Chapter Eight

HIS IS NOT like any swing I’ve ever been on before,” Anne said, then blushed acutely as the duke exploded with laughter. Perhaps she did sound oddly … prim for a courtesan. But it was the truth. The swing was a shocking thing, since it was supposed to be for lovemaking and he had it permanently attached in the master bedchamber of his home.

No, of course this wasn’t his home. This was his hunting box, used for his wild parties. And she was supposed to behave like an adventurous mistress.

He had climbed on the bed, had slid away a panel in the canopy, and a bundle of white silken cords had tumbled down. The ropes were fastened in some mysterious way to the wooden structure above them. As he untangled them, she could see the swing had a woven sling, made up of the cords. He gave it a push when he was done, and it made lazy passes over the bed.

“Are you sure this thing is not dangerous?”

His chuckle rumbled through the shadows. A candle sat upon a dressing table and cast a guinea-gold light on him. “No, love. Perfectly safe. Or so I’ve heard. I had it installed a long time ago, long before I went to war.” His smile vanished as he swung the ropes again thoughtfully. “I’ve never used it.”

“Why not?” He looked troubled and she wished to know why.

“I had decided to take a bride, and that meant no more mistresses. No more orgies, no more courtesans at the hunting box.”

“Because you planned to marry?”

“When a man loses his heart, there is no other woman he wants in his bed,” he said simply.

She might be naïve, but she believed him. Yet what had happened? Why had he not married, if he had fallen in love? Kat had told her never to ask awkward questions of a protector, certainly not questions about love, and never to pry. A gentleman wished a mistress who always agreed with him, who soothed his worries instead of provoking them.

But what lady with sense would not marry this man if he’d fallen in love with her?

The duke got on his knees on the bed, holding the swing steady. He was nude, wearing nothing but a wide, lusty smile. On him, nakedness was very alluring.

She used to be a hoyden; she used to climb trees, walk along the slippery railings of bridges, daringly ride bareback. Years in the brothel had sapped her strength and made her soft. Could she do this? Get on that precarious thing and make love to him without hurting them both?

“I’ll help you up,” he offered. He wore such a look of hopeful anticipation, she knew she must try. He held her hand, as a gallant knight would, but getting her onto the seat involved much squealing, the heart-dipping fear she would fall off, and his gentle, desire-roughened laughter.

She must be making a dreadful mess of this. This must be a fantasy for him. She knew erotic fantasies were tremendously important to men. If she kept squealing with shock and almost falling off, she was going to ruin it—

“Up you go,” he rasped, and her bare bottom landed on the silky rope seat. It dropped with her weight, and the ropes followed the curve of her rump. They were surprisingly soft, the touch of them unexpectedly exciting.

Her feet brushed the bed and she carefully pushed off. The instant she took flight, swinging beside him, she had to bite her lip. This was what it was like to be wild, young, and carefree.

The duke stretched out beneath her, and she forgot to breathe. The swing dipped so low, her quim brushed his stomach. Her privates were scandalously exposed by the holes in the seat.

He caught her hips. Desire turned his expression harsh. “Take me inside you, angel. Swing on me. Be as daring as you want.”

“All right.” Cupped in the swing, she reached down, almost toppled off. “Eek!”

“Cerise?”

“I am all right.” She wriggled back on. She felt more herring than daring—a fish caught in a net. “You’ll have to … um … hold yourself. I can’t reach.”

“Ah, not quite that well endowed, am I?”

“Oh, yes!” she cried, afraid she’d made a mistake. “You are very much so, but my hand cannot reach unless—” Then she saw the teasing twinkle. He wrapped his right hand around the hilt of his erection and held the astonishing length straight up. He slid into her, filling her. Goodness, it was true—it was a thrilling sensation to have him inside, to be floating on top of him, barely touching him except where his thick shaft was buried deep in her. It was so new and different, she could not take her mind somewhere else. She didn’t want to. She’d wanted to do this for his delight, but she actually liked it too.

