a husband as much as I need a wife. I want an honest woman, one gently born and educated, but not necessarily of great family-a solid country gentlewoman, that's what's needed. She must like children, and wish to ... er ... participate in a physical relationship with me."

   "But," Temple said, his hands spreading wide in confusion. "But... ladies who participate in a physical relationship often bear children."

   "I shall see to it that my wife will not be stretched upon the rack of childbirth," Harry said carelessly, then visibly flinched when somewhere nearby a door slammed, and what sounded like a hundred elephants thundered down the hallway outside his office. "Take this down, Temple. Wanted: an honest, educated woman between the ages of thirty-five and fifty, who desires to be joined in the wedded state to a man, forty-five years of age, in good health and with sufficient means to ensure her comfort. Must desire children. Applicants may forward their particulars and references to Mr. T. Harris, Raving-by-the-Sea. Interviews will be scheduled the week following. That should do it, don't you think? You may screen the applicants for the position, and bring me the ones who you think are suitable. I shall interview them and weed out those who won't suit."

   "Sir..." Temple said, even more at a loss as to how to counsel his employer from such a ramshackle method of finding a wife. "I... what if... how will I know who you will find suitable?"

   Harry frowned over the top of an estate ledger. "I've already told you what I want, man! Someone honest, intelligent, and she must like children. I would prefer it if she possessed a certain charm to her appearance, but that's not absolutely necessary."

   Temple swallowed his objections, and asked meekly, "Where do you wish to interview the candidates for your hand? Surely not here, at

Ashleigh Court

?"

   Harry ran his finger down a column of figures, his eyes narrowing at the proof of abuse by his late cousin's steward. "The man should be hung, draining the estate dry like that. What did you say? Oh, no, any woman of sense would take one look at this monstrosity and run screaming in horror. Find somewhere in town, somewhere I can meet with the ladies and have a quiet conversation with them. Individually, of course. Group appointments will not do at all."

   "Of course," Temple agreed, and staggered from the room, his mind awhirl. The only thing that cheered him up was the thought that Harry's wife, whoever she would turn out to be, would no doubt insist on the house being cleaned from attic to cellars.

   Harry was just settling down to make notes about what needed attention first on the estate, when a sudden high-pitched shriek had him out of the chair, and almost to the door before Temple appeared in the open doorway to the hall.

   Harry hesitated at the sight of Temple's weak smile. "The children ... is someone hurt?"

   "Peacocks," Temple said concisely.

   Harry blinked, then relaxed. "Peacocks? Oh, peacocks. Yes, they do have an ungodly scream. I thought one of the children-"

   Another bloodcurdling screech cut across his words. Before Harry could draw a breath, a huge green-and-blue bird raced passed him down the hall, its once magnificent tail feathers now ragged and muddy. Hoots, yells, and assorted shouts followed the peacock as the three younger children pounded after the poor bird. Anne stopped next to the great curved staircase, threw her head back, and let forth the most hair-raising sound Harry had ever heard.

   "As I was about to say, sir, it is not the peacock making the noise, it is the children."

   Harry closed the door quietly, leaning back against it as the sounds of one agitated peacock being pursued by three noisy children around and around the hall filtered through the solid door. "Write the advertisement, Temple."

   A loud avian squawk followed by the sound of something large and ceramic shattering upon the hall's marble floor sent Harry running back into his sanctuary. "Now! For God's sake, man, write it now!"

  

Chapter Two

  

   Plum nuzzled the soft, downy head lying against her breastbone, and breathed deeply of the milky, soapy smell, ignoring the less pleasing odor that wafted upward.

   "There you are, I thought you would be in the vicarage. How has Baby been for you-oh, heaven, he's rank!"

   Mrs. Bapwhistle bustled into the tiny garden and before Plum could object, plucked the youngest Bapwhistle from her arms and handed the sweet baby over to a waiting nurse. "Clean him up, Withers. He smells as if he'd been dunked in the cesspit."

   "I would be happy to bathe-" Plum started to say, halfway rising from the shaded bench. The nurse wrinkled up her nose, and hurried off with her charge before Plum could finish her sentence.

   "No, no, that won't be at all necessary. That's what I engage a nurse for, to do all the many unpleasant chores connected with children. Now sit down, do, and allow me to speak to you for a moment. I have something of great importance to discuss with you."

   "But... I was hoping I would be able to feed the baby-" Plum felt as if her heart had been ripped from her arms with the babe. He was so sweet, so adorable, so small and needy.

   "You can feed him another time, Plum. This is important."

   Plum leaned back against the carved back of the bench, and idly plucked a leaf from the hydrangea that grew alongside, trying hard to keep the peevish tone from her voice. "You promised me I could take care of Colin while you were out paying calls, Cordelia. I think it's unkind of you to hand him over to Nurse when you promised me I could care for him."

   "Honestly, Plum, you don't want to be present when he's filled his napkin. The mess that baby can make-it's positively horrifying." Cordelia Bapwhistle, wife of the vicar and Plum's closest friend, raised her hand and cut off Plum's objection. "I know, I know, you don't find anything about dear little Colin objectionable, no more than you found anything objectionable about Constance, Connor, or Columbine, but my dear, dear friend, you must take it from one who knows-babies aren't all sweet little bundles of delight."

   Plum's gaze dropped from her friend's eyes to the faded blue material over her knees. She smoothed her gown and tried not to look as if Cordelia's words-kindly meant, to be sure-had caused her pain. "I know they aren't perfect, Del. I'm not stupid. I have raised a child."

   Cordelia set aside the newspaper she'd been clutching and gave her friend's hand a sympathetic pat. "I never in a million years imagined you were stupid, Plum. You're the smartest, most giving woman I know, and you've done a marvelous job with Thomasine, although she wasn't really a child when she came to you. How old was she when her uncle died?"

   "Fifteen," Plum admitted.

   "You've done wonderfully raising her these past five years, and you know you'll always be welcome here. The children adore you...."

   The unvoiced objection pierced Plum's heart with an arrow's quickness. She looked up at her friend, the black eyebrows that refused all her attempts to make them arch settled into a thick slash across her brow. "But?"

   Cordelia squeezed her hand. "But it's time you had a family of your own."

   Plum raised her eyes heavenward for a moment. "Do you think I haven't been trying to find a man who would take me? Good heavens, Del, you yourself have introduced me to every eligible bachelor in the county, and I've examined all of the ineligible ones. There's not a man in all of Dorset who hasn't heard of the scandal, and thus won't sully his reputation by marrying me. The rest of them are either drunkards or wife-beaters or too poor to support Thom and me. And before you tell me I'm being too finicky, I assure you I'm not looking for a man of fortune-just one who has the means to support a wife and one small niece."

   Cordelia laughed. "I would never call you finicky, Plum. Some of the men you even thought about marrying ..." She gave a little shudder. "But that's neither here nor there. Look, see what old Mrs. Tavernosh heard was posted in yesterday's paper." She held out the newspaper for Plum to examine the small advertisement that had been circled by a blue pencil.

   Plum read the paragraph, her eyebrows lifting as she looked up to meet her friend's bright, dancing eyes. "You cannot be serious!"

   "Why not? This man needs a wife, wants someone who likes children, and says he has comfortable means."

   Plum allowed her mouth to gape open, just a little, just enough for her friend to see how shocked she was. "Why not? Why not? Cordelia Bapwhistle, have you or have you not been lecturing me these last two years I've been husband hunting about the folly of accepting just any man?"

   "Well, yes, but-"

   "And are you not the very person who weekly lectures me about how women can be perfectly happy and productive without bearing a child or being a wife?"

   "Yes, and I stand behind that statement. Children are not for everyone, Plum. Some women-"

   "And yet you, you who regularly tells me that I should be grateful to be unencumbered and free to live my life the way I want-although I'd like to point out that poor as a church mouse and unloved by anyone but a niece who prefers the company of animals to people is not the life I wish to live- you are suggesting that I answer this ridiculous advertisement inserted by a man I know nothing about?"

   "Well, of course you'd have to find out something about him, I'm not suggesting you take him sight unseen. He might not be suitable at all. The advert says you should send particulars, and you will be contacted if the man wishes to interview you."

   "Interview me!" Plum said, indignation rising at just the thought of being interviewed. She gave a ladylike snort. "As if I were a servant? I think not!"

   Cordelia watched her with an eye lit from within by warmth, affection, and a good deal of humor. "There's nothing to stop you from interviewing him, as well, you know. And really, what is an interview but time to get to know someone? You've done as much with the men you've pursued."

   A faint blush the color of a nearby rose colored Plum's cheek as she looked away from her friend. "You make it sound as if I was desperate, hunting men the way a fox hunts its prey."

   "Plum, you know I want you to be happy. If your experience with Charles has not put you off men for life and you are sure that you want to be married and have a family, then I will do everything I can to help you."

   "My marriage with Charles did nothing to put me off all men, Del. I assume that he was the exception to the norm, and that most men would hesitate to marry a woman when they already have a wife living. And as for the family, I fear it's too late for that. I'm forty years old. Surely most women my age have finished having children by now."

   "Ah, but you're not most women," Cordelia said, her smile warming Plum's heart. "You're Frederica Pelham, daughter of Sir Frederick Pelham, the woman of breeding if not fortune, who just so happens to also be the author of the most popular, most scandalous book of the century."

   Plum glanced around the small garden worriedly. The last thing she needed was for anyone in Ram's Bottom to find out she was the notorious Vyvyan La Blue, author of the famed Guide to Connubial Calisthenics, a book so shocking it was banned as obscene by the government-and subsequently went into three separate printings to fulfill the demands by members of the ton.

   "I did have Old Mab Shayne examine me," Plum named the local midwife hesitantly, unwilling to get her hopes up about something that meant so much to her. "She said there was nothing wrong with my womanly parts, and she knew of several women who had children well into their mid-forties."

   "There, you see? If you really want to have a family despite me telling you just how appallingly horrible childbirth can be, then you owe it to yourself to investigate this advertisement."

   Plum nibbled on her lower lip, her gaze slipping to the paper. Although the method the man had used to state his desire for a wife off-put her almost as much as the word interview rankled, Cordelia did have a point. There was nothing to stop her from examining the man to see if he would make a suitable partner for her. She'd more or less done as much with the other men of the area she had considered. "There is the problem of my past," she said slowly. "I have lost more than one potential suitor upon his finding out that I was Charles's mistress."

   "You weren't his mistress-you married him in good faith. He is the one who wronged you, he is the one who used you and threw you away without any regard or concern for your future."

   "We both know that, but gentlemen, alas, do not care that Charles lied to me when he wed me. They only see a woman who gave herself to a man who was not lawfully her husband, one who caused a scandal so great that it resulted in Charles being sent abroad, Papa disowning me, and poor Susanna ostracized and reviled by society for the mere fact that she was my sister. She went into a decline because of the scandal, Del. It's my fault she died and left baby Thom to be brought up by her uncle Beauclerc."

   "It's not your fault in the least, so stop martyring yourself. Besides, there is a simple solution to the problem: Don't tell this man who you are. Were."

   Plum stared in surprise at her friend. "You want me to lie?"

