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Emerging from the back of the cottage, Tasia let herself be pulled along. People paused at the side of the street to let the dancers pass, clapping in time to the ancient songs. A group of men stood by the buildings of the corn exchange, some of them openly fondling their female companions. An unseen obstruction caused the parade to slow. The dancers stomped their feet and sang as they waited.

Hearing catcalls, Tasia glanced at the boisterous men nearby. She was stunned to see Lord Stokehurst standing with them, his white teeth flashing as he grinned at their antics. What was he doing here? Tasia's muscles tensed as she prepared to run away before he could see her. But it was too late…In that instant he turned and looked straight at her. His smile faded, and his throat rippled with a forceful swallow. His lips parted with a surprise that seemed to equal her own.

He was very disheveled, his vest open and his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. With the torch light casting golden gleams on his dark hair, he was the living image of a
bogadyr
, the hero of an old Russian tale. His blue eyes held hers, direct and devilish, as if he were contemplating something indecent.

The line began to move again, but Tasia's feet were leaden. All she could seem to do was stand there in a trance. The man behind her protested. “Come, lass, either pick up yer feet or step to the side!”

“I'm sorry,” she said, hopping out of the way. Immediately her place in line vanished.

Before she could run away, Lord Stokehurst appeared in front of her. His fingers manacled her wrist, closing until her pulse throbbed hard against the pad of his thumb. “Come with me,” he said. Bemused, Tasia followed with no thought of pulling back.

There were whistles from the group of men, and cheers from the dancers as the line glided toward the next house. All sound was muffled by Tasia's frantic heartbeat. Stokehurst's legs covered the ground in long strides, forcing her to match his pace with a hasty trot. He was angry, and with just cause. She shouldn't have made an exhibition of herself. She should have conducted herself with dignity, and stayed at the mansion. Now Stokehurst would tear her to shreds with a few words, and perhaps dismiss her on the spot.

He pulled her away from the well-lit houses, into a grove at the edge of the village green. Stopping in the shadow of a large tree, he released her wrist.

Tasia looked up at him, barely able to see his shadow-crossed face. “I shouldn't have been dancing,” she said meekly.

“Why not? Tonight I gave everyone leave to do as they liked.”

Her chagrin turned to surprise. “You aren't angry?”

He stepped closer, ignoring the question. “You look like a Gypsy, with your hair like that.”

The remark, so unexpectedly personal, filled Tasia with confusion. Something about Stokehurst was very different from usual; some customary restraint had been removed. There was a new menace in his soft voice and his deliberate movements…Suddenly she realized she was being hunted. She retreated in ever-deepening alarm, stumbling on a thick tree root. His hand closed over her shoulder to steady her. Even after she had found her balance, he didn't let go. The heat of his palm sank through her blouse. Stokehurst raised his other arm, and the tip of the steel hook dug into the tree bark, close to her ear. She was trapped. Exquisitely aware of the solid weight of his body, she shrank backward until the tree trunk was solid against her spine.

He was drunk, she thought wildly. He didn't realize what he was doing. “Sir…you're not yourself. You have been drinking.”

“So have you.”

He was close enough for her to smell the sweet wine on his breath. Tasia drew her head back, pressing her skull hard against the tree. Briefly the glow of a distant passing torch cast Stokehurst's face in dull red, and then they were submerged in darkness once more.

His fingers caught beneath her chin, and she made a small sound, shrinking backward as much as possible. “No,” she whispered on a faint, terrified breath.

“
No
?” he repeated. He sounded amused. “Then why did you come away with me?”

“I th-thought…” Tasia struggled for breath. “I thought you were angry. I thought you wanted to shout at me in private.”

“And you'd prefer that to a kiss?”

“
Yes
.”

He laughed at her fervent reply, and his hand slid to the back of her neck, gripping the tense muscles. The heat of his skin startled her, made her shiver. A cold breeze surged around them, but Stokehurst was large and warm. In spite of her teeth-chattering alarm, Tasia was almost tempted to draw closer to him, into the refuge of his body.

“You're afraid of me,” he murmured.

She nodded awkwardly.