He pushed gently, making her swing on him. Agony contorted his delectably handsome face. “I wish I could see you. I want to see you sway. See my cock inside you. Hell, I want to see your face as I pleasure you.”

She didn’t want this to remind him of loss. “I wish I could see you, but I have my eyes shut.”

The silence left her breathless … then he laughed gently. He pushed the swing, twirled her, swayed her from side to side. Sensations exploded inside her—so much so, she almost let go of the ropes. Then she opened her eyes and saw herself in the large looking glass.

A wild creature floated on the white silk swing, one with loose, tumbling hair. With flushed breasts and pink cheeks. The curves of her derrière squeezed between the mesh pattern of the seat.

“Oh, goodness. I look scandalous,” she gasped. Forgetting. Hastily she added, “I mean, I look a mess and, well, a bit silly caught in the swing. You are not missing much.”

“Don’t say that.” He stopped the swing. She ached for the pleasure of rocking on him, but he wouldn’t let her. “I cannot see you, but I know you are beautiful. In every way.”

It was so sweet, it made her throat tight. She was supposed to be saucy, not teary. “Let us swing, Your Grace,” she said, trying to sound bold, “and soar to a climax.”

He swung her back and forth, her legs and derrière flying atop him. Pleasurable tension grew inside her. The ache intensified. The need for more … to move harder …

Anne wriggled in the seat, for it made her swing the perfect amount. It made her most sensitive place rub against his shaft. Unexpected pleasure slammed into her. Then he touched her there, on her clit, and stroked her as she glided along him. She had to close her eyes again. She gripped the ropes so hard, her nails broke strands.

This time she didn’t want to simply endure his touch, she yearned to enjoy it. How did she do that? She tried to think of nothing but how he felt inside her. She shut her eyes and rocked on him. Desperate. Determined. But the more she tried, the more she felt the pleasure slipping away. She opened her eyes wide, drinking in how beautiful he was, how erotic and wicked this was, how perfect …

It was too late. She just couldn’t. She had to pretend, as she always did. Frustration hit her so hard she could have screamed. But whatever she did, she couldn’t disappoint him. “Your Grace!” she cried. She made her quim pulse around his shaft, squeezing him tight. She moaned and wailed as though in the grip of shattering ecstasy. He gripped her hips to plunge up into her. He roared his orgasm, the harshness of the sound stunning. He arched up into her, while his body bucked, his eyes closed, and he cried out her name.

He fell back, his chest heaving. His member softened and slid out of her on a wash of hot fluid. He held out his arms. “Come to me. I can’t see you to help you.”

She clasped his hands. “That doesn’t matter. This is all I need.” He supported her as she put her bare feet on the bed and struggled off the swing. She lost her balance and tumbled on top of him, but he only laughed. “My adventurous Cerise,” he whispered.

Her heart made a giddy little trip at his words, pushing away her disappointment with herself. He rolled them over so they lay on their sides, facing each other. He kissed her, gently and lovingly. “Thank you,” he murmured. He took a long, ragged breath. “That was … unbelievable. Angel, would you tell me what it looked like?”

Perhaps giggles were not the best response for that. She thought of what she’d looked like on the swing, how awkward she’d felt but how sensual and thrilling it had been. And how much she had liked hearing him laugh—she realized she’d never heard a man laugh while making love. “Well, you looked exactly as you always do, devilishly handsome, rather like a Grecian statue come to life, except for your magnificent erection, which was sticking up. I looked like I had been scooped up in a net—”

His booming laugh stopped her. Suddenly he slid his fingers into her underarms. “Teasing me, are you? I can do the same to you.”

“Your Grace—” He tickled her! She couldn’t help but laugh. Then she couldn’t stop, because he wouldn’t stop tickling. Her face was burning hot—it must be red from all her helpless giggles. Hardly the look of a skilled, enigmatic courtesan, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She felt buoyant with pleasure, the kind of wonderful delight she hadn’t felt for a long, long time. When was the last time she’d laughed like this? She couldn’t remember. For years she hadn’t had any reason to laugh. But she was giddy with mirth now. It spilled out no matter how much she tried to make it stop.