   "No, of course not, that would be sinful and wrong. I simply suggest that you not tell the man everything-until you're wed. Then, after such time has passed as is needed for him to fall in love with you, you tell him the truth. By then it will be too late for him to do anything about it."

   "That's rather callous," Plum said, her fingers fretting the material of her gown. "After the experience with Charles, honesty is at the top of the list of qualities I seek in a husband. I will not again marry a man who has secrets from me."

   "Mmm, well I'm afraid that lets out every man in the British Isles who can still draw breath." Cordelia paused for a moment, then asked, "You have a list of qualities you desire in a husband?"

   "Yes, of course I do. Lists are excellent ways to become organized. I keep them for many things. Husbandly attributes are just one of the many lists I maintain-"

   "What is on it?"

   "On the husband list?" Cordelia nodded. Plum thought for a moment, then ticked items off on her fingers. "Honesty is the most important, as I mentioned. And a good nature is also necessary."

   "I should think so."

   "A sense of humor is a definite plus."

   "I agree completely."

   "Of course, he must want children."

   "Of course," Cordelia said somberly. Plum slid a glance toward her to see whether or not she was being mocked. Cordelia's face was all seriousness, although there was a glint in her dark gray eyes that made Plum suspect otherwise.

   "Financial security is also necessary, although I will not be demanding regarding the amount, so long as he is able to provide a secure home for me, and for Thom as long as she is with us."

   "Mmm. More is better when it comes to items of a fiduciary nature."

   "And last of all, the man I wed must be very, very limber. Double-jointed ness is preferred, although I would settle for a normally jointed man so long as he was fit and limber."

   Cordelia blinked. "Limber? Why ever should he be limb ... oh! You mean for ... in ... when he and you ..."

   "Yes, exactly. I may not have much experience being a wife, but even I know that one must indulge in connubial calisthenics in order to get with child. And you must admit that when it comes to such things, it's much easier to have a limber husband than one who is unable to perform even the simplest of calisthenics like Bull Elephant at Hadrian's Wall."

   Cordelia opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, then evidently thought better of it, and shook her head instead.

   "Although I have a number of qualities my prospective mate must meet, the first and foremost items are honesty and forthrightness in all things. After Charles, I just couldn't tolerate anything less, and if I demand that in a spouse, I must provide the same. I will have to tell him about my past."

   "Yes, but Plum, you don't really have that luxury, do you?"

   The words, although softly spoken, carried a sting with them. Plum's heart sank as she once again shouldered the burden she had cast off for a few hours of enjoyment of young Colin. "No, I don't. To be truthful, my situation is worse than you know. The money from the last of my jewels ran out earlier this year. The lease on our cottage expires at the end of this month, and Sir Jasper has warned me that he cannot be as accommodating on the rates as he has been. Mrs. Feeny has told Mr. Feeny he is not to extend me any more credit until I pay what I owe them, and all other shops in town are following suit."

   "I will be happy to ask Mark for a sum to tide you over until the next draft arrives from your publisher-"

   Plum shook her head before her friend could finish her sentence. "There won't be any more drafts. The last one was for such a miniscule amount, I wrote to Mr. Belltoad. He informed me that the Guide, although extremely popular with members of the ton, had limited appeal to those of a lower class, who evidently feel the book to be more pornographic than a celebration of physical affection between spouses."

   "But surely there must be something you can do! Some employment you can find...."

   Plum blinked back tears of self-pity. One of the first things she had learned was that tears never helped. "I'm a gentleman's daughter, Del. My education has been limited to those things suitable to running a household and bearing children."

   "You could be a governess or a teacher."

   "With my reputation?"

   Cordelia's gaze dropped. "Oh, yes, I had forgotten that."

   "I can assure you that you are the only one who has." Plum sighed. Sighing, like tears, did not do much good, but at least it made one feel better without leaving red eyes and a drippy nose.

   "What about another book?" Cordelia looked up, her eyes bright. "You could write another Guide?"

   "No, I couldn't. Even if I had enough material for another Guide -which I don't, my time with Charles having been limited to just six weeks-I've asked the publisher, and he says the lawsuits and attention from the government are not worth the profit. I'm afraid Vyvyan La Blue has no further literary career."

   "Oh."

   Plum's shoulders drooped as she looked out over the small, but well-tended lawn of the vicarage. Bees buzzed happily in the roses and hyacinth, the air filled with the sounds and scents that Plum had come to love so much. If only she could stay tucked away in her safe little cottage until she had time to find a husband, the man who would seamlessly blend his life with hers. "I'm afraid all that stands between me and the poorhouse is the five shillings I have tucked away in an old glove, and the meager amount that Thom receives quarterly. I have been obliged to borrow from her, but even that is not enough to support us."

   "I had no idea things were as bad as that," Cordelia said, her eyes full of sympathy. Plum turned away, unable to bear the look for long. "Well, then, you really do have no choice, you must marry, and marry immediately."

   "That is easier said than done."

   "Nonsense, you've had several suitors."

   "All of whom withdrew their suit once they knew of my history."

   Cordelia smiled. "Then the answer to your problem is clear: If you insist on telling the truth about your past, you must do so-but wait until after you are wed."

   Plum nibbled on her lip again. "It seems wrong-"

   "Being married to a bounder who was already wed is wrong, Plum. You were innocent of any wrongdoing. Why punish yourself further for something that was not your fault? You must seize opportunity if it is presented to you, and worry about such minor things later. Besides, Charles is dead, God rest his soul even if he deserves to rot in whatever Italian ocean he drowned in. He can't hurt you any more, so as long as you keep quiet about your past, no one else will bring it up."

   "It was the Mediterranean, somewhere off Greece, I believe." It was tempting to do as Cordelia suggested, Plum admitted that much to herself. She had been so close to marrying before, but each time she had bared her past, the man in question had fled, not wanting her stain of shame to taint him. Perhaps if she could find a man who would be so obliging as to fall in love with her, perhaps he wouldn't mind her past too much. Perhaps he would understand that she had been young and foolish, and had no experience with men to judge Charles for the heartless rake he was. Perhaps she could find a man who simply wanted a wife, a mother for his children, a companion, someone with whom to share the joys and sorrows of life. Plum thought of what her life held for her-poverty, loneliness, and the responsibility of seeing Thom happily settled-and decided that for once, she'd take the less honorable road. Her heart lightened at the decision, as if the burden she carried had dissolved. "Very well, I will send in my application, such as it is. If it turns out that he wishes to marry me ... well, I'll tell him just as soon as is possible. You'll stand reference for me?"

   "Of course." Cordelia smiled again, and Plum felt her own lips curving in answer. "I will give you such a glowing recommendation, he would have to be mad to turn you down."

   A little giggle slipped out of Plum as she rose, brushing off her gown and collecting her bonnet and reticule. "Mad I could deal with, just so long as he's kind and amiable, and willing to give me a child. Oh, drat, I forgot the new smithy!"

   Cordelia walked beside her friend as they strolled toward the large, red-brick vicarage. "What new smithy? Oh, Mr. Snaffle. He is very virile looking, isn't he, what with those huge arms and all that curly hair, and his very, very tight breeches."

   "Cordelia!" Plum said, trying to look shocked but afraid the laughter in her eyes was giving her away. "Such a vulgar and unseemly innuendo shocks my maiden's ears."

   Cordelia laughed aloud as she paused at the gate. "A less maidenly woman I have never met."

   Plum paused as she clicked the gate closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her back, the air filled with the scent of honeysuckle. A faint frown tugged her straight eyebrows together. "About that... are you sure I shouldn't tell-"

   "Absolutely certain."

   "But what if I meet someone who knows me? Someone who tells him about my past before I can?"

   "As the wife of a simple country gentleman-for a gentleman he must be since his advertisement is very well worded-you are unlikely to come into contact with any members of the ton. No one will know who you are, so you will be able to tell your husband in your own time, when you feel the moment is right. Say six or seven years from now."

   Plum looked down the dusty road to the green at the center of the village. Ram's Bottom had been a haven for her, but it had also been a prison. She had hidden herself and Thom away from the prying eyes of gossips, but the years were slipping by, and Thom deserved to have a better life than the poverty Plum could offer. "Very well. I will call later for the recommendation."

   "It will be waiting for you," Cordelia said, waving as Plum turned and resolutely started toward the green, her mind full of the letter she would send to Mr. T. Harris. Along the way she noticed that several women were clustered together on the green in small clumps talking intensely, but she thought nothing of that. The ladies of Ram's Bottom were notorious gossips, happy to spend hours in the analysis and dissection of each others' character, antecedents, and offspring.

   "No doubt they're tearing some poor lady's reputation to shreds," she said to herself as she skirted the green and headed for the smithy.

  

   A few minutes later Plum regretted her complacent attitude.

   "I want ye," Mr. Snaffle said, leaning in and spraying Plum with the odor of unwashed body, onions, and horse sweat. It was, she found, not a scent conducive to romance. Large arms and thick curly hair he might have, but Mr. Snaffle was definitely not going to suit her. "I want ye bad. Feel how bad my cods want ye."

   Before she knew what he was doing, a massive hand descended on hers and slapped it over the bulge in his tight breeches.

   "Mr. Snaffle!" she gasped, and snatched her hand away as she tried to sidle out from under the brawny arm holding her pinned to the rough planking of the blacksmith's shed. "You forget yourself! I have no interest in you or your cods, so please allow me to pass."

   The fetid smell increased as the blacksmith laughed in her face. Plum turned her head, wishing she'd sent Thom to have the pot mended-the convenient ploy she used to meet and consider the blacksmith as husband material-then immediately regretted such a cowardly thought.

   "Ye play coy with me, Missus, but I know how much ye want me too. Give us a kiss."

   Plum tightened her fingers around the handle of the pot and gritted her teeth. Her life, one moment only mildly horrible, had turned into full-fledged, raging nightmare. "Mr. Snaffle, if you do not let me pass this instant, I shall be forced to take action against you."

   He leaned up against her, flattening her against the wall with his broad, sweaty chest. She shifted the pot, relieved he was just leaning his upper parts against her.

   "No one cares iff n ye scream, Missus. They all know ye for the trollop ye are, pretendin' yer all high and mighty by marryin' a man what was already married. Miss Stone says that yer own family won't have nothin' to do with ye. Give us a kiss," he demanded again, spittle collecting in the corners of his fleshy lips.

   "I am not a trollop," Plum said softly, moving the pot slightly, so as to give her a longer backswing. "I have no idea how this Miss Stone-whoever she might be-found out about my marriage, but I can assure you that I am innocent of her charges. Now please release me, or I shall do you a bodily injury."

   He rubbed his chest against hers, his hands on her upper arms, holding her in place. "Everyone knows that ye'll spread yer legs for any man what gives ye a taste of his manflesh." He slid one hand up, grabbing a handful of her hair, jerking her head back. "I told ye to give us a kiss. I'm not of a mind to tell ye again!"

   "Mr. Snaffle?" Plum swung the pot as far back as she could.

   "Aye?" His repulsive lips were descending on hers.

   "This is for your cods." She brought the pot forward as hard as she could, striking him right at the junction of his legs. He screamed and fell backward, clutching at himself, spitting curses and profanities as he rolled over into a ball. Plum took a deep breath of relatively clean air, and stepped forward to stand over the writhing man.