“Is it this?” He moved, and the hook gleamed before her eyes, like a silver fish darting through water.

“No.” She didn't know precisely what she was afraid of. A strange feeling had taken hold of her, all her senses quickening, everything becoming painfully vivid. His soft, hot mouth grazed the wisps of hair at her temple, sending a shock through her body. Her fists came up against his broad chest, pressing hard.

“What about a kiss for luck?” he suggested. “Somehow I think you could use some luck, Miss Billings.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, impossible to restrain. “I don't believe in luck. O-only prayer.”

“Why not both? No, don't stiffen like that. I'm not going to hurt you.”

She twitched in surprise as he leaned over her. “I must go,” she said desperately, and made the mistake of trying to push past him. Stokehurst moved swiftly, catching her against his hard body. He wrapped her long braid around his hand once, twice, pulling her head back securely. His dark face was just above hers, his knuckles digging into her nape. Tasia closed her eyes. She felt a gentle kiss at the corner of her lips, and she gasped in response.

His hold on her tightened. He brushed another kiss on her closed lips, and another. Somehow she had expected violence, impatience…anything but the soft, burning imprints of his mouth. His lips slid across her cheek to her ear, and then to her throat. The tip of his tongue touched the violent flutter of her pulse. Suddenly Tasia wanted to press against him and lose herself in the dark rush of excitement. But she had never surrendered her control to anyone. The very thought of it was enough to startle her back to sanity. “Don't,” she said in a muffled voice, her hands coming to his dark hair. “
Please
don't!”

He lifted his head and looked down at her. “How sweet you are,” he whispered. His hand fell from her hair, and he extracted one of the flowered sprigs that had been tucked in her braid. With the backs of his fingers, he traced the fragile edge of her jaw.

“My lord…” she said unsteadily, and took a deep breath. “Sir, I hope…it's possible…that we could pretend this didn't happen?”

“If that's what you want.” His thumb brushed the tip of her chin. The flowers he held sent a heady fragrance through the air.

She nodded awkwardly, clamping her teeth on her trembling lip. “It was the wine. And the dancing. I s-suppose anyone would have been carried away by all the excitement.”

“Of course. Folk dancing can be pretty heady stuff.”

Tasia flushed, aware that he was mocking her. But it didn't matter. An excuse had been made. “Good night,” she said, pushing away from the tree. Her joints felt like rubber. “I must return to the mansion now.”

“Not by yourself.”

“I want to go alone,” she said stubbornly.

There was a short silence, and then he laughed. “Fine. Don't blame me if you're accosted. But I suppose it's not likely to happen twice in one night.”

Her footsteps were light and rapid, her slim form seeming to melt into the darkness.

Luke went to the spot where she had leaned, and braced his shoulder against the heavy trunk. Restlessly he dug his boot heel into the hard-packed earth. He had been gentle with her when he had wanted to be cruel, to bruise her lips with his, leave marks on her tender skin. The needs he thought had died long ago had been resurrected with a vengeance. He wanted to take her to his bed and keep her there for a week. Forever. Guilt pressed down on him. He was angry with her for setting his life askew, for making his memories of Mary more distant than ever before.

She would be gone soon. Not much longer, and the month would be over. Charles Ashbourne would find a new place for her. All he had to do was ignore her until time took care of everything. Turning, he lashed out in frustration, tearing off a chunk of bark. The hook left a narrow gash on the trunk. He began to walk with long strides, away from the lights and dancing, away from the celebration.

Tasia stood at her window, staring outside with wonder. Remembering the seeking warmth of his mouth, the gentleness and closely contained strength, she shivered. She had been alone for such a long time. It had been frightening and intensely sweet to be held in his arms. The comfort, the illusion of safety, had affected her deeply.

Slowly she raised her fingers to her lips. Stokehurst must have been amused by her ignorance. She had never been kissed before tonight, except for the halfhearted embrace she had shared with Mikhail Angelovsky just after their betrothal agreement.

Misha, as family and friends called him, had been a sublime mixture of beauty and overindulgence. He was sloppy in his personal habits, overdressed, and doused in heavy cologne, with his hair too long, his neck spotted with blemishes where he had neglected to wash. Most of the time his large gold eyes were vacant, owing to his surpassing love of the opium pipe.

