“Undoubtedly.” He was frowning slightly, as if puzzling something out. Hopefully, he would come up with the correct answer.

  She gathered her sketchbook and pencil, and he pocketed the coin and comb. He lifted her out of the pit again, and she had to stifle a tiny moan of delight. He came up beside her and offered her his arm. His mere proximity sent floods of pleasure through her. Her fingers tingled and itched. It was all she could do not to squeeze his arm. She wished she weren’t obliged to wear his coat, because she couldn’t get close enough. The mere thought of his arm brushing the side of her breast made her shiver with heat.

  All too soon they were at the house. Garrick brought her to his library immediately. Bookshelves lined one wall, and opposite them a row of windows gave onto a lawn, with a prospect of trees and fields. “It faces south, so you’ll get the best light all day long,” Garrick said.

  He had an old drawing table brought down from the attic, and while she sketched, he cleaned and polished the other items. He even had refreshments brought upstairs, to the annoyance of his aunt, who asked what he thought he was about, monopolizing Theodora when she was needed to organize the evening’s entertainments.

  “You’ll have to organize them yourself, Aunt Esther,” he said, blithely feeding her some nonsense about the Antiquarian Society.

  “Come now, Garrick. You have more important things to do than talk to a bunch of old fogies about even older pieces of rubbish.”

  “Not in my estimation,” Garrick said.

  “Such as paying attention to our guests.”

  “Your guests,” he said.

  “I need Theodora. She always helps with the Christmas festivities.”

  “And so she has, until now. It’s my turn to take advantage of her kind assistance.”

  “Theodora!” Lady Westerly bellowed. “Explain to Garrick that I need you.”

  “I already did, my lady,” Theodora said, which wasn’t a lie, as she had foreseen this conversation. “He is adamant that he needs me even more.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t merely a ruse; Garrick truly did need Theodora. It rained that afternoon, a chilly rain only a touch away from snow. He lit branches of candles to improve the light and tended a roaring fire in the grate—anything to keep her with him and content to stay so. With Theodora, he felt so... Safe wasn’t the word for it. Comforted, perhaps.

  True to her word, she didn’t talk much, but concentrated on sketching his finds. At first he preferred the blessed silence, but it left his mind free to wander in the wrong direction. He managed to keep his eyes off Theodora’s breasts, but it didn’t stop him from dwelling on them with something perilously close to anticipation.

  There’s nothing to anticipate.

  He glanced at her far too often, at the dusky ringlets falling over her brow and about her ears, at her hands as she sketched, at her lower lip as she bit it in concentration.

  Did she realize what she had more or less offered to him? Surely not; she was an innocent. She would give herself only to her husband, and as she had stated so firmly the other night in the ruins, she would marry only for love.

  He went to bed that night congratulating himself on two accomplishments: he had managed to feign cordiality the entire evening, and he had stifled all lascivious thoughts about Theodora.

  In his dream, Theodora came to his bed, naked and brimming with mischief. He succumbed to her charms like a starving man. She beckoned him on, inviting him to do anything and everything he’d ever wanted with a woman. He indulged himself shamelessly, feasting on her, taking his time, and was poised to enter her when he woke.

  Damnation. Thinking about Theodora this way was just plain wrong—but as with his nightmare, he had no control over his sleeping mind. In this case, he didn’t want to—no point lying to himself about that. He threw off the covers to cool himself down. When he finally slept again, the nightmare woke him, stronger than ever.

  In the morning, he woke weary but determined to at least control his waking mind. That didn’t stop lascivious longings from nudging their way past his good intentions, with the result that he became surly and unpleasant again and stalked away to the library before he swore at one of the guests.

  Theodora arrived soon afterward, frowning slightly. He hated that frown. He wanted her to smile at him. No, he didn’t; her smiles were dangerous. Garrick ground his teeth and stared at the floor.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Theodora said.

  Confound it, had his ears gone red? He never blushed, but as a boy, that had been a sure sign of embarrassment. He raised his eyes, trying to keep his expression bland.

  Her mouth had dropped open. She had the loveliest, most kissable pink lips....

  Stop it.

  * * *

  Theodora averted her eyes, pretending to examine yesterday’s sketch of the comb. Whatever he’d been thinking, he didn’t want to tell her. To get past the awkward moment, she said, “You keep turning that brooch over and over in your hands. I wondered if you’re remembering one of the soldier friends you lost.” She risked a glance at him.

  He nodded, letting out a long, shaky sigh, and she longed to run to him and fling her arms about him, but that would be improper.

  Oh, to hell with propriety—or at least halfway to hell. She set down her pencil, plunked herself next to him on the sofa and put an arm about his shoulders. She squeezed. That was as far as she dared go. She withdrew her arm and folded her hands together.

  “Tell me about it,” she said. “Unless it’s too painful, but...”

  “It’s because I promised him,” Garrick said. “It wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t keep my promise, but that doesn’t seem to have absolved me.” He paused. “I’m not making sense, am I? I’d better start from the beginning.”

  She all but held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind.