   "Henceforth I shall take my smithy business elsewhere," she said, and gave him a swift kick in the kidneys just because she felt like it. "You're lucky I'm a lady and not given to spite!"

   With her head held high she left the smithy, a stubborn, brittle smile on her face, the eyes of what felt like the entire village scoring her flesh as she hurried home, clinging to the hope that perhaps it wasn't as bad as Mr. Snaffle made out, but knowing it was much, much worse. She would have to move again, leave Ram's Bottom, and how was she to accomplish that with only five shillings and no friends but Cordelia?

   "Blessed St. Genevieve," Plum all but sobbed as she stumbled into the tiny cottage she shared with Thom. "I'm going to have to marry Mr. T. Harris, no matter what sort of man he is. With luck, no one in Raving will know about me until I can marry him."

   "Marry who?" a low, disinterested voice asked.

   Plum clutched the wall and fought to regain her breath as well as swallow her tears of self-pity. "Oh, Thom, I didn't see you. What are you doing down there by the coal scuttle?"

   Thom's golden brown eyes considered her aunt for a moment before her head dipped below the rough-planked table in front of her, returning a moment later when she stood up, a tiny kitten cupped in her hand. "Maple has had her litter. Only three, but one was born dead. I was just making sure the two kittens were all right. Who do you have to marry?"

   "Whom," Plum corrected absently, her heart still pounding from the scene in the blacksmith's. "I am going to marry-hope to marry-a Mr. T. Harris. If he'll have me, that is."

   "Oh," Thom said, and bent down to return the kitten to the nest she had made for Maple and her babies.

   "Oh? Is that it? You're not going to ask me who Mr. T. Harris is, nor why I am going to marry him?"

   Thom rose and dusted her sooty hands off on her lavender gown, Plum noted with a mental sigh. It wasn't the soiling of the gown she regretted, it was the tomboy nature of her niece. Thom was twenty years old, a young woman of intelligence and high spirits, of a good, if impoverished, family, and if she wasn't the loveliest woman on the face of the earth, she was very pretty, with cropped chestnut curls, large dark gray eyes, and a very sweet smile. When she smiled, which Plum had to admit wasn't often, Thom being a serious, takes-everything-literally sort who would rather spend time with the various animals she had collected than with the two-legged variety most young women preferred.

   "Although how you are to catch a husband with no dowry, and a notorious aunt, is beyond me." Plum signed again, this time aloud.

   Thom cocked her head and watched as Plum plucked her bonnet off and sank down into the rickety chair next to the fire. "I thought it was you who were planning to marry? I've told you before that I have no desire to marry. Men are so"-she wrinkled her nose as if she smelled cabbage cooking-"silly. Stupid. Mindless. I have yet to meet one who makes any sort of sense. To tell you the truth, I don't think there are any. I will do quite well without one of my own, thank you."

   "Oh, Thom," Plum said, on the verge of tears, but unable to keep from smiling at her niece's dismissal of men as a whole. "What would I do without you?"

   "Well, I imagine just what you are doing now," Thom replied. "You do seem to have the habit of talking to yourself, Aunt Plum, so if I weren't here, you'd probably be right where you are, telling the room that you're going to marry Mr. Harris. Who is Mr. Harris?"

   Plum blessed the day Thom came to her. If anyone could make her laugh at herself, it was her niece. "Mr. T. Harris is a man in search of a wife, and as I am a woman in search of a husband, I am hoping that we will suit one another. You wouldn't mind me marrying, would you Thom? You know I wouldn't marry a man who couldn't keep you, as well."

   Thom shrugged and filled a small cracked saucer with the last of the milk, setting it down next to the new mother. "If it will make you happy, I don't mind in the least, as long as Mr. Harris won't mind me bringing my animals. I couldn't leave them behind."

   "No, of course not," Plum said, trying to envision just how she was going to tell her prospective husband that not only was he gaining a wife and a niece but three cats, six dogs, two goats, four tame mice, and a pheasant that thought it was a rooster. Her mind boggled at that thought. She shook her head, clearing it of the morose thought that she was doomed, and rose to find a relatively clean scrap of paper before settling down at the table to write a letter so dazzling, it would be sure to capture Mr. Harris's attention. "I pray he is an honest, likeable man with no secrets that will come back to haunt me. I just don't think I could stand another husband with secrets."

  

Chapter Three

  

   "How many applicants remain, Temple?" Harry asked, wearily pushing up his spectacles as he leaned back in the private room bespoken at the local inn for the purpose of conducting interviews.

   Temple consulted his list. "Let me see, applicant number fourteen was reported too ill to travel...."

   "Strike her from the list. If she is of frail health, she won't be able to stand up to the strain of the children. It takes a strong woman, in full possession of her faculties-both mental and physical-to deal with my brood."

   "... and number twenty-three changed her mind at the door ..."

   "Shy. Shy won't do either. My wife has to have a firm sense of purpose. Determination, too. Grit wouldn't hurt, either."

   "... and numbers thirty and thirty-one appear to have run off together ..."

   Harry raised both eyebrows and forbore to comment.

   "... and number thirty-three, the last applicant, appears to have decided not to meet with you." Temple looked up. "There are no more, sir."

   Harry stood and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck and collecting his hat. "Well, that was six hours wasted. I hope to God I never have to meet so many women again."

   Temple trotted alongside Harry as he strode out of the inn, pausing to pass a few coins to the innkeeper before heading for the small stable block. "Were there none that meet with your specifications, my lord?"

   "Shhh!" Harry waved Temple's words away as he waited for Thor to be brought out. "No my lording, Temple. The fewer people who know my true identity, the better. At least until I find a wife."

   "My apologies, sir. Were there no women-"

   "No, there weren't," Harry said, slapping his leg with his riding crop as he looked around the quiet inn yard. "Not a single blessed one of them would do. Most of them were too young, a few were of the right age, but lacked the mental capacity I seek in a wife. I don't expect her to be a genius, but I must have a woman I can converse with, one who has an interest in books and current events and such." Harry noted a very pretty woman hurrying into the inn, the bottom six inches of her dark red gown covered in mud and filth as if she'd been tramping through the woods. "The remaining two qualified applicants were, to put it finely, a little on the homely side."

   "You said that you weren't requiring your wife to be toothsome, sir." Although the words were subservient, the tone was most definitely chastising.

   "Toothsome, no, but I'd like to be able to look at her without thinking of bulldogs. One of the women today had a great hairy wart right in the middle of her forehead. I couldn't stop staring at it. No matter where I looked, my gaze ended up back on her forehead. I couldn't possibly have a wife whose forehead held such an unwholesome fascination for me. That woman who scampered into the inn just now-she's the sort I'm looking for. Not beautiful, but pleasing, soft on the eyes, with a delicate oval face and lots of-Harry made a gesture with both hands that was universally understood by all men over the age of fourteen-curves. Why couldn't one of my women have been like her? I don't think that's asking for too much."

   Thor charged out of the stable, snorting like a steam engine, his ears back as he hauled a young stable boy behind him. Harry grabbed the reins with the ease of long practice, thumped the horse on the shoulder in an affectionate greeting, and flipped the boy a coin before mounting the fiery bay. "Hurry up, Temple, I've a desire to get home before the children bring the house down about their ears."

   "Just coming, sir," Temple said, looking warily at the new mare Harry had purchased to replace his old mount. The mare bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes at him. Just as he was about to take his life into his hands and climb into the saddle, a feminine cry reached his ears.

   "Mr. Harris? Sir?"

   Harry turned to watch as the curvaceous woman in the well-used red gown hurried out of the inn, her skirts held up with one hand as she dashed across the muddy yard. He admired the flash of ankle for as long as was gentlemanly (far too short a time since the woman dropped her skirts as she reached them).

   "Mr. Harris?"

   Temple turned his back on the mare as he faced the woman, an error Harry was about to rectify when it occurred to him that the woman must be the missing last applicant. He eyed her again, closer this time, appreciating not just her pretty face with cheeks bright with exercise but the raven-black hair that was visible beneath her bonnet, the slash of black eyebrows across her brow, and two dark eyes that had an appealing, almost exotic tilt to them. To Harry's great mortification, he became instantly and fully aroused. Clamping the reins under his knee, he pulled his jacket off and laid it across his lap in what he hoped was a suitably nonchalant it's-a-bit-hot-out-today manner.

   "Mr. T. Harris? I'm Frederica Pelham. I apologize for being so late, but I lost my way a few times and had to ask for directions."

   The woman was speaking to Temple, having given him a glance that took in more of his horse than him. Harry wished he could dismount and speak to her, but his reaction to the sight of her had left him in the unenviable position of having to remain astride Thor. The thought of her noticing his bulging breeches had the unexpected (and lamentable) effect of making him even harder.

   "I'm not too late, am I? You haven't... er ... filled the position?"

   She caught her lower lip between her teeth, clearly worried and anxious. Harry wondered why such an attractive woman should be so desperate for a husband. She had no warts, no physical imperfections that he could see, and her voice was educated and well-spoken.

   Temple cleared his throat and glanced toward him. Harry shook his head, then remembered he couldn't stand before the woman with his breeches nigh to bursting, and nodded. Temple looked confused. "Er-"

   "No, you're not too late," Harry said, fully enjoying receiving the attention of those dark, velvety eyes as they turned upon him. "Mr. Harris is my man of affairs. I am the one who is looking for a wife."

   "Oh, I see." the woman said, and eyed him just as curiously as he had been examining her. She didn't appear to find anything objectionable about him, although she must have wondered why he was so ill bred as to remain on horseback, sitting in his shirtsleeves while speaking with her. He damned his own lack of control, and decided that the interview would have to be conducted quickly.

   "We were about to return home, but if you don't mind answering a few questions here, I'm sure we can have this business over with quickly. You said your name was Pelham?"

   She made an odd sort of flinching movement, but lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes while answering. "Yes, sir. Frederica Pelham, although my friends call me Plum."

   His eyebrows rose. "Plum?"

   "For Pelham. It's a pet name, you see. My father used to call me Plum. He was Sir Frederick Pelham, of Nottingham."

   Daughter of an impoverished baronet, no doubt. She had a niceness about her that did not allow her to look on him with scorn despite the fact that he was insulting her by remaining on his horse.

   "Do you read, Miss Pelham?"

   She looked startled by that question, but recovered quickly enough, although her high color remained. "When I have the opportunity to, yes."

   "Ah. Good. I have a large library." Harry considered her, trying to separate the lustful urgings of his body from the less earthy desires of his mind.

   "Do you?" Plum asked politely, reaching out to pat Thor's long face. Harry grabbed the reins from under his knee, about to pull Thor back lest the stallion snap at her, but was surprised when his high-strung horse not only allowed her to caress his ears but bumped his nose into her, searching her person for treats. Plum laughed, a low throaty laugh that Harry found utterly sensual and erotic, a sound that seemed to stroke his skin, leaving him harder than ever, unable to keep from visualizing her lying in his bed, surrounded by all that glossy black hair, laughing that sultry laugh.

   "He likes you," Harry said as he dragged his mind back to the present.