Finally he withdrew his fingers and she gasped for breath. “I never took you for a giggler, angel,” he whispered. He levered up onto his arm, facing her. “I haven’t laughed so much in longer than I can remember.”

It would be wonderful if the laughter did not have to end. And the way to stay joyful would be to make love again, wouldn’t it? He began to get up, but she wrapped her arms around him so he couldn’t leave the bed. “When you are ready for more,” she asked, “is it possible to make love with you on the swing, Your Grace?”

This time his brows shot up, almost vanishing into his black hair. “That sounds dangerous from my point of view, love. Why don’t we try it together? With you on top, of course.”

He’d sensed Cerise’s tension when she rode on top of him on the swing. Devon felt it again as she straddled him while he settled on the rope seat. His hands bumped hers where she gripped the rope, clutching it tight. Hades, her knuckles must be bone-white.

Was she just scared of the swing?

She lowered on him so her silky, hot quim pressed to his rigid, naked cock. Pure pleasure rushed through him. But he still felt her tension. He’d noticed the same stiffness in her when he first performed oral sex upon her. He thought he’d pleasured her enough to make her relax—she’d certainly shouted loudly when she came. On the swing, she’d laughed for him. She must have enjoyed it.

Why, then, was she so tense? What did she fear?

He remembered how she had taken his fingers and traced bruises on her back. Of course she was afraid. She had been in a brothel, and she claimed her madam had beaten her. Was she afraid he might use his fists on her? Realization hit him hard. He’d warned her he could hurt her, told her he could inflict worse damage than her madam. Of course she was terrified of him. She must have been afraid each time they’d made love.

“Don’t be afraid, angel,” he murmured. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers slid around his shaft. He was hard as a brick. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know.” With her hand wrapped around the pulsating hilt of his rod, she stroked him against her, teasing him with the heat of her moist cunny. “I know you won’t.” She took him inside her, and he struggled to think against the onslaught of fire and need that flooded him.

Pump into her, pleasure her, his body insisted. But he didn’t want to take his own pleasure while she was perched so stiffly on him. He struggled for control. “What are you scared of, love? You were tense on the swing. And as brittle as ice the time I kissed your lovely quim.”

“I—oh, I’m not tense.”

“Angel, you are. I can feel it. Since I can’t see you, I have to focus on everything else.” He ran his hands along her forearms. “They are locked with tension.” He caressed the back of her neck. “Your muscles are as tight as knots.”

“I don’t have my balance on the swing. That’s all.”

He wanted to believe that was all, wanted to ease her fears, make her come. He loved the crescendo of her cries when she found her pleasure. He was determined to give her every bit of the ecstasy she gave him. “Hold me then, and let us swing,” he said gruffly.

He gave a gentle kick and they coasted back. She squealed on top of him. They swung forward, and his cock followed the arc, sliding deep inside her. Hell, the sheer heavenly joy of it shot through his brain. But she was still stiff. Relax, Cerise. Come on, angel. Enjoy it. Dimly, he realized he was begging out loud for her to do so.

Then she moaned. A moan as dark as chocolate, as deep as his thrusts felt, as hoarse as he knew his voice sounded. With each pass of the swing, she cried, “Oh! Oooh!”

But now he could hear it: the forced quality in her voice. She groaned, and her voice dropped to a sultry purr guaranteed to drive a man mad as she gasped, “I’m coming! Oh, Your Grace.” But even though she was wailing through a climax, she was still like a board on top of him. She was screaming with pleasure—but was she feeling any of it? He felt his arousal slipping away. He focused on Cerise, on every throaty wail and breathy gasp. He slid his hands between them and touched her quim. She wasn’t wet. Not lushly slick, the way she would be if she came. Had she made all that noise even though she hadn’t liked it? Had she been giving him a performance?

He asked, wondering if he really wanted the answer, “Angel, did you like it?”

