So this was fatherhood. He set a finger under her chin and she turned his way, in such a wild mix of anger and concern and frustration he wanted—he needed—to stay. She needed him.

But his being here added one more aggravation to the mix, one that she wasn’t ready for. “All right. We’ll talk tomorrow. We’re not finished yet, Ameline.”

“Oh, we’re finished.”

“May I get my boots?”

Her gaze traveled down him and, moments later, she thrust his boots at him. “Here. Now leave.”

“I will. Good night.”

At the bed, a body was lowering itself down by the sheets, like a sailor going over the side on a line. He swallowed a chuckle and dropped a quick kiss on Ameline’s cheek. “Tomorrow, then. I love you, Ameline.”

Moments later he sat in his banyan by the dwindling coals in his own chamber, arguing with himself about going back down the corridor to her room.

He’d found her, and he’d talked to her. He’d made progress—frustrating, annoying, torturous progress. He’d talk her around.

And by God, he wanted her, and whether Ameline would admit it or not, she was ready to take him back as a lover.

He gripped the arms of his chair. If the girls hadn’t been there tonight…well, it wouldn’t take much more than one night in that bed to convince her to hang up her midwife’s smock and put on a coronet. Blast it, he didn’t want to live this life without her.

The noise down the corridor diminished, but even as his girls were quietening, elsewhere another child had taken up the call of the wild.

He laughed. Since Waterloo, he’d never been able to sleep much. Perhaps he was made for fatherhood.

And by God, he’d be a good father to his girls. Their girls.

She laughed at that. “An old-fashioned guy. Refreshing. So, are you home looking for a wife, now that you’re retired?”

Ouch. That was pretty direct. And no. His mother wanted him to take over the family business, but he hadn’t been planning on marriage or sticking around. He’d been telling himself he needed to regroup, grab some R&R. His plan was to cruise through town for the family holidays and Beth’s birthday, then head south, do a whole lot of fishing, and let the future find him.

That had been his plan. It suddenly seemed lame, and kind of lonely.

“Oh no, probably not,” Lily said. “I heard your family wants you to stay, but you’re not ready to settle down. Our nieces have high hopes for us, but don’t worry, there’s no pressure here. You’re free to go.”

She pressed her lips almost primly and crossed her arms. He suspected she wanted him to go now. He met her eyes and held them, and held them, and. . . Her eye began to twitch, her pupils expanded, and he heard her tapping her foot under the table.

The twenty-somethings he usually dated were never this twitchy. He sent her his best smile, the one that always charmed the ladies. “I definitely won’t leave before Valentine’s Day, since I now have a date.”

“Ah. So you’re leaving on the fifteenth.”

She didn’t bite on his teasing. That surprised him.

“Where will you go?”

“Where would you go, Lily?”

She blushed again. Frowned. Sent the floral refrigerator and its glassed-in buckets of tall bright flowers a dreamy look. Buck guessed she didn’t let herself think much about vacations.

“I’d find a tropical place,” she said, “where I could pluck wild orchids, slounge in a hammock, and see a skyful of constellations at night.”

Buck heard his own pulse pounding. He took a breath, and reached for her hand. “And you could fish?”

At his touch, she jumped. “If there’s water around.”

“I’ll go there with you,” he said.

Lily sighed again, pulled her hand away and grabbed the pizza box. “Do you want to take the leftovers home?”

“No, Lily.”

“It was nice to meet you, Buck. You’ll find that Valentine’s date. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll call it a night, and take this upstairs.”

He whisked the box away from her and assumed his most innocent look. She was not getting rid of him yet. “I’ll go with you. I heard you have incredibly well-preserved subway tiles in that vintage apartment.”

“Crap,” she said, “Beth again.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a nut. I have more levels of security clearance than you have flowers.”

“Buck. . .”

He resisted the urge to touch her. “We’re not done talking,” he said.

The taller of the two gentlemen had made polite introductions before approving her request and insisting there was room for two more inside.

He was Lord Cathmore, and the other gentleman was Mr. Logan. She would guess their ages at thirty. Whether lord and steward, or lord and secretary, his lordship hadn’t said before lapsing into a pensive silence.

And both were quite handsome, a fact she tried mightily to ignore while his lordship studied her.

Blast it. The last thing she needed to deal with this day was an entitled nobleman.

Silence only reigned briefly after they’d settled against the cushioned squab. As the coach negotiated a perilous turn out of the inn yard, and this last stage of their journey began, Cathmore cleared his throat.

“Where do you hail from, miss?”

The deep baritone made her shiver. If only the man would remain silent, so she could gather her nerves.