   "He probably knows how fond I am of horses. He's very handsome. What's his name?"

   "Thor. Do you ride?"

   A wistful look flickered through her eyes as she gave Thor one last pat, then gently pushed his head away. "I love to ride, but haven't had the chance to in a long time."

   A very impoverished baronet's daughter, Harry amended. Still, possession of a fortune was not one of the qualifications for his wife. Thus far, Plum had exceeded every expectation he had-there was just the one remaining. "Er ... how do you feel about children?"

   "Oh, I love them," she said, her eyes lighting up, their midnight depths soft and compelling.

   Harry could not help but believe her, as the truth shone like sunlight on a still pond within her dark eyes. He allowed himself a silent sigh of relief as he moved uncomfortably in the saddle, then waved toward Temple. "Just so. I see no reason that you will not suit. I must... er ... return home. Temple will take down your particulars. Have you an objection to marrying the day following tomorrow?"

   Plum didn't even bat an eyelash. Harry wanted to smile, but knew in his present uncomfortable state, it would be likely to come out a pained grimace. There are few things that became a bridegroom less than grimacing at his bride-to-be.

   "None, except I have not interviewed you, sir."

   He blinked in surprise. She wanted to interview him? None of the other women had. How delightfully refreshing of her! He had the sudden warm satisfaction of knowing that he would not easily be able to second-guess Plum. "Ah. Yes. Of course. You wish to know about me."

   "Yes, sir, I do," she answered, and lifted her chin a little higher.

   He liked that chin a great deal. He applauded her high spirits, and began to think with pleasure upon his future with her as he quickly rattled off the important particulars about himself. "My name is Harry ... Haversham. I live here in Raving, out toward the north spit. Do you know it?"

   She shook her head.

   "Good. That is ... er ... it's of no account. I'm forty-five years of age ..." He paused, narrowing his eyes as he looked carefully at her face. "If you will not be offended by me asking, how old are you?"

   "I... I..." Plum looked nonplussed for a moment, then that adorable chin rose again. "I'm forty, sir."

   He did smile then, a pleased smile, a happy smile. Really, she was perfect for the position. Intelligent, liked children, wasn't too young and silly, and heaven knew he desired her in a more fundamental manner. Every time she lifted her chin, he wanted to kiss her. "Excellent. As I said, I'm forty-five and in reasonably good health, possess means that leave me comfortable, and don't have any excessive vices that I'm aware of. Do you have any questions? No? Very well. I shall leave Temple to take down your information, and will obtain a special license tomorrow so that we may be married the following day." He touched his riding crop to his hat in salute, and was about to ride away when it suddenly occurred to him to ask a final question. "Er ... what village are you from?"

   Plum looked a bit stunned around the eyes, but other than a momentary pause, gave him no indication that he had just rushed her through a proposal. "Ram's Bottom, sir."

   Harry's eyes widened as he glanced down at her muddy hem. "You walked eight miles?"

   The chin rose again, just as he knew it would. He smiled to himself, more than satisfied with his choice. This woman would not leave him bored after a few days, as all the others threatened to do.

   "Yes, I did. I find walking quite beneficial to the constitution."

   "And so it is, however, sixteen miles in one day is a bit more benefit than anyone could need, even someone who is in your"-he allowed his gaze to caress her curves for just a moment, not long enough to be offensive, but enough to let the lady know he found her attractive-"fit condition. Temple?"

   "Yes, sir. I will arrange for Miss Pelham to be taken home."

   Harry beamed at her, bid her a good day, and put his heels to Thor, riding home with a whistle on his lips, satisfaction in his heart, and a throb in his breeches that predicted a very happy future.

  

   Plum entered the dark cottage as the hired carriage rattled down the lane, more than a little dazed by the happenings of the day. She was betrothed! To a gentleman she had known for all of five minutes, a very handsome man, a man who had laugh lines around his eyes, and an unruly lock of sandy hair that hung over his forehead. A man who either had some infirmity of the lower limbs that prohibited him from dismounting, or... Plum giggled as she lit the candles around the small room. Once when she and Charles were having tea at her old nurse's cottage, he had been unwilling to leave at the end of the visit. He told her later that he had been musing upon the pleasure of their most recent connubial calisthenics, and had to remain seated until several minutes later when he had himself in control. The way Harry had draped his coat over his lap was reminiscent of Charles playing with her shawl in such a manner as to conceal his groin.

   "If he was in a similar situation because of me," she told the cat Maple as she lit the fire and prepared to warm up the potato soup remaining from the day before, "I shall be very pleased, very pleased indeed, for it indicates that he is interested in bedchamber sports. Heaven knows I am."

   "I am as well, despite the fact that you won't let me read your book," a voice said behind her.

   Plum shrieked and dropped the soup ladle, clutching her heart as she spun around.

   Thom was seated on the floor in a dark corner, a bowl of milk and several pieces of straw beside her. "Which is silly, when you think about it, for how am I ever to learn the joys of such activities if you won't let me read about them?"

   "You swear you won't ever marry, so such knowledge is of no use to you. What are you doing there sitting in the corner in the dark?" Plum, having reassured herself that her heart was not going to leap out of her chest, returned to warming the soup.

   "Feeding mice. Their mother was taken by one of the cats that live in the shed. I've found that they'll drink milk easily enough if I use a piece of straw." Plum gave a resigned sigh at the newest inhabitants of their little cottage, and hunted for the stale heel of bread she remembered seeing. "As for the other, I do not intend ever to marry-at least none of the gentlemen you think are so suitable. They're nothing but idle fribbles, bent on wenching their way through their lives. But I should like to see your book nonetheless. After all, one does not have to be married to perform calisthenics, connubial or otherwise."

   Plum's cheeks heated as she turned to glare at her niece. "No, one doesn't, as I know well, but issues of morality aside, to do otherwise is to put yourself in a position of disadvantage. Women have little enough control over their lives, and even less power against men. Marriage at least offers some protection."

   Thom shrugged and bent over the clutch of tiny pink bodies squirming in her lap. Plum found the heel of bread, tapped it on the counter, winced at the solid thunk, then sighed and tossed it into the goat's bucket.

   "Is that why you went to meet with Mr. Harris? For protection?"

   "No," Plum answered, and bent down to look in the one small cupboard that served as their pantry. Surely there were a few greens left from last week? A bit of suet their neighbor had given them? A handful of dried beans? "I met with the gentleman-his name is Haversham, and have accepted his offer of marriage-because I wished to be married again and have a family, and he seemed a pleasant man. Wasn't there a rind of cheese?"

   Thom ducked her head, and carefully allowed milk from the tip of the straw to drip into the little pink mouth of the baby mouse.

   Plum straightened up, dusting off her hands. "I see. I don't suppose you ate it?"

   Thom's shoulder twitched.

   "No, I can see you didn't." Plum sat on the rickety chair, thought seriously about crying, but decided that laughter was probably the only thing that would save her sanity. She allowed the-only slightly hysterical-giggles to build up inside her, her lips twitching as she asked, "Did you give the cheese to a mouse? A rat? An orphaned vole?"

   Thom peeked at her from under her lashes, an affecting look Plum had never been able to master since her eyelashes, like her brows, were thick and seemed to have a mind of their own. "There was this adorable little monkey-"

   "Thomasine Laurel Fraser!" Plum gasped in between unladylike snorts of laughter. "To give away your meager luncheon is bad enough, but to make up a falsehood of such magnitude is going too far."

   "It's not a falsehood, there really was a monkey. He was with a very old man, so bent and frail he looked as if he would be blown over by a strong wind. He was very charming, however, and told me his name was Palmerston, and his monkey was named Manny. They both looked in such a poor way, I gave him a bit of cheese, and a few other things that I thought you wouldn't mind...."

   "At least you have the grace to look ashamed at such a bald-faced lie," Plum said, her lips still twitching as she gave in and had a good long laugh. By the time she was finished and mopping up her eyes, Thom had tucked the baby mice away on an old worn cloth, and was standing next to her, watching her warily. "It's a good thing Mr. Haversham wishes to marry quickly, else I think you'd give the cottage away."

   "I'm sorry, Aunt Plum, I know it was wrong of me, but Mr. Palmerston and Manny looked in such need of a little kindness, and he did give me something in return."

   "Oh?" Plum allowed one last giggle to express itself, then schooled her lips into a more seemly position. "What did he give you? Certainly not any coin?"

   "No, he gave me some advice."

   A ripple of amusement shook her for a moment, but she kept it under control. She had a suspicion that if she gave in to it, she'd end up witless and giddy. Or rather, more witless and giddy, since she was fast approaching that state. Perhaps it was hunger that was unhinging her mind. Perhaps if she had eaten something earlier, she wouldn't now be giggling at the thought of her niece giving away the last of their stores to a beggar who offered advice in return. "How very gracious of him. What advice did he give you?"

   "Oh, it wasn't advice for me, it was for you."

   Plum raised both brows as Thom served up two bowls of soup. "For me? Why would he offer advice for me? How did he know who I was?"

   "Evidently he stopped in town."

   Thom kept her gaze on her soup, a small mercy since Plum still felt sick to her stomach whenever she thought of the townspeople cackling over her past. That the news had spread like wildfire was not surprising, but what made her furious was the way Thom was made to suffer for her ignorance and Charles's cruelty. She didn't mind-much-them ostracizing her, but the drubbing Thom had taken the last few days was untenable. Her conscience rubbing her raw, she fought the desire to immediately pen a note to her intended, informing him of her history and breaking their betrothal. "What's done is done. I will tell him the truth after we're married. It's a matter of self-preservation, not selfishness. I simply have no other choice, and it's not as if he will be losing out-I will be a devoted wife and mother."

   "Of course you will," Thom said, just as if Plum were making sense, which she sadly acknowledged to herself as not necessarily true. "You'll be a wonderful wife and mother, and I completely agree with you that you're not being selfish."

   "Mmm." Plum firmly told her conscience to take a holiday for the next two days, and picked up her spoon. "What was the advice the beggar had for me?"

   "He wasn't a beggar, he seemed quite well spoken, although he was rather dusty." Plum glanced up and caught the look of curiosity her niece was bending upon her.

   "He said that sometimes that which you've thought is lost, is found, and what you think you have, has vanished."

   Plum blinked for a moment, wondering if it was the lack of food that made Thom's words seem incomprehensible, or if the old man's advice was supposed to have some meaning for her. "Well, that was very nice of him, although it doesn't make the slightest bit of sense, but I do appreciate the fact that he didn't say something in reference to his ... er ... cods."

   They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the heavy drone of bees on the wisteria that hung next to the window the only noise. Plum wrestled with a variety of emotions-anger, fear, and a general all-purpose worry-as she spooned up the last of the soup.

   "Aunt Plum?"

   Plum dragged her mind from the painful contemplation of just how she was going to explain to Harry about her past. "Hmm?"