Then he knew—no matter what she said, he had to know. Making love should not be only about him getting serviced. He wanted her to enjoy it too. It wouldn’t be pleasure for him if he thought she was going through the motions, unhappy, uncomfortable, scared. “Is it good, Cerise? Am I good?” Hell, was she too afraid of him?

“Your Grace, you are wonderful. Of course it is good. You make me come so many times.”

He heard the fear in her tone. “No, I don’t, angel, do I?” Was it because he was blind? Or had he lost some of his technique? It had been a long time since he’d made love. He hadn’t done it since he lost Rosalind and went to war.

“You do,” she insisted, and she sounded almost desperate. “Let me prove it, Your Grace.”

“You don’t have to prove anything, Cerise. I just want to give you pleasure.”

How had he known? What had she done wrong?

Anne froze on the duke’s lap. The women in the brothel had insisted every man loved a good performance. Men, they claimed, always wanted to think they were superb lovers—so they readily believed a woman’s screams and moans. But the duke had guessed hers weren’t real. He’d said he felt her tension. Heavens, had he been that perceptive of her during sex?

It was so ironic. She had enjoyed it. She was not afraid of him. She had been so very close to pleasure, but an orgasm would not happen for her. And now he feared she hadn’t liked it at all. “You do give me pleasure,” she insisted. How could she convince him? He sounded … hurt. The whole point of being his mistress was to keep him content in bed.

“Is it because I’m blind?”

The question confused her so much, she muttered, “Is what—” before she stopped herself. “You are so very good. Everything you do to me is wonderful. It is perfect.” If her performances had not been enough, what could she do now? Why should it matter whether she came or not? “You are the most perfect lover ever, Your Grace. And all I want to do is give you pleasure.”

In the silence, her heart thundered. She had told him the truth—he was wonderful at lovemaking and she truly did want to delight him. Finally he groaned. “All right, my dear. Then let us share pleasure together. Perhaps this time on the bed?”

Anne snuggled sleepily against the duke’s chest.

Goodness, had they really spent two whole days making love? That night, after he questioned her about her orgasms, they’d indulged in three more sexual bouts. She was certain the duke now believed she was climaxing. She suspected he wanted to believe it, as the other women at Madame’s had said. The frustrating thing: She simply could not come. Perhaps it was the way she was. Or it was because of her past. She loved to make love with the duke, but she could not find the ultimate pleasure from it. And she must keep that a secret.

They’d stopped lovemaking only long enough for the meals that were served to them in the bedroom. She’d quickly learned why the duke had not wanted anyone to witness him dine. He was still learning how to cope with eating food he could not see.

Using a trick from her grandfather, she had shown him how to arrange his plate in a pattern that suited him: his meat at three o’clock, his potato at nine, his vegetables at twelve. Quietly, she instructed Treadwell to teach the footman to serve His Grace this way. They must arrange his food in the same way at each meal and discreetly explain each dish they served onto his plate.

“Angel, I think we’re going to have to get out of bed.” Grinning, the duke stroked her loose, disheveled hair. It was a delightful caress.

“Mmm. Do we have to?”

He laughed. “It is time to change the bedding, love. Crisp, clean sheets will be a treat.”

“That would be lovely.” Then, daringly, she asked, “Perhaps you would share them with me all night?”

She knew he didn’t sleep in the bed with her. He waited until he thought she was asleep, then he went to an adjoining bedroom. He would close the door, likely so she would not hear him cry out with nightmares or know he paced for most of the night.

But she had heard all those things, and each time she heard him shout, she’d gone to him. No matter how much he thrashed, she would sit at his bedside and soothe him. He must have been exhausted from their lovemaking, because he didn’t wake when she touched him. Each time, she was able to coax him back to sleep.

She knew Beckett had not listened to her: He brought brandy to that room. For two days she had watered it down when the duke slept. Little by little, so no one would notice.

He didn’t answer her, so she asked again, “Would you try sleeping with me, Your Grace?”