Abruptly her mind was filled with voices. Tasia swayed slightly, feeling sick.

“
Misha, I love you, a thousand times more than she ever could. She'll never be able to give you what you need
.”

“
You jealous, wrinkled old fool,” Mikhail replied. “You know nothing about what I need
.”

The voices faded, and Tasia frowned in bewilderment. Was it a memory, or something conjured by her imagination? She sat and buried her head in her hands, lost in the torment of her thoughts.

With the London Season drawing to a close, the
haut ton
began to close their town estates and withdraw to the country. Lord Stokehurst was giving one of the first house parties of the summer. The weekend of socializing and hunting would be attended by all the local families of note. Tasia hardly relished the idea of a weekend party, a looming threat to her privacy. On the other hand, the Ashbournes would be attending, a piece of welcome news. Tasia was excited about the prospect of seeing her cousin Alicia, the only fragile link to her past. She hoped they would be able to find a few minutes to talk together.

To no one's surprise, Iris, Lady Harcourt had been invited to act as hostess. “It was her idea,” Mrs. Knaggs confided to the after-dinner group of upper servants. “Lady Harcourt wants the master and everyone else to see how well she fills the role. It's plain as pudding she wants to be lady of the manor.”

Lady Harcourt arrived two days early, to ensure that everything was done to her satisfaction. From that moment on, the estate was in a ferment of activity. Massive flower arrangements were carted in, and musicians were heard practicing in the spare rooms. Lady Harcourt made a multitude of changes about Southgate Hall, everything from rearranging furniture to altering Mrs. Plunkett's menu. Tasia admired her diplomacy. In spite of Lady Harcourt's interference, she was so gracious that the grumbling among the staff was kept to a minimum.

Emma was openly displeased about the situation, even daring to argue with her father. Their voices rang through the entrance hall as they came from their morning ride.

“Papa, she's changing
everything
!”

“I've given her leave to do as she likes. Enough of this complaining, Emma.”

“But you haven't even listened—”

“I said that was enough.” Catching sight of Tasia, who had been waiting for Emma, he pushed his rebellious daughter forward. “Do something with her,” he snapped, and strode away with a scowl. It was the first time he had spoken to her in days.

Wearing a scowl identical to her father's, Emma whirled to face Tasia. Her blue eyes flashed with fury. “He's an ogre!”

“I gather you were arguing about Lady Harcourt,” Tasia said calmly.

Emma scowled. “I don't want it to look as though she belongs here when she doesn't! I hate it that she has the run of the house. And I
hate
the way she drapes herself around Papa, and the way her voice oozes treacle when she talks to him. It makes me positively ill.”

“It's only for the weekend. You can certainly bring yourself to act like a true lady, Emma, and treat her with politeness and respect.”

“It's not just the weekend,” Emma muttered. “She wants to marry him!” Suddenly her anger vanished, and she looked at Tasia with desperation. “Oh, Miss Billings, what if she does? I'll be stuck with her forever.”

All at once Tasia found her arms filled with an ungainly twelve-year-old. She hugged Emma affectionately and smoothed her wild red hair. “I know it's not easy for you,” she said. “But your father has been lonely since your mother died. You know that. The Bible says, ‘Let every man have his own wife.’ Would you rather that he never married again, and grew old alone?”

“Of course not,” Emma said in a muffled voice. “But I want him to marry someone I like.”

Tasia laughed. “My dear, I don't think you would ever approve of anyone he takes an interest in.”

“Yes, I would!” Emma pulled away and frowned indignantly. “I know just the right person. She is young and pretty and intelligent, and would suit him to perfection.”

“Who is that?”

“You!”

Taken aback, all Tasia could do was stare at her dumbly. “Emma,” she finally managed to say, “you must forget that idea at once.”

“Why?”

“To start with, men of your father's position don't marry governesses.”

“Papa's not a snob. He wouldn't give a fig about that. Miss Billings, don't you think he is handsome?”

“I've never given his looks a thought. It's time for your lessons.”