   Thom stood with their soup bowls before the wash bucket, twisting a threadbare linen between her hands, her brow wrinkled in a frown. "You're not marrying this Mr. Haversham on my behalf are you? Because if you are, I wish you wouldn't. I know I'm not of much use to you, but I-"

   Plum gave in to the need to hug the younger woman. "No," she said, patting Thom's cheek. "I'm not martyring myself for you, if that's what you think. Mr. Haversham is a very nice man, I could tell that at once. He is a gentleman. He has a library. He wants children. And even if he isn't wonderfully handsome, I like his face. His eyes are particularly nice, an attractive hazel that seems to change color. And the rest of him is"-a warmth tingled pleasantly within her at she remembered his large, strong hands with their long fingers. She had always had a fondness for a man's hands, seeing in them a mixture of strength and gentleness that never failed to intrigue her-"just as pleasant. Does that put your mind at rest that I'm not marrying solely to put food in our bellies?"

   Thom smiled, then leaned forward to kiss Plum's cheek. "I hope you will be very happy, Aunt. You deserve a good life. When do you marry?"

   "In two days, if Mr. Haversham is able to obtain a special license." Plum turned and surveyed the small room with its two cots, two chairs, one table, and a collection of broken baskets that Thom fixed up as beds for her animals. "What do you say, Thom, are you willing to give up all this in order to live in a home that doesn't leak whenever it rains, or allow the cold in during the winter?"

   Thom smiled and divided up the last of her soup between the cats' bowls and the goat's bucket. "It will be a strain, but I will suffer in silence as best I can."

   Plum laughed again, and in a moment of pure whimsy, threw out her arms and spun around in a circle. "A family, Thom! At last, at very long last, I'm going to have a husband and children of my own! Life just cannot get any better!"

  

Chapter Four

  

   Plum sat stunned to the point of silence as a maidservant combed out her long black hair. That thought rattled around in her mind like a pea in an empty bowl. She had a maidservant, someone who would comb her hair whenever she so desired. Her husband had provided her the maidservant. She had a husband and a maidservant. And a room of her own. Her eyes looked away from the up-and-down motion of the comb as it slid through her hair, and gazed again with wonder at the reflection of the room behind her, a lovely soft rose-colored room that smelled faintly of fresh paint, with a huge fireplace, a fainting couch, and a bed with rose and dark red bed curtains.

   The maid's hand flashed white in the mirror.

   "No one has combed my hair for me since I was twenty."

   "Is that so, my lady?"

   That was another thing, she was a lady. Not that she had behaved in any other manner, for no matter how poor she had been, Plum had ever acted as a lady should-with the regrettable, if extremely satisfying, exception of the pot and Mr. Snaffle's cods-but now her husband of five hours informed her earlier, she was also a lady in title. Lady Rosse, to be exact. Harry turned out to be a marquis in disguise, therefore, she was a marchioness.

   A fraudulent marchioness, her guilty conscience whispered.

   "No. It is too much. I just cannot take it all in," Plum protested to her reflection. "The husband and the maid and the rose-colored room, yes, that I am willing to accept, nay embrace whole-heartedly with a great deal of happiness and pleasure if not outright ecstasy, but the rest of it, I just cannot absorb. It will have to wait for another time, a time when I can think about it without wanting to scream."

   Edna the maid carefully set down the silver comb and stepped slowly away from Plum. "Why would you be wanting to scream, my lady?"

   There they were again, those two words. My lady. She had deceived a marquis, led him to believe she was a poor but honest woman. Well, truly, she was poor but honest, honest with the exception of neglecting to tell him about one minor little fact.... Plum moaned softly and leaned forward until her forehead rested in her hands. "Edna, would you happen to know if it's a hanging offense to deceive a marquis?"

   "Erm ..." Edna backed toward the door. "Will you be needing anything else, my lady?"

   Plum tilted her chin up and spread her fingers so she could see the maid in the mirror. "Yes, please. Would you mind terribly not calling me my lady? It makes me a bit uncomfortable, not as uncomfortable as I deserve, to be sure, but uncomfortable enough that I flinch, and one can only do so much flinching before one starts to twitch, and it's a short path from twitching to utter and complete madness. Do you understand?"

   "Eep," said Edna, and with eyes as big as saucers, she slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.

   "Well, now you've done it," Plum told her reflection, "you've frightened your maid. She probably thinks you are already mad. She's probably right. Stupid, stupid Plum. What am I going to do? How am I ever going to tell Harry-a marquis, for heaven's sake, he's almost royalty-the truth about me?" Plum looked away to the door connecting her bedchamber to her husband's, giving it a righteous glare. "Although I don't know why I should feel guilty about this. After all, it's his fault, it's all his fault. If he had told me before we were married who he really was, then I would have told him who I... who I... oh, pooh. I don't know what I would have told him."

   Plum rose from the small gilt dressing table and fidgeted with the ribbon on her night rail. It was an old night rail, patched and mended and somewhat frayed on the bottom, not at all the sort of night rail a real marchioness would wear, especially on her wedding night, but it was all she owned, and she was pathetically grateful that Edna had found a rose-colored ribbon to replace the bit of braided cloth that had previously graced the neckline. "You are a coward, Frederica Pelham. You are nothing but a base coward, and you have no right to whine about anything because this is what you wanted."

   The scent of jasmine carried on a warm evening breeze hung heavy on the air as she gazed out the window at the blackness beyond. Because they had arrived after dark, she hadn't had much more than a glimpse of Ashleigh Court as Harry had brought her home, but what she had seen stunned her almost as much as the carelessly tossed out fact that he, Harry, her lord and master, was truly a lord if not her master. True the house and grounds were horribly ill-kept, but Harry had reassured Thom (Plum being at the time too stunned by the marquis's revelation to do much but sputter, "But, but...") that he had plans to renovate and rejuvenate the once-proud estate, and he looked forward to the help and advice of his new wife.

   "A wife who doesn't deserve to offer any advice or help," Plum said sadly to herself.

   "You think not? I'm of another mind. I've always felt that a home needed a woman's touch to keep it from being too utilitarian." Harry strolled into the room through the connecting door, clad in a heavy gold brocade dressing gown that reached to his feet. He stopped next to her and looked out the window, sighing as he did. "There's so much to do here, I would appreciate your help, but if you'd prefer not to take the house in hand-"

   "Oh, no, I'd be happy to ... my lord."

   Harry smiled as he turned to face her, a smile that would seem to be made up of mundane things like lips and eyes and adorable little crinkle laugh lines, but the sum result of it was so astoundingly wondrous, it melted all of Plum's internal organs.

   Or that's what it felt like happened. She couldn't believe that simply by standing beside her he had whipped her traitorous, not-in-the-least-bit-sorry-she-had-married-him-despite-the-fact-that-she-hadn't-told-him-the-truth-about-her-past body into a frenzy of want, need, and unbridled anticipation.

   She had been far, far too long without a man in her bed.

   "Are you still having difficulty with the marchioness idea? I am very sorry I didn't tell you before we married, Plum. It wasn't well done of me at all, but you see, I thought it might scare you off, and"-he took her hand, his thumb stroking over the backs of her fingers in a way that set alight all of the previously melted internal bits-"I wanted very much to have you legally mine before I bared my breast of all my secrets."

   A warm puddle of happiness did much to soothe her guilt. If he wanted her so much, perhaps the incident in her past would mean nothing to him? She hoped so. She prayed so. She also prayed she would survive the look of mingled desire and admiration that glowed from behind his spectacles. Plum had seen just such a look in the eyes of her first husband, and although it pleased her then, now she found herself responding to it with so great an enthusiasm, she thought her legs were going to give out. "It was a bit of a surprise, my lord-"

   "Harry, please."

   "-Harry, but I can assure you it wouldn't have sent me screaming into the night had you told me before we were wed. Indeed, the fact that you were baring your secrets to me might have induced me to bare a few of my own."

   "Would it?" Harry said, his gaze dropping to the thin lawn of her night rail where it covered her breasts, breasts that were brazenly pushing themselves forward and clamoring for her to walk them into his hands. "And what secrets could a woman such as you have to bare?"

   It was the word bare in combination with the avid way he eyed her breasts that sent the few wits remaining her flying straight out of her head. "Oh ... I'm sure I have some...."

   "Yes, yes you do have some. You have lovely some." Harry's eyes glittered brightly as he looked at her breasts.

   Plum frowned down at them, unsure whether she should affect maidenly mortification about the fact that her nipples were hard little pebbles against the soft linen, clearly outlined, right there for anyone to see, or to indulge in the wanton thrill of knowing Harry could stir such a reaction in her as to set her ablaze with the need to rub herself all over him. She decided that although the maidenly route was probably for the best, wanton was closer to her true nature. At least she could be an honest wanton. She took a step closer to him. "I assure you I have secrets, Harry. In particular, I have one secret. I was married-"

   The words dried up on her lips as he-still staring at her breasts much in the manner of a starving man deposited at a feast-spread the fingers of his left hand and gently cupped her right breast.

   "Yes, you told me you were married, and if you will recall, I told you that your past was of no concern to me."

   A tremor of heat rippled through Plum starting at her breast and ending at her womanly parts, which were now tingling for all they were worth. She closed her eyes and shuddered with pleasure, her back arching of its own accord, pressing her breast hard against his hand.

   "Are you cold?" Harry asked hoarsely.

   She opened her eyes as he rubbed his thumb across her aching nipple. "No. Not cold. Hot. Very hot."

   "Hot, yes, so hot, I can feel your heat. I wonder if your other-" Plum moaned as he placed his right hand on her other breast. "You are very hot. Feverish, almost. I believe the best thing for you would to be freed of the restriction of clothing."

   "Do you think so? Do you think that might help my ... fever?" Plum ignored the fact that she was babbling like an idiot, too overwhelmed with desire and lust and a variety of other emotions all related somehow to the wonderful tingling going on in her breasts and nether parts.

   "I do, I do indeed believe it will help. As your husband, it is my duty to see to your welfare, thus I must demand that for the purpose of your continued good health, you remove your night rail."

   What a wonderful man! How thoughtful he was! How concerned he was for her health. "Oh," she breathed, thoroughly enjoying how her breasts moved against the palms of his hands.

   Harry's eyes widened behind his spectacles. "NOW!"

   "Oh!"

   His hands still warm on her breasts, he leaned forward, his hair brushing her jaw as he kissed a hot trail along her collarbone, down to the top of the night rail where the pretty rose ribbon held the garment up. She breathed in the scent of him, part lemon shaving soap, part something earthy and arousing, and entirely male that was solely Harry.

   "I will be happy to assist you if you are unable to disrobe by yourself."

   Plum looked down to where Harry was pulling away from her, one end of the ribbon clenched firmly in his teeth. "This is wicked, you know, utterly and wholly wicked. We have only known each other for two days, and we're about to ... you want to ... and I would dearly love to ... in bed. Together. With all our bare skin showing!"

   The ribbon fell from his mouth as he looked up, a grin so endearing on his face, she wanted to grab his ears and kiss him until his spectacles fogged up. "Yes, I know, it is wicked, isn't it? Delightfully so." The bright glint in his eye slowly darkened with a shadow of doubt as he took a step backward. "You do want to do this, don't you? I'm not rushing you? I meant to tell you that I wanted a wife who desired a physical relationship, but at the time ... er ... I... eh ... and today, when you said you had been married, I assumed that you'd want to ... uh ..."