He sighed. “Angel, why would you want to take the risk? There’s no need for us to sleep together. We can have sex and then I’ll leave you to your rest.” He wrapped one of her tangled locks around his finger. “It works perfectly. Even my mother and father, who were devoted to each other, didn’t share a bed. My father always insisted part of the continuing excitement was to go to my mother’s room and rap on the door and hope she was equally randy.”

She had to giggle at that. It was true: Married couples did not share beds. Why was she so determined to coerce him to sleep with her? It would prove to him he was healing, and she was certain he was. But she feared if he had a nightmare and hit her, he would take that as proof he was going mad.

He wasn’t mad. After the past couple of days with him, Anne was equally certain of that.

He patted her bottom and lifted her off him, gently letting her sprawl on the tousled sheets beside him. “I’ve ordered the carriage to take you into the village. There’s a dressmaker and a milliner’s. Choose as many clothes as you wish. The seamstress is to complete them immediately. Write a note with those instructions and I’ll sign it.”

“You wish me to buy clothing?”

“It occurred to me you have nothing but that robe of mine and the dress you came in. I can’t keep you here and force you to stay in the same dress day after day.”

“For two days you have kept me out of it.”

“Remember our contract. I’m failing in my duties as protector.” He spoke lightly, but his mouth was grim. “If we were in London, you would have rushed out to the most fashionable modiste in Town first thing in the morning after I made my offer.”

Would she have? The truth: She would not have done so. She wouldn’t have thought of it so quickly. For years, she hadn’t been able to dream of buying a gown. But as his mistress, she would shame him if she was not fashionable. Ironically, she would embarrass him if she did not lavishly spend his money. She was relieved, though, that he seemed to have forgotten her tension.

“Would you wish to accompany me on my excursion?” she asked. “Your Grace, Treadwell told me that the afternoon we walked in the rain was the only time you’d left the house in two weeks.” Surely it would help him to not be indoors all the time.

“Apparently I ran out into the woods one night, when I dreamed I was in battle. I ended up in the stream and almost drowned. Since that foray onto my grounds went so well, I decided to defer another attempt.”

Heavens, no wonder he wouldn’t leave the house. “Come with me now. It would be lovely to walk together.”

“No, angel. Go yourself and take some of my servants. Buy anything you wish. I won’t be able to see it, but I want you to be pleased.”

The ducal carriage rattled down the high street of the village of Welby, which lay four miles from the duke’s house. Anne peered out the window. Sunlight darted from behind gray clouds, dappling the row of narrow shops. Children stopped in the street, then raced behind the carriage. Tradesmen came to their doorsteps. Ladies hurriedly adjusted their daughters’ apparel.

This village was so like Banbury, near her home of Longsworth, and Anne struggled to forget the reminders of a life she’d lived long ago. She’d vowed she would think only of selective things of that time—things she could use to help the duke.

But the smell of the bakeshop made her think of walking in to the one in her village, with a penny in her hand. The stretch of green commons reminded her of village fêtes, and Maypoles, and scampering over the grass despite the fact she was usually wearing a pristine white muslin dress. Then Father had died suddenly of an attack of the heart, and before she had recovered from the shock of losing her father, Sebastian had come. He was the viscount. And he still had wanted her. He wanted to marry her.

Ever since Anne was eight years of age, Sebastian had shown a great interest in her when he visited Longsworth. He began to kiss her—not cousinlike pecks but horribly wet kisses on her lips. Whenever he found her alone, he would touch her on her chest or her bottom, or he would slip his hand beneath her skirts and stroke her legs. Even now, thinking about it made her shudder. It made her feel so bad, so wrong and guilty and sick in her stomach.

She and her mother had been in Sebastian’s power. Mama had agreed she was not to marry Sebastian. She was only fifteen. But one night he’d come into her bedroom. He said if he took her innocence, she would have to marry him. She’d frozen at first as he climbed on top of her. Then she’d been so horrified at the thought of marrying him, she managed to slither out from under him while he fumbled with his clothing. Desperately, she grabbed for a weapon. Her fingers closed on the lip of her chamber pot. When he leapt at her to haul her back onto the bed, she threw it at him.