They hit a rut, and Nelly rattled against her.

“Do you reside in London?”

Oh, he was polite, but the look in his eye said he had begun a polite campaign to get at the particulars she didn’t wish to share.

“Yes. I live in London,” Rosalyn answered him, omitting the precise street, “with my mother’s elderly cousin. She was kind enough to take me in after my father’s death.”

It was only a small lie. Almost true. Her cousin and benefactor, Abigail Crompton, had died after Christmas last year. This would be Abigail’s first Yuletide spent underground, rolling probably, at the misuse of her monetary bequest.

When Lord Cathmore raised a wicked eyebrow, a padded little elbow poked her rib. She gasped and quickly covered the sound with a cough.

“Are you all right, Miss Crompton?” Hooded eyes peered down a noble beak, daring her to squirm.

Miss Crompton? Oh, yes, she had lied about her name, as well. Another poke to her side.

“I am quite fine.” She turned her head to her maid. “What is it, Nelly?”

“Nothing, miss. Only the bumps in the road rattling me.” Nelly smiled happily at the men, flirtatiously, even.

Cousin Abigail had warned Rosalyn to manage her maid better. But Rosalyn understood Nelly’s problem: Nelly’s advanced age, almost thirty, weighed on her mind. That was why she was sometimes a bit fresh.

Besides, Rosalyn couldn’t dismiss her—Nelly was the only person she had left from her childhood at Brockton Manor.

“Are you warm enough, Miss Crompton?” Lord Cathmore asked.

The dark depths of his eyes revealed no emotion, but his upper lip curved up at one corner, bringing the lower one with it. He looked much like naughty Tommy at Miss Harris’s children’s home, who always managed to charm her with that lopsided smile.

Rosalyn shivered, then heated, and barely retrieved some composure. “I am fine.”

She pulled her cape tighter against that gaze, and against some intoxicating miasma that was spinning in the air. The icy wind had knifed through the cracked glass and creaky seams of the public coach, but here, she was well sealed against the weather, wrapped in a tight cocoon of unexpected warmth and unfamiliar sensations. She eased in a breath and glanced at the man seated across from her.

Heavens. His gaze still studied her, riled her. In his well-cut clothes, and still-shiny boots, he was dashingly handsome, full of himself and his privilege, like every other “my lord” she’d ever met. Like her own dear father.

She inwardly shook herself. She was heading back into the district of her childhood, and thoughts of her father and lost inheritance were plaguing her. She must keep her focus. After this leg of the trip, Cathmore would surely be no bother to her. He would travel on to his own estate after dropping them at their destination in Glen Murray, the Strutting Stag Inn.

Strutting Stag, indeed. There were plenty of dangers ahead without the intrusion of an entitled lord. Even without this Christmas Eve storm, they wouldn’t have been able to journey home to London tonight with Nelly’s cousin Mindy and her baby. She counted on finding a room at the village’s other inn, and failing that, Mindy would surely know a villager who could offer them shelter.

“You are very lucky to have a cousin take you in,” Lord Cathmore’s voice dragged her back from her woolgathering. “What is her name? Perhaps I know her.”

He couldn’t possibly run in Cousin Abigail’s circles, else Rosalyn would know him already.

“Abigail Crompton,” she said, and then realized she had stumbled. She had said Abigail was her mother’s cousin. It would be odd for them to share the same surname.

But not impossible. While she crafted an explanation, the dark eyebrow lifted again.

She’d learned much about lying from her work at the children’s home. Not enough perhaps for the present need, but she must try. She mastered her urge to tremble and looked at him calmly. Let him challenge her first—perhaps he hadn’t noticed the slip.

“Begging your pardon, milord,” Nelly said. “But is it true you were at Waterloo? I lost a cousin there.”

Rosalyn eyed her maid, wondering where she’d gleaned that bit of information, but grateful for the diversion.

Cathmore’s sardonic gaze shifted and he looked kindly on Nelly. “I was, miss,” he said. “And I’m very sorry for your loss. A great many good men died that day.”

“But you stopped Boney. You did that.”

Nelly’s smile didn’t bring the attention Rosalyn knew the girl craved. Instead, Cathmore’s gaze moved to the coach window, and the silent Mr. Logan cast a concerned glance at his master. They traveled on in blessed silence for another hour or longer.

The blowing snow increased, obscuring landmarks, but soon Rosalyn spotted hulking shadows that might be cottages. This leg of the journey had taken twice as long as it ought to have. The storm must indeed be worse in these parts.

The carriage slowed, and Cathmore shifted in his seat. “We’re here,” he said. “Where shall we drop you ladies?”