   Plum smiled a wry little smile as her breasts, heavy and hard and greatly missing his touch, pushed themselves with eagerness back into his hands. "Yes, I very much want to be a wife to you in all ways. It's just that I have only been with my first husband, you see, and we were together only for six weeks-"

   Harry gently kissed the words from her lips. "You don't have much experience, I understand completely. You need not be worried on that account- we will discover this new territory together."

   Plum was about to object to the ridiculous idea he had about her sexual naivety when his mouth closed upon hers, driving all thoughts but those of a carnal nature from her mind. His mouth was sweet and hot and filled her with the need to taste him. Without waiting for an invitation or even permission, she slid her tongue into his mouth, capturing his delighted moan, pressing herself against him in an attempt to get closer. His hands slid from her breasts to her back, one tangling itself in her hair, the other grasping her behind, pulling her hips tight against him. Even through the heavy brocade of his dressing gown she could feel how aroused he was. His tongue twined around hers in a motion remarkably similar to the sinuous grind of his hips. She slipped both hands around his neck, pressing herself tighter against him, clutching his hair as she mapped out the terrain of his mouth, wanting to burn up with the heat he generated deep within her, needing to burn bright, unable to stop until she had merged with him, joined with him, his heat feeding her flames-

   "Papa, Ratty is asleep and won't wake up."

   Plum thought she was hallucinating for a moment, but the way Harry stiffened against her alerted her to the fact that she hadn't imagined the childish voice behind her. With much regret, she separated from him, turning to face the small child who stood in the doorway to Harry's room, a limp brown object held carefully in his hands. He eyed her with bright curiosity. "Who's she? Is she going to be my new mama?"

   Mama? As in... mama? Plum blinked in surprise.

   "Er ... yes. My dear, this is McTavish, my son."

   He had a son? And he hadn't told her? Plum shook the cobwebs of astonishment from her mind, and smiled at the tow-headed boy. "Hello, McTavish, I'm very pleased to meet you. Yes, I am going to be your mama. What's that you have?"

   The boy pushed the brown object into her hands. "It's Ratty. He's asleep. He won't wake up."

   Plum, no stranger to rodents after having lived with an animal-obsessed Thom for the past few years, did not shriek or object to the obviously dead rat she found herself holding. In fact, she was rather proud of how quickly she had assimilated the information that Harry had a child he had forgotten to mention during his secret baring. She moved quickly to step into the role of mama to his sweet, motherless child. "I'm afraid Ratty has been called to heaven by the angels, McTavish. Do you see how his chest isn't moving? That means he's not breathing. I'm very sorry. Ratty looks like he was a good companion."

   McTavish's lower lip emerged, and his eyes clouded for a moment, then just as quickly the tears were gone and the lip was retracted. "Can I have a kitten now, Papa? You said I couldn't have one because it would eat Ratty, but now Ratty's gone to heaven, so can I have a kitten? Can I? You said I could! Can I?"

   Harry sent Plum an apologetic look that begged her forgiveness for his lapse in not mentioning he already had a child. She returned it with one that said although she would have preferred being told earlier, she understood, and was more than happy to be mother to his adorable son. His responding look offered fervent and profound thanks for her complete acceptance of his hitherto unmentioned son, along with general admiration for her maternal nature, and the promise that he would give her many other children of her own. At least that's what she thought he was trying to convey; truthfully, he looked more concerned than anything else, but she was sure she had read the emotions so plainly visible in his lovely, changeable eyes. What man didn't want his new wife to love and adore his child?

   "We'll talk about it later, son. Here, you take Ratty and put him in a box. We'll have a funeral for him in the morning. Give it to Gertie on your way back to bed." Harry pushed the small child toward the door, giving Plum another apologetic look over his shoulder.

   "I want a kitten! You said I could have a kitten, and I want one. I want one now!"

   "Later," Harry hissed, and tried to shove the boy through the opened door.

   McTavish grabbed the door frame with the hand that was not holding the rat. His hazel eyes, so very much like his father's that it tugged on Plum's heartstrings, pleaded with her from across the room as Harry tried to pry the five pudgy little fingers off the door. "Mama, I want a kitten. Papa said I could have one."

   He called her Mama! She melted into a big puddle of maternal goo. "And so you shall have one, my sweet little lamby-cake. The first thing in the morning I will take you to find a kitten all your very own. It will be our special time together."

   "Later," Harry snarled, prying the last finger off the door frame.

   He yelped as McTavish kicked him smartly on the shin before spinning around to run through the doorway, yelling to someone named Gertie that his new mama was going to get him a kitten.

   Harry shook his fist after the boy. "You little bas"-he glanced back at Plum-"blighter! I'll remember that, see if I don't!"

   Plum smiled a shy little smile that went straight to Harry's groin as he closed the door and turned to face her. She was a wonder! Not only was she the most delectable morsel of womanhood he had seen in a very long while; she had lovely breasts; an amiable temper; seductive hips; an intelligent wit; long, lush legs; various other good nonphysical qualities that couldn't at that exact moment be called to mind; nipples that cried out for his touch; a mouth that begged to be kissed; a body that felt like heaven against his.... Unable to bear the distance between them, Harry lunged forward, intent on possessing himself of that warm, wonderful woman he had had the extremely good sense to marry.

   Plum stopped him with one hand on his chest. He almost whimpered, but he recalled that he was a gentleman, and gentlemen do not whimper, or grovel, or plead, or even get down on their knees and beg when their wives wish to talk rather than make love. No, gentlemen like him drag their minds from the contemplation of just what they'd like to do to the temptresses who stand before them in almost completely transparent bits of cloth, cloth so thin the shadows of her lovely nipples were visible, nipples that called to him, nipples that pleaded with him to take them into his mouth and suckle them with every ounce of desire he possessed, and he possessed an ocean's worth of desire.

   "Harry, dear Harry, how silly you are." Silly? She thought he was silly? Was that good? She was smiling at him, it must be good. Hurrah! "How could you possibly think I wouldn't want to know about your son?"

   It was on the tip of his tongue to ask which son she meant, but he remembered in time the grand scheme he had concocted just that morning for easing Plum into the knowledge that she was now stepmother to five hellions, a plan necessitated by the fact that said children had set the vicar's carriage alight while the vicar was examining the special license Harry had presented him. She seemed to be pleased with McTavish-then again, it wasn't her shin the little monster had assaulted-which boded well for the future. If he spread out introductions to the children over the next few weeks, relying upon Gertie and George and the rest of the staff to keep the children out of sight, perhaps she wouldn't be too upset with them. And him. He particularly wanted her to be happy with him, because a happy wife was a wife who allowed her husband to do all sorts of wonderful things to her delicious, desirable person.

   "He's adorable, he really is. How old is he?"

   Harry looked down at the hand that was now softly caressing the middle of his chest, and was struck with a sudden desire to take each dainty fingertip into his mouth. "How old is who?"

   She giggled. It was such a delightful, joyous sound, Harry wanted to giggle with her. He probably would have, except he'd never giggled before, and wasn't sure if he knew how.

   "McTavish. How old is he?"

   "He'll be six in December."

   "He's sweet, and he looks just like you. You must be very proud of him."

   Proud? Of McTavish? Harry dragged his mind back from the vision of what else Plum possessed that he'd like to taste, and thought about what she said. He owed her that much. Gentlemen did not feel lust for their wives. A gentleman might desire his lady, but he also appreciated her keen intellect. Lust was for lesser people, men who thought solely of their own base needs, and never those of the enticing woman before them. "The lad likes animals. Doesn't care if they're alive or dead, he likes them all. I suppose that's an admirable trait. Yes, I'm proud of him. Underneath the surface clay, there's good soil in him." Harry gave her a curious look. "You're not angry that I didn't tell you about him?"

   "Angry?" She smiled again, one of those lovely, charming smiles that captured his heart and filled him with utter and complete lust... desire. And joy. There was lots and lots of joy, too. Much more joy than base physical desire. "No, I'm not angry. After all, you didn't know that Thom came with me when you offered to wed me."

   "But I knew about her before we were married. Temple told me what you'd told him about your niece. You had the decency to tell me everything about you, whereas I-"

   A sudden frown diminished the lust... joy running amok inside him. She nibbled her strawberry-ripe lower lip. "About that-"

   He couldn't resist. He had to taste her lips just one more time. Her breath caught and held as he plunged into her sweet mouth, feeling himself harden even more as she moved against him, sliding her fingers into his hair, tasting him as he tasted her. She was heaven, she was bliss, she was-

   "There you are. What are you doing in here? Gertie says I can't wear my hair up until I'm fifteen, but I think-oh."

   Harry could have cried, he could have sat right down on the floor and cried. He tore his lips from Plum's, smugly satisfied by the misted passion in her eyes, then released her so he could glare at his daughter. She wasn't supposed to be here. He had her down for an introduction to Plum tomorrow at tea.

   India was examining his new wife, her brows drawn together, her hands on her hips in a pose that was very much like Beatrice's whenever she had been displeased with him. "Is that her, then?"

   He frowned. McTavish might not know better, but India certainly did. "Plum, this young woman who has apparently lost her manners is India, my daughter."

   "A daughter." Plum blinked a couple of times, but didn't demand an immediate annulment, something Harry was profoundly thankful for. "You have a daughter. Named India. What an unusual name. Good evening, India. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

   He could have kissed Plum, he was so grateful. She didn't rail at him, she didn't accuse him of not being truthful about the children, she just cast him a curious glance, and went forward to give India one of those polite little hugs that women who don't know one another well give each other. Yes, she deserved to be kissed, and he was just the man to see the job done.

   "You're Plum?" India asked, her eyes meeting Harry's in surprised horror as Plum hugged her.

   Kissing his wife was his duty, after all.

   Plum stepped back and divided a bright, sunny smile between India and him. "Yes, I'm Plum. Your father didn't... er ... that is, I hadn't expected to meet you tonight, but I'm so glad you came in to say hello."

   Kissing her would tell her just how much he approved of and appreciated her.

   "We must have a good long chat in the morning. I know some very fetching hairstyles that I'm sure will make you even prettier than you already are."

   Oftentimes, kissing led to other, more full-bodied experiences.

   "My niece Thom will want to meet you, as well. Thom has curly hair, like yours. I'm sure she'll have some advice as to the best way to wear it."

   Plum liked kissing him, therefore, he would be selfish to keep such a pleasure from her. Cruel, even. Harry was not a cruel man. He might not be madly in love with Plum, but he liked her, and he wanted her happy and sated. Particularly sated. Although happy was good, too.

   "Papa?" India said, her eyes huge as Plum lifted her braid and wrapped it in a coronet on the top of her head, prattling all the while about hair-related subjects that were so dear to the female heart.

   "Yes," Harry said, agreeing to whatever it would take to get India out of the room and Plum into his bed.

   "Yes?" India dipped away from Plum, unwinding her braid and giving his wife an outraged look.

   "Yes." He glanced at Plum. Both of her deliciously straight brows were raised in mute surprise. Evidently yes wasn't the answer she expected him to give. "No," he corrected himself. Plum's eyebrows lowered to their normal straight line. He smiled at her, pleased he got the answer right.