Her mother had come, along with servants—the housekeeper, maids, footmen. All summoned by her shriek, which had been more in anger than terror. Then she had seen her cousin’s face and she had truly gone ice cold with fear. Red-faced, with bulging eyes, he had looked as if he wanted to kill her. That very night, Mama gathered a few of their things, loyal servants prepared a carriage, and they ran away. They had nowhere to go. Her mother’s family was estranged from them, because her grandpapa—her mother’s father—had married an unsuitable woman. Her grandmother had been a former opera dancer who once performed on the stage. Her mother had said they could not go to any of her family—none of her mother’s relatives would help them. So they had gone to London. Despite their poverty, despite the long, arduous hours her mother worked, Mama had tried to make Anne feel as surrounded by love as she had been when growing up at Longsworth.…

By the time she reached the narrow shop front with fabrics displayed in the window, which stood right beside the milliner’s, Anne has discovered that a heart could feel unbearably small and tight yet full to bursting at the same time.

A footman helped her down from the carriage. She pushed open the door to the dressmaker’s, and a tiny bell gave a melodic tinkle.

The modiste hurried forward, a tape draped around her neck. The woman had gray-streaked brown hair swept up in a chignon and wore a well-made, tasteful day dress. Anne had brushed and pinned up her hair and wore her cloak over her gown, but it was a scandalous gown for the middle of the day, and it looked worse for wear. There were two women in the shop. Anne’s heart sank. Respectable ladies, of course. Members of the country gentry.

She explained her purpose—and the fact that the Duke of March would pay for her purchases.

The dressmaker’s brows rose sharply. “I see. I am grateful for His Grace’s condescension, but …” Her voice was awkward, brittle. The woman glanced toward the two ladies, one thin and dark, the other stout and fair. Lowering her tones, she murmured, “This is a respectable establishment, miss. I dare not offend the sensibilities of the gentlewomen of this village.”

The ladies gazed coldly at Anne. The thin one whispered to the stout one behind her gloved hand. The blonde’s mouth opened in a large O. No doubt the thin one had said the word that scandalized all respectable ladies. Whore. Anne would be less despised if she carried the plague.

She knew she could tip up her nose and use the duke’s name to demand service. But courage fled. She turned on her heel and raced out of the shop. The bell gave a tinkle, the door snapped shut behind her, and the impassive footman promptly opened the carriage door as though it was customary for the duke’s mistresses to run from shops.

Stupidly, Anne buried her face in her hands as the carriage rumbled off. What did it matter if she wasn’t respectable? What did it matter if Bow Street wanted to hang her? She wasn’t bad. She had saved those three innocent girls from the brothel. And she might just survive. Survival was all that mattered.

It seemed the carriage reached the duke’s home far more quickly than it had taken to get to the village. A groom was leading a horse away from the front steps. Anne’s heart dropped. Could it be a Bow Street Runner? She must stop panicking. It could just be a friend of the duke’s.…

It could be Lord Ashton! After Kat had refused his offer to service the duke, he would have continued to search for another woman. What if he’d come to tell the duke he’d found someone? The duke would know her story was a lie.

Anne forced her feet to move toward the front door. Treadwell met her and took her cloak. By now she was accustomed to his odd appearance, and she’d noticed his eyes normally held a merry twinkle. At this moment, though, he looked gravely serious.

“Does the duke have a visitor?” How normal her voice sounded. Astonishing, when her heart pounded so hard.

“Aye, miss. An investigator from London. Name of Mr. Wynter. Used to be a Bow Street Runner, I hear.”

Lord Norbrook was a haunted man.

In his bedchamber, Sebastian blearily faced his reflection in his looking glass. As usual, his dress was faultless—sheer elegance in the style of Beau Brummell. Yet inside he seethed with frustration and his head thudded from the effects of too much port. Last night, he’d dreamed of having Anne in his bed. He’d dreamed of her the way she used to be at Longsworth. He wanted her so much. And he hated her. Hated, hated, hated her.