  “Will Cooper was a common solder in the same regiment as I, and the best of good fellows. I asked him to work for me when the war was over. He had nothing to return to—he’d had a rough upbringing and took the king’s shilling as a way to get fed regularly. A respectable job on the estate of a peer was beyond his wildest hopes.” Garrick paused, turning the brooch in his hands. “He was killed at Waterloo.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Theodora glanced up at his somber profile. “Which isn’t your fault, but for some reason you feel that it is?”

  “I’ve been having nightmares,” Garrick said. “Worse since I came home. In the dream, I’m trying to save Will, but I can’t get to him in time. It’s not at all logical—I was running dispatches whilst he was in the thick of the fighting, so we were nowhere near one another—but my sleeping mind keeps bringing up the sight of Will dead on the battlefield, and although he doesn’t move or speak, he seems to be accusing me.”

  “Poor Garrick.”

  “It’s absurd, because Will wouldn’t hold me responsible for his death.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve told myself so over and over, but almost every night I have the same dashed dream.”

  “No wonder you look so weary,” Theodora said.

  “I do?”

  She nodded. “It’s most worrisome.”

  “It is?”

  “And meanwhile your aunt insists on painting you as a hero, which must make you feel even worse.”

  “It infuriates me,” Garrick said. “It’s all I can do not to shout at her and drive all these idiotic people out of my house.”

  As if conjured by his words, Mrs. Concord appeared in the doorway. They’d had to leave the door open for propriety’s sake, which meant any number of nosy people could make a nuisance of themselves.

  Mrs. Concord simpered. “Lady Westerly is at her wit’s end, dear Miss Southern. She cannot find the spillikins and asked me to fetch you.”

  Garrick gave a rough bark of laughter. “You’re running errands for my aunt?” He rose slowly enough to verge on rudeness, his jaw tight. “I think not.”

  Mrs. Concord reddened. Hurriedly, Theodora said, “They’re in the mahogany cabinet in the drawing room, bottom shelf.”

  “Lady Westerly asks that you come and find them,” Mrs. Concord said.

  Garrick ignored her, scraping at some nonexistent flaw on the brooch with his fingernail. “Miss Southern, why not sketch the fibula on a Roman soldier, cloak and all?”

  Mrs. Concord stalked away. A second later, Miss Concord stomped past the doorway. She must have been lurking close by.

  Theodora took the fibula and returned to her drawing table, determined never to relax her vigilance. Garrick’s honour was in her hands.

  So was his male member, in her dream that night. Garrick prowled into her bed, all lustful eyes and roaming hands. She lay hot and utterly naked to his gaze, and he toyed with her, licking and suckling. She guided him toward her entrance, eager and straining, but woke just a second too soon.

  She slid down under the covers and went over the entire dream again in her head, bringing herself to completion with her hands. Even asparagus pudding couldn’t drive such ecstatic remembrance away—so why even bother to try?

  * * *

  Garrick woke with another erection, harder than the previous night. No wonder, since he’d done everything he wished to Theodora in his dream—short of entering her.

  Whatever sparring Val and Lucie were doing with dreams, he couldn’t help but enjoy the unintended effects. Was Theodora having erotic dreams, too? She showed no sign of it the next day. As the afternoon drew to a close, she put the finishing touches on the drawing of the Roman soldier, stood up and stretched her arms over her head. From his chair across the room he watched, entranced.

  “I thought about your dream, Garrick,” she said.

  For a second he was utterly suspended. Oh. She meant the nightmare. He’d had it again last night, but it had paled compared to the dream about Theodora. Maybe Val was right, and a woman was what Garrick needed.

  This woman.

  Theodora’s eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed the most delicate pink. Perhaps they were both remembering other dreams, delightful ones of the night before. Who was the lover of her dreams?

  God help him, he wanted to be that man.

  “It’s not Will who’s accusing you in the dream—it’s yourself,” Theodora said at her most prosaic. “It’s your own disappointment that you couldn’t keep your word and lost a friend you cared about.”

  How typical of her to appreciate his friendship with a common man and to accept his mourning for what it was. Gratitude and relief swept over him. “You’re perfectly correct, but I don’t know whether my dreaming mind will accept your conclusion.”

  “Your dreaming mind ought to find something more pleasant to dwell on.” She turned hurriedly away to finger through the coins for another subject to draw. Was she blushing even more?

  Intrigued beyond the dictates of common sense, he rose and prowled over to her.

  “Oh, there you are, Miss Southern,” said a coy voice from the doorway.

  Mrs. Concord again. “Get out of here, damn you!” Garrick shouted. “Go away!”

  He felt Theodora’s astonished eyes on him, but anger thrust aside the chagrin. He stalked toward the obnoxious female. “Out! Now!”

  “How dare you?” Mrs. Concord shrieked. “I have never been so insulted in my entire life!” She scurried away. He slammed the door shut behind her.

  Theodora gaped from him to the closed door and back again.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, shaking with the attempt to control himself. “I’ll open it again. Give me a minute to recover.”

  She nodded, wide-eyed. He took a deep breath. He’d just ruined his chance with Dora—if he’d ever had one to begin with.

