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“I believe I am the best judge of that. I have decided that I rather like the relationship you sketched out. It seems to me that we both have a good deal to gain. Appearances to the contrary, I am quite fond of my stepsisters.” He hesitated.

“I can see that.”

“We shall, I suspect, learn to be frank with each other,” he said. “My mother had a devil of a temper, Henrietta. She was most famous for an attack of choler while dining at Buxton, in the company of the Regent, you understand.” He paused as if she would surely know the incident to which he referred. Henrietta tried to look inquiring but not overly curious.

“She threw a piece of roast beef across the table at my father. Unfortunately it had been scraped with horseradish,”

Darby said unemotionally. “The horseradish flew into the right eye of a gentleman named Cole, a younger son of Archbishop Cole. His vision was severely hampered for some time after.”

“Ah,” Henrietta said.

He rocked back on the heels of his boots. “My mother was a remarkably uncomfortable person to live with. She could not moderate her temper, and threw objects around the room on a regular basis. Apparently this did not disturb my father, as shortly after my mother’s death he married yet another badtempered woman with a strong arm. The last Christmas season of my stepmother’s life was enlivened by her throwing a tureen at the vicar. I am worried about Josie in that respect. She is in a fair way to growing into her mother’s temperament.”

Henrietta swallowed. “Recall, sir, that I am the person who dropped water on Josie’s head. I very much doubt that I will be able to teach docility.”

“On the contrary. You seem to maintain a sense of decorum without problem. You might simply teach Josie some more restrained ways to achieve what she desires. Witness your graceful faint at dinner, for example.” He gave her that slow smile that made her insides melt.

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She blushed. “It seemed appropriate at the time.”

“Teach Josie a few noiseless techniques. I will be grateful if I only have to hear the poor motherless child refrain once or twice a year.”

“I can try.” Luckily Bartholomew Batt had just published a new book, and she meant to order it the very moment she could. Perhaps this one would be a bit more informative when it came to fits of temper.

“Good.” His expression brightened so quickly that Henrietta suddenly wondered if he was, indeed, as uncaring as he appeared.

She was still trying to sort out the justice in the situation.

“Are you quite certain that you wish to marry me, Mr. Darby? It doesn’t seem fair to you. After all, by marrying you, I gain the children. But I’m quite certain that you could hire a nursemaid to teach your sisters manners, and she would likely do a better job than I.” She looked down at her hands. “I have quite a temper too.”

He sat down on the couch beside her. From the corner of her eye she could see the way the cloth of his trousers strained over powerful thigh muscles. “Ah, but I gain something from this marriage too,” he said. “You are exquisitely beautiful, intelligent, and I even like that brutal honesty you display at times. You should call me Simon, don’t you think?”

When he said nothing further, she finally had to look at him. His eyes had such a wicked glint in them that a wave of heat rushed up her neck. How could he want her? No one wanted—

He kissed her as gently as a dandelion blows on the wind, but it made her feel scorched.

He wanted her.

< 32 =

Honey . . . the Nectar of the Gods

There was no getting around it. Esme was not going to be able to sleep. The bed had never seemed larger, or lonelier. And she was hungry. She was hungry all the time, so that wasn’t a great surprise. But this was the sort of gnawing hunger that settled in at her backbone and told her that she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she ate buttered toast. Of course, she could ring a bell, and that would wake up some poor servant who would have to traipse up here and then straggle back down to the kitchen and make her toast. She’d never been that kind of mistress, though. Why she was even bothering to argue with herself, she didn’t know.

She had a slave, after all, didn’t she?

She was the nymph Calypso, and out in that tiny island of the gardener’s hut . . . well, the gardener could make her a piece of toast. He couldn’t complain if she woke him up, or say that she was a harsh taskmaster, behind her back. He could be kicked off the island if he misbehaved. It took a moment to find her pelisse by the light of one candle, but Esme managed. It was even harder to get on her 236 Eloisa

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boots—she had taken to allowing her maid to button them, since she couldn’t reach her feet anymore, but she managed that too, by leaving all the buttons undone. Finally, she crept from her room. The house was large and echoing at night. She walked down the corridor into the front hall. The black-and-white marble shone ghostly white in the moonlight. She eyed the front door but Slope had it bolted for the night. She turned and went through the Rose Salon, slipped out the side door through the conservatory with no more ado than a mouse traveling its familiar path. It wasn’t quite dark outside, because the moon shone like a misshapen lemon. The lawn stretched away from her, down the slope toward the rose arbor, looking quite strange and magical in the moonlight. Somewhere a bird was singing a rather raspy song, stopping and starting again as if he’d lost track of the point.

Esme started down the slope, her shoes leaving little dark trails in the dew.