How could she have refused him? He shook his head, even though it made his brain slosh painfully in his skull. She could no longer be the lovely little angel she had once been. She would be dirty now. When she’d been young, she had been so precious. So pure.

He wanted so much to touch her. He could not forget how beautiful she was as a young woman, when her hair had first been put up. He was haunted by the memory of tendrils of gold coiled against her smooth neck and the pretty push of youthful breasts against her bodice. But how could he caress those delightful breasts now, knowing she was no longer untouched?

Before his looking glass, Sebastian adjusted his expression, as though he was putting on a mask. Now he appeared as a viscount should, not like a man suffering lust for an ungrateful chit who did not deserve his desire.

Each step brought a slice of pain through his skull—and it was Anne’s fault he’d had to drink so much, tormented with erotic memories of her girlish beauty—but he went down to his drawing room to greet his guest. The elderly lady, Anne’s maternal great-grandmother, rose from her seat as he entered. Her hair was silver, rubies glittered at her neck, and silk swathed her slim form. Her face was drawn with worry. “Have you found her?”

“Not yet, my dear Lady Julia.” Feigning gentlemanly concern for the trembling old lady, Sebastian hastened to her side. “But it will not be long. I have spared no expense in the search.”

Pained dark-green eyes peered at him, yet this woman’s sorrow only irritated him. She knew nothing of what real torment was. She thought he would find Anne, then she would reconcile with her great-grandchild, and all would be happy. She had no idea that Anne was now ruined. She had no idea how greatly he was suffering—both hungering for Anne and hating her.

“I fear she is dead, Norbrook,” Lady Julia whispered. “I wanted to make amends to her, but I fear I am too late.”

“No, you must have faith.” Sebastian clasped the old lady’s hand and drew her to sit on the settee. “I am certain Anne is alive.” Yes, he was certain of that. He wasn’t so certain Mick Taylor could find her, as the brute had promised.

“I have no other family, Norbrook.” Lady Julia clutched his arm. “My son, Anne’s grandfather, is dead. My two daughters are gone, and they died childless. I have two titled wastrel sons-in-law. They expect I will leave my wealth to them. I will not. I despise them. I have made Anne my sole heir.”

He’d heard the tale a dozen times before and the only part that interested him was Lady Julia’s assurance that she had made Anne her heiress. She had disowned Anne’s grandfather—her son—over his marriage to an opera dancer. She had refused to acknowledge his family—his daughter, Millicent, and his granddaughter, Anne. But once she ended up alone, the old witch had come to Longsworth to find Anne, who was the only family she had left.

“Yes, my dear lady. You will have Anne home soon.” This time, Sebastian would make Anne marry him. Anne would be desperate now that she was suspected of the madam’s murder, and he had to wed her. For he desperately needed money.

Those gaming hells had cheated him. He was a clever gentleman—how could he have lost so badly at a simple game of dice? But he did not dare hint that he’d been cheated. The brutes running the hells did not take kindly to such charges. However, they did want their blunt. And he had none.

Sebastian had mortgaged the estate and the income did not begin to touch his debts. When he married Anne, he could use his expectations from Lady Julia’s estate for funds.

It meant marrying a tarnished, ruined woman. It meant touching Anne, when she was now revolting to him. But he had no choice.

“If only my granddaughter had not left her home.” Lady Julia’s shrill voice cut into his thoughts. “She would be alive and Anne would be safe. I still do not understand why she took Anne to London, Norbrook.”

His head throbbed. Why did the old woman keep harping on this? “Anne’s mother was having an affair with a married man,” he lied smoothly. “She pursued him to London but he ended the sordid relationship. Millicent had no money and ended up in the stews. But it does not matter.” Would the old crone not let it drop? It was not his fault Millicent had run away with Anne. “I will find Anne. I promise.”

Anne should have done as she was told. She should have married him. Sebastian had only one consolation for having to wed her now: Once she was in his power again, he would punish her for her disobedience. That he would enjoy greatly.