   "Papa!" India gasped as Harry grabbed her arm. He opened the door to the hallway, and still smiling at Plum, tugged his daughter out. "Papa, you didn't even hear-"

   "We had an agreement, didn't we?" Harry whispered, leaning close to India's ear. "You agreed not to disturb me tonight for anything short of death, dismemberment, or the apocalypse, and in return I will buy you the Hamilton's gray mare with white stockings. That was our agreement. I have your signed statement, which I do not hesitate to point out is binding in any court of law."

   "Yes, but-"

   Harry gave her his best annoyed father look, the one he kept in reserve for emergencies. India, an intelligent little whelp, knew that she hadn't a leg to stand on, and after uttering a word he would take up with her another time, and stomping her foot perilously close to his bare toes, she huffed off. Harry lost no time in zipping back into the bedchamber, and resuming the activities that had twice been so grievously interrupted. He didn't even give Plum time to say anything other than a startled, "Harry!" before he was engaged in a tactile exploration of her wonderfully warm, wet mouth.

   "India says you're getting the gray mare for her. You said you'd get me a horse as soon as we were settled! I'm an earl, she's just a lady. I should have the next horse."

   Harry pulled back until his lips just brushed Plum's as he spoke. "That's my oldest son, Digger, Lord Marston. Ignore him and he'll go away."

   He tried to possess her lips again, but she slipped out of his arms. "Digger?"

   "It's short for Diggory. You're Plum. India said you were scrawny and you touched her hair. She doesn't like to be touched. She's a girl," Digger said, as if that explained it all.

   Harry fought back the desire to throttle his son and heir-he had other sons, as he had pointed out to Digger on many occasions-and prepared to explain the situation to his wife.

   She was looking at Digger with pursed lips, a look she transferred to him. "Another son. Exactly how many children do you have, my lord?"

   He winced at the "my lord." Her tone had gone from warm and arousing, to cold and suspicious in the matter of a few seconds.

   "Er ... at last count I had-"

   The door to the hallway was slammed open, Anne and Andrew rolling through the doorway in an angry assortment of elbows, knees, and feet.

   "It's mine! It has the blue top, that's mine! Yours is the one with the yellow top!" Andrew jerked a small wooden boat out of Anne's hands.

   She got to her knees and punched her twin in his belly. "Stupid! Mine is the blue one, yours is yellow!"

   "-five children."

   "Five?"

   "MINE!" Andrew kicked out with both of his legs, one of which clipped Anne on the jaw. She yelped and dived onto him, her fists and feet flying.

   "That's Anne and Andrew. They're twins," Digger said helpfully.

   "Yes, that's correct, just the five children," Harry said with a weak smile at Plum.

   The twins barreled into the dressing table, knocking over various bottles and pots of feminine unguents and scents that Temple had purchased upon Harry's order. A box of powder exploded as the table went flying, filling the air with a rose-scented cloud while twin sapphire blue bottles holding extremely expensive scents crashed onto the floor, spilling their contents onto the rose and damask rug. Various small pots scattered, disgorging their contents as well. Anne and Andrew began to cough, having gulped in rose powder-laden air. Andrew pulled Anne's hair. She bit his hand. Digger sauntered over to Plum and told her he didn't think she was scrawny at all, she just needed a bit of fattening up.

   Harry closed his eyes for a second, praying that when he opened them again, he would be alone with his wife. That failing, he prayed he'd come up with a good enough explanation to keep her from walking out on him.

   The sound of glass breaking stirred him into action. "Out!" he bellowed, grabbing the back of Andrew's nightgown in one hand, the back of Anne's with another, pulling them apart and sending them with none too gentle pushes toward the door.

   "Out!" he roared again, pointing at the door as he glared at Digger. "And take the twins with you."

   "I still want a horse," Digger said, but at least he managed to get the twins, still fighting, out the door so Harry could slam it shut. He also locked it. Without glancing at Plum he hauled the fainting couch over to the door, just to be sure they couldn't get in.

   "Five," Plum said when he finally turned to face her.

   All his words of explanation, all his entreaties for her understanding melted before the one cocked eyebrow and the arms crossed over her delicious chest. His hopes of a wondrous, erotic night spent exploring the ways of marital harmony withered into dust, and blew out the window on a faint waft of rose powder.

   He rallied a feeble smile, and tried very hard not to cry. "Yes, well, five always has been my lucky number."

  

Chapter Five

  

   Plum awoke to the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She opened her eyes. She was being watched. Circled around the bottom of her bed, five pairs of eyes stared steadily at her as she pushed her heavy hair out of her eyes, and propped herself up on her elbow. The youngest of Harry's sons, the boy oddly named McTavish, squirmed out from under India's restraining hand and jumped onto the bed next to Plum.

   "You're awake now, aren't you? India said I wasn't to wake you up, but your eyes are open now so you're awake. I want a kitten. I have a dead rat. Would you like to see it?"

   "No, thank you, McTavish. I try to maintain a strict policy of entertaining no dead rats before breakfast. It's not easy, but life is nothing if not a challenge. What are you all doing in here?"

   "Waiting for you to wake up," Digger said.

   "Why aren't you sleeping with Papa?" India asked, her lips tight with suspicion. "Gertie said the reason Papa wanted to get married was so he wouldn't get lonely in bed. You're supposed to keep him from being lonely. Gertie said so. Why aren't you?"

   Plum closed her eyes for a few seconds before sitting up and facing the bright faces watching her so carefully. "To be honest, I don't feel up to a detailed explanation of my intimate relationship with your father, but as you are obviously concerned about his happiness, I can reassure you that although the situation last night was not one conducive to ... er ... keeping him from being lonely, I have every intention of seeing to that task tonight. Will that suffice?"

   "I want a kitten. You said I could have one this morning."

   "Our real mother slept in the same bed as Papa," India said accusingly.

   "I don't want a new mama," Anne said, then disappeared as she dropped to the floor. Peering over the side of the bed, Plum could see Anne's legs where they stuck out from under the bed.

   "I want a mama, I want a mama," McTavish chanted, bouncing up and down on the bed in time with his words. "I want a kitten, I want a kitten."

   "That's mine!" Andrew said, and immediately jumped his twin as she emerged with a pretty blue and pink chamber pot. "I saw it first!"

   "Our real mother took care of Papa. She wouldn't let him be lonely."

   "A kitten, a kitten! I want a kitten!"

   "It is not, I saw it first! It's mine. You have to find your own."

   "Our real mother made sure Papa was dressed warmly when he went out in the cold, and took a draught whenever he was sick."

   "Mine, Annie!"

   "Papa never was sick," Digger told his sister. She glared at him, her arms tight across her chest, her nostrils flaring in that particularly effective way young women of three and ten had of expressing their contempt.

   "He would have taken a draught if he was sick. Mama would have made him."

   Digger gave way before such reasoning. He nodded. "Yes, he would have."

   "Kitten, kitten, kitten, kitten."

   Plum, starting to get a headache from all of McTavish's bouncing, clutched him to her chest. "I appreciate the fact that none of you wish to have a new mother-"

   "I want a new mama," McTavish told her shoulder, squirming to get free. Plum loosened her grip just enough so he could sit next to her and play with the long, inky tendrils of hair that curled around him.

   "Thank you, McTavish, I appreciate that."

   "I want one, too," Digger said unexpectedly. "And so do the twins, don't you?"

   Andrew, in the process of wresting the chamber pot-thankfully unused-from his sister's grip, didn't look up as he nodded. "Yes."

   "No, you don't, I want one," Anne snarled as she stomped on her brother's foot, crowing in triumph when he yelped and released the chamber pot.

   "I thought she said otherwise," Plum asked as Anne raced out of the room, her prize hugged to her chest. Andrew was directly on her heels, yelling at her that she was a thief to take his pretty pot.

   "Oh, that's just the twins. They never agree on anything," Digger said, then started for the door. "Come on, Tavvy, George said she heard that one of the bulls' tails fell off during the night. If we're fast, maybe we can find it before the stable boys do."

   "I want a bull tail!" McTavish said as he scrambled across the top of Plum to follow after his brother. "I want a kitten and a bull tail."

   Plum blinked at India, who was still frowning at her. "Is it like this every morning, or are you all being unusually bizarre on my behalf?"

   India unfolded her arms and marched toward the door. "My real mother didn't have black hair. My real mother was pretty, and blonde like me, and she didn't touch me when I didn't want to be touched."

   Plum sat back against the headboard as the door slammed behind India, blowing out a breath she hadn't realize she had been holding. "You wanted children, well now you have them. Only, what am I do to with five grown children? Babies I could handle, but children children ... hoo!"

   The room held no answer for her. Since she didn't want to frighten her maid by asking her any more rhetorical questions, she washed in the water that had been left for her, and with the practice of one who has long tended to herself, slipped into the nicest gown she owned. She was just braiding her hair when there was a knock at her door.

   "India said you were awake. I thought I would see how you enjoyed your first night of marital bliss." Thom entered the room, her arched eyebrow (Plum had gnashed her teeth many times at the lovely natural arch in Thom's eyebrows) and coy smile an indicator of what sort of an answer she expected.

   "I slept quite well, thank you, although not due to any activities that you are perilously close to smirking about. And while we're on that subject, I will remind you again that unmarried young ladies of good family do not allude to matters that are unsuitable."

   Thom blew her a kiss and opened the door. "You're so adorable when you're prudish. Since you are obviously hale and hearty, I will see you later. I'm going to investigate Harry's stables. He appears to have excellent taste in horses...."

   Before Plum could do anything more than sputter, "Prudish! I've never been prudish a day in my life!" Thom was gone. Plum gave her hair a final pat, spent three minutes wishing she had a nice gown in which to greet her new husband, and set off to begin her life as wife and mother.

   "Good morning, er ..." Plum hesitated in the great hall, unable to recall the butler's name. Her introductions to the staff the previous night had been so quickly conducted, she had nothing more than an impression of a heavy Spanish accent, sultry, flashing black eyes, and extremely white teeth against dark skin.

   "I am Juan Immanuel Savage Tortugula Diaz de Arasanto, and you are my oh, so very, very lady."

   "Very, very lady?" Plum extracted her hand from where the handsome Spaniard was bending over it.

   "Yes, you are so very." Juan the butler waggled his eyebrows at her in what she assumed was meant to be a seductive manner.

   She fought back the desire to giggle at him, and instead asked, "Yes, well, Arasanto, have you seen his lordship this morning?"

   "One."

   "You saw him at one this morning?"

   He gave her a very polished leer. "No, Juan. It is my name. You may call me Juan rather than Arasanto. It is preferred, yes?"

   Plum took a deep breath and reminded herself that no matter how much she might like to either burst into hysterical laughter, or scream, neither were actions suitable to a new marchioness. "I see. Very well, Juan, do you know where my husband is?"

   He shrugged and pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward a narrow, dark passage. "Harry is probably hiding in his office."

   "Harry?" Plum asked, a little surprised by a servant addressing his master by his first name.

   "He asks me to call him that because he calls me Juan, eh?"

   "Oh. I see. Yes, well... um ... thank you." Plum started toward the passage, but found her way blocked by the amorous Spaniard.

   "You would like for me to show you around the house first, eh? I have many things of interest to show you." His eyebrows waggled at her again.