“At the inn,” Rosalyn said, “The Strutting Stag. Not the other one.”

“Since the fire a few years back, the Stag is the only inn in Glen Murray.” The first words out of Mr. Logan’s mouth arrived in a cultured, melodious tenor. Mr. Logan must be a gentleman as well. Perhaps he was merely a friend of Lord Cathmore.

Rosalyn’s breath froze as his words sunk in. So, there was no other inn. Finding a bed for the night might be their greatest challenge.

She shook off the worry. Surely there’d be at least one kind soul in the village who’d not let them freeze.

“The Strutting Stag is our destination as well.” Cathmore’s gaze honed in on her and he smiled.

A dart of some animal power struck her, and the tingling she felt went beyond the anticipation of freeing Mindy from Ned Morgan and achieving her other, more secret, more personal, quest.

She eased in a breath. Ignore him, Rosalyn. She’d seen his type often in London, perched on high horses, kicking up mud, and disrupting traffic. The money men like him spent on gambling and prostitutes—Cousin Abigail wasn’t one to hide the sordid straits of other young women—that money could have kept the children Miss Harris took in fed from the cradle until they left for positions and apprenticeships.

Cousin Abigail had warned her about men like Cathmore, though she’d never explained the feelings a man could stir with only a smile. Perhaps Cousin Abigail had never been this close to a man like him.

Face burning, Rosalyn latched on to her indignation. Her presence at the Inn was no invitation to Cathmore, and he would soon find that out.

“I would be so happy for a spot of something hot,” Nelly whined.

“Then you shall have it, miss.”

Rosalyn’s hackles rose at her maid’s brazenness, and the infernal man’s accommodating response.

Nelly grinned, but Cathmore’s intense gaze still rested on Rosalyn.

Trying not to squirm, she patted Nelly’s hand. “All will soon be well.” Somehow. She caught Cathmore’s raised brows and managed a firm frown.

When the coach skidded to a stop, Cathmore took charge, sending Logan and Nelly along, and reaching a gloved hand up to Rosalyn.

She hesitated, heart quaking.

“Don’t dawdle, Miss Crompton. You’ll be warmer inside.”

She gave him her hand. Warmth coursed through her, and with it, confidence. Her own, she thought, but then she saw Cathmore’s grin, and knew this heat was one more of his powers.

He dropped her hand and swept her off the step as easily as lifting a child. Before she could even think to be outraged, he set her on her feet, gripped her hand again, and secured a mantle-draped arm around her shoulder, and then they were gliding across the icy yard to the open inn door.

I might ask you the same question. Her tone had been stiff, like the crystallized dome covering bubbling lava. He fixed her with his sternest glare, not entirely surprised at her cheek.

His glower didn’t impress her. She lifted her shoulders higher. Stood a little taller, proud, lovely, and filled with indignation.

Quite righteous indignation. He gave into an unmanly sigh, truly weary of his responsibility for Thomas. “I know a good deal, Miss Ashford. I have been negotiating for these nuptials. The arrangement is my doing as much as Mr. Mercer’s. Much more than it is my nephew’s. He is probably the least culpable, except for his abominable behavior.”

She clenched her hands tightly. “I see.”

“Thomas’s mother was my older sister. I made a promise to her that I would look after him.” Her gaze softened, and she bit her lip in a way that made him want to taste the part that she was nipping.

And where had that thought come from?

“And your nephew needs money and an heir.”

He nodded. As a woman of the ton, of course she would understand how marriage worked. Marriage wasn’t about love, or the bride’s approval, or a plump lower lip that begged to be kissed.

“He needs money most of all. He has a younger brother in the army who would make a far more dutiful earl.”

He covered his mouth with his hand. The words had rolled out, shocking him. He rarely spoke this frankly with any woman.

Very well, he never spoke this frankly with any woman.

She released a soft breath. “And there is the matter of the ore.”

His mouth gaped and he quickly closed it. Mr. Mercer had shared that information?Well. “That part of the county is rich with newly discovered veins of iron.”

That information brought her up straighter. She looked away, gazing intently at a thick, dark spot of foliage, making him want to pry into that sharp mind.

“I see,” she said. “I believe we should go back in now.”

Not yet. He tucked her hand over his arm but did not move. “I had hoped we were not finished talking. I’ve learned your Christian name is Liliana, but I don’t know anything else about you. I don’t know where you’re from or anything about your family.”

He sensed her bristling, and waited for some reaction, perhaps a slap, verbal, or, with a woman of her passion, even a physical one. Strictly speaking, he was importuning her, and damn if he wasn’t enjoying the nerves rippling through her.