   Plum knew she should be offended or angry with such blatant flirting by a servant, but she found herself oddly amused by Juan. He was so sure of his charm, so obvious about his innuendoes, she couldn't help but smile. "Thank you, but I will have my husband-your employer-show me around the house. I'm sure he, too, has many interesting things to show me."

   "He is old, that one. I am young and how it's said, virile."

   "He's not that old," Plum laughed. "And considering he has five children, I would hazard that his virility is not in doubt."

   Juan shuddered and crossed himself. "Santa Maria, those ones are spawned by the devil himself."

   "Oh, come now, they're a bit high spirited, but they aren't really that bad." Plum sidled around Juan while he was busy rolling his eyes. "A little untamed, perhaps, but that is no doubt due to having been without a mother for the last few years. I quite like them."

   Juan grabbed her hand as she moved past him, bowing over it again, brushing his lips against her knuckles before Plum yanked her hand back. "It is because you have not been here with them that you think they are the angels. They are not. And now, most very lady, I will return to my duties. You are mistress here now, you will want to speak to me later about my duties, yes? I will await your pleasure in the pantry of butlers." His black, liquid eyes sent her a message that was unmistakable. Plum's lips twitched as she struggled to keep from giggling. She hurried down the dark passage, wondering how on earth Harry had come to employ such a bold butler, when his words sank in.

   "What can Harry be hiding from, I wonder?" she mused as she approached a door. She entered a small, extremely tidy room and smiled at the man sitting behind a desk piled high with books and papers. "Good morning, Mr. Harris. Can you tell me where I might find Lord ... merciful St. Genevieve, what was that?"

   The loud crash that came from the hallway made Plum jump. She turned back to the secretary, expecting him to leap up and investigate.

   "His lordship is through the door to your right. If you could possibly convince him to allow his room to be cleaned, I would be eternally grateful."

   Plum stared at him as if he had horns growing from his head. "Didn't... didn't you hear the crash? From the hall? Shouldn't you investigate?"

   Temple tipped his head to the side as he considered her. "No. I've found it's much safer not to be too curious about those sorts of things."

   "Safer?" Plum gaped at him, positively gaped, and she was not a woman who took gaping lightly. "But... but... the children could be injured!"

   Temple pursed his lips and listened for a moment, then shook his head and went over to the door leading to Harry's room. "No, no one is hurt. We'd hear screaming by now if one of his lordship's little darlings were injured. They're very vocal."

   "Well, surely someone should inquire as to what happened? Surely someone would like to ascertain just what caused such a horrifying sound?"

   Temple eyed her curiously. "I wouldn't advise it, ma'am. His lordship has found that a strict policy of unenlightenment is the best for all concerned."

   Plum snorted. She hated to do so in front of Temple after so short an acquaintance, but she felt such an extreme action was called for. "You cannot make me believe that a man as fond of his children as Harry is would not wish to investigate the noise we just heard."

   "As you say, ma'am."

   Plum thinned her lips at him. "You're patronizing me, Mr. Harris. I dislike being patronized."

   "That thought was the farthest from my mind, you can be assured. I simply wish to inform you that about this, I am well familiar with his lordship's habits."

   "Prove it."

   His eyebrows rose in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

   "Prove to me that Harry won't want to know what's going on out in the hall. Ask him."

   Temple opened the door for her and waved her into the room. A second, less loud crash echoed from the hall. She cocked an eyebrow at Temple and marched into a dimly lit chamber so dusty her nose tickled. At the far end of the long room, with his back to a pair of filthy windows, her husband sat reading a letter.

   "Sir," Temple said from the doorway when Harry didn't acknowledge them.

   "Mmm?" He didn't raise his eyes from the letter.

   Plum looked him over carefully, this man she had married and more or less thrown out of her bedchamber the evening before. His sandy hair was mussed and disordered, as if he had combed it with his fingers, the one rogue lock of hair having fallen over his brow. The planes of his long face were thrown into interesting shadows, the bright gold of his spectacles glinting in the sunlight that bullied its way through the grimy fly-specked windows. This was the man she had bound herself to for the rest of her life. The man who had neglected to tell her about his five children. The man about whom she had built up so many dreams and hopes-or as many dreams and hopes as one could arouse in just two days. This was the man with whom she wished to indulge in many, many connubial calisthenics, the man who would twine his heart and soul (not to mention legs and arms) around hers, the man who would complete her, make her whole, give her what she wanted more than anything in the world....

   "Your wife, sir."

   "What about her?" Harry asked, still reading his letter, one long finger tapping on his lower lip as he read. At the sight of that finger stroking the curve of his lip, Plum remembered, with an unmaidenly flash of heat to her womanly parts, just how wonderful his mouth felt on hers.

   "She would like to know if you are curious about the specifics concerning the two"-another crash, this one followed by a hoarse shout and peals of childish laughter, interrupted Temple-"three indicators of an accident from the hall."

   "Why would I be foolish enough to want to know that?" Harry asked, his gaze on the letter as he took a pen from the holder and flipped open the top to an inkwell.

   Temple glanced apologetically at her. "I believe your lady feels that you might wish to make sure that one of the children hasn't injured himself or herself."

   Plum nodded, wondering greatly whether or not returning to bed and starting the day over would help. She reckoned it wouldn't.

   "Don't be ridiculous, Temple," Harry said absently, making a notation on the letter. "If one of them was hurt, there would be screaming and blood and such."

   Then again, it couldn't hurt.

   "Harry."

   He looked up, the adorable lock of hair hanging over his equally adorable brow, his eyes dark and shadowed behind the glass lenses. "Plum! You're ... er ... up."

   Temple quietly left the room, closing the door behind him as Plum walked toward the desk, glancing at the variety of objects lining the tables and bookcases. "Yes, I've found that if I really put my mind to it, I often manage to arise before the sun has set for the day. Good morning, Harry."

   "Oh, er ..." Harry stood up, more than a little bit flustered, Plum was delighted to see. He pushed back his spectacles, leaving a smear of blue ink on the bridge of his nose. Her fingers itched to push the lock of hair back from his brow as he tugged on his neckcloth (leaving blue smudges on it, too), greeting her with a hesitant (but needless to say, adorable) smile. "Good morning. How did you ... er ... sleep?"

   Plum sighed to herself. There was no avoiding the fact, Harry was just all-around adorable. "Quite well, the bed is very comfortable. I did, however, have a complaint concerning my bedchamber."

   "Oh?" Harry came around the edge of the desk and pulled back a chair for her. Two apples, a number of crumpled neckcloths, and a small brown-and-black salamander tumbled from the mass of papers that sat on the chair. "What-just ignore the salamander, it's one of McTavish's pets, it's harmless, I'm quite sure. Temple's story about it biting off one of the footmen's fingertips is nothing but the grossest sort of fiction-what did you find lacking?"

   Plum took a deep breath, and reminded herself that she was neither a shy virgin nor a woman inexperienced with men and the intimate acts they did with their wives. She knew thirteen different standing positions alone for said intimate acts, and women who knew such things did not blush when they were mentioned in casual conversation. She was a mature, rational woman. Harry was her husband. She very much looked forward to investigating his person in a thorough and lengthy manner. She might even take notes about things he particularly enjoyed. She would not, under any circumstances, act maidenish.

   Harry's eyes narrowed as he peered into her face. "Are you well? You look flushed, as if you have a fever."

   "I'm quite fine," she answered, ignoring the fact that her cheeks were so hot she could probably fry an egg or two on them. "What I found lacking in my bedchamber last night was your presence."

   Harry looked confused. "You threw me out of the room."

   Drat the man, he would have to remember that point. "Yes, I did, but I didn't mean it."

   One dark brown eyebrow rose over the top of the spectacles. "Ah. That would be why you said, and I believe I'm quoting you accurately, 'You deceiving mongrel of a man! You have five children and you never told me? Five? F-I-V-E, five?'"

   Plum's blush, to her everlasting mortification, deepened even more. She avoided looking into his lovely, changeable eyes and glared at the dirty window, instead. "I might have said that, but I was a bit upset at the time-"

   "Following which, you marched over to the door leading to my room, threw it open, and with a dramatic gesture that would have done Sarah Siddon proud, informed me that I might go to my own room, or to the devil, whichever I preferred so long as I removed myself from your presence."

   She made a moue of irritation. "I have often found people with exceptionally good memories to be the worst sort of annoying-"

   "I might have been left in some doubt as to what, exactly, your thoughts were on the subject of our marriage, but the fact that you almost brained me with your hairbrushes-"

   "They were very small hairbrushes! They couldn't possibly have done any damage more than perhaps a slight bruise or two, although I do concede that if you were not wearing your spectacles, and if the handle was to have lodged in your eye, it might have put it out."

   "-as you swore to the Lord Almighty that you never, ever wanted to see me again."

   She closed her eyes for a second. How could she have been so stupid? Why had she flown off the hook at him like that? She of all people had no right to be angry at him for having concealed from her something about his past. " 'Never, ever' might have been a slight exaggeration-"

   "Plum."

   Her gaze dropped to her hands clasped before her as she refused to look at him, too embarrassed to bear seeing the condemnation in his eyes. She truly was a coward. "I'm sorry, Harry. I thought I could do this, but I'm obviously too-"

   "Plum, look at me."

   Slowly, with reluctance her gaze rose to meet his. Her throat tightened and several odd, butterfly-like things set up fluttering in her stomach. He was smiling at her, smiling a wonderful smile, not with just his lips, but with his eyes too. He took her hands, then bent to kiss the backs of each. Her hands glowed warm under the touch.

   "You had every right to be angry with me. I don't blame you at all for ejecting me from your room. I just hope that now that you know the worst, you'll consent to remain my wife. I admit that it's not a particularly good deal on your part, but I would like you to stay. Lord knows the servants could use a mistress-they never seem to know how to do their jobs, or even what their jobs are. And the children are wild, not bad-tempered, just wild. They need you as well."

   Plum smiled at the earnest, hopeful look in his eyes and tightened her fingers around his. "And you, my lord? What do you need?"

   "A friend," he said, his voice suddenly husky as he drew her closer to him. "A companion. A lover." She was against his chest, her hands sliding up the fine green cloth of his jacket, his muscles bunching as he pulled her tight against him. His lips teased hers, nipping at her lower lip, tasting the corners of her mouth, pressing little butterfly kisses along the length of her lips until her head swam. Harry's voice was rough, thick with desire as he said, just before he accepted the invitation offered by her parted lips, "A wife."

   Plum, thinking wicked thoughts about using Harry's desk in a manner she did not doubt would surprise him, prepared to surrender to his worshipful mouth when another, closer crash shook the windows behind Harry.

   "Damnation," he snarled as he pulled his lips from hers. "Temple!"

   Reminding herself that she was now the children's mother, and thus the likely person to investigate household accidents, she reluctantly pulled herself from Harry's arms. "I should probably see what's amiss."

   "No, you stay. Temple, what's going on out there? Why can't I have a single moment of solitude? Is it too much to ask for a man to read his letters in peace and quiet?"

   "No, sir," Temple replied, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "It would appear that a bull, sadly lacking in the tail department, has made its way into the hall. I will see to it that it is removed immediately."