  “Please forgive me,” he said. How pitiful.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. That woman would try the patience of a saint.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t excuse my outburst.”

  She flapped a hand. “You are too hard on yourself, Garrick.”

  That was kind of her, but he had to regain his self-control. Somehow, he managed to get through the evening. He refused to apologize to Mrs. Concord, despite his aunt’s pleas, but he didn’t lose his temper again. He succeeded in feigning cordiality and retired thankfully to bed.

  His nightmare returned full-force. He tossed and turned, tangling the sheets, alternately sweating and freezing, and woke late in a foul mood. He half expected Theodora to avoid him for fear of more outbursts, but she came to the library after breakfast and sketched as usual.

  That afternoon, Miss Concord tried again.

  Garrick woke from a nap on the sofa—and a very pleasant dream—to angry hisses. “How dare you?” That was Theodora. “I can’t leave for two minutes to use the necessary without you pouncing on him. Get out!”

  “I shan’t!” retorted Miss Concord. “He doesn’t belong to you.”

  “He doesn’t belong to anyone,” Theodora said. “He’s sleeping, for heaven’s sake. Stop ogling him.”

  Garrick suddenly realized that he had an erection. He was lying on his back, so it must be all too obvious under his breeches. If he were capable of blushing, this would be the moment to do it.

  “I wonder if he’s dreaming,” Miss Concord said. “Everyone in this horrid house is having improper dreams. I heard Mama and Lady Westerly talking about it.”

  “If he is,” Theodora said, “they’re not about you. Go away.”

  Miss Concord huffed. “Why should I?” Garrick didn’t have to open his eyes to see her angry stance, hands on hips, narrowed eyes, versus Theodora’s unflappable composure.

  “Because he’s asleep,” Theodora said. “Because you are making a fool of yourself. Because he will never marry you. Do you need any more reasons?”

  “Everyone says you’re setting your cap at him, and he’s too stupid to realize it,” Miss Concord panted. “I won’t let you steal him from me. He’s mine!”

  “Over my dead body,” Theodora snarled. Miss Concord stomped away, her footsteps receding into the corridor.

  Garrick grinned to himself. It seemed Theodora had a temper, too. Foolishly, that made his own lapses less unbearable. He yawned, sat up and swung his legs off the sofa. Their eyes met.

  Theodora went very white. “It was only to be expected. They don’t understand that we have been friends forever and will always remain so. The talk doesn’t bother me in the least.”

  “It bothers me,” he said, disappointed. He’d thought their mutual bursts of temper might bring them closer. “It tarnishes your reputation.”

  “Pooh! My reputation isn’t important. I’ve set myself up as confirmed spinster who is more than a bit eccentric. Perhaps I should wear a cap. That should convince them.”

  “God, no! You’re much too young and pretty to wear a cap,” he said.

  She blushed faintly. “It creates a certain impression, you see. I learned the importance of impressions after my betrothed died.”

  Futile jealousy rose within him. “Ah, yes. You were engaged at one time. My aunt mentioned it in one of her letters.”

  “Hubert was killed in a hunting accident,” she said. “After a few months of mourning, people began urging me to go about in society and find a replacement, but I didn’t want to in the least. My engagement to Hubert taught me that I should marry only for love.”

  “Yes, I heard you say as much.”

  “I have made it plain to everyone, and since then people have mostly let me be. The cattiness now is because you’re not courting one of the younger ladies. They have no real reason to believe I’m setting my cap at you.”

  What a pity, he thought.

  He must have looked unconvinced, for she huffed. “For heaven’s sake, Garrick, you can’t be thinking about the time I asked you to marry me.” She rolled her eyes. “I was immature, little more than a child, and terrified I would never see you again—that was all. I’m a grown woman now with plans of my own.”

  * * *

  “You had the perfect opportunity to flirt with Lord Westerly and you threw it away!” Lucille sounded seriously peeved. “He was aroused. He had probably been having an erotic dream. He was primed and ready for bedding, and you did nothing!”

  “Except make a complete idiot of myself,” Theodora said. They were seated together before the fire that evening. Miss Wedgewood had performed on the harp, and another young lady, Miss Rogers, had sung a ballad. Lucille had brought out her tambour frame and was setting exquisite stitches in a pattern of wildflowers while Theodora embroidered a pair of slippers for her father. “‘Over my dead body.’ I can’t believe I said that!”

  Lucille muffled a snort. “You played the role of a knight in shining armour to perfection—until you neglected to claim your prize.”

  “Because I was mortified.” Theodora sighed. “And yes, I admit it—afraid.”

  Miss Concord took a seat at the piano. She ran her fingers over the keys and launched into a sequence of very loud chords. She glanced at Garrick with hungry eyes.

  “The knight doesn’t slay the dragon and then trot merrily away all by himself,” Lucille said.

  Miss Concord pounded away at the keyboard as if possessed. Perhaps she was—by jealous rage. What if she finally succeeded in sneaking into Garrick’s bedchamber? Garrick might say he would let Miss Concord ruin herself, but Theodora feared that when it came down to it, he wouldn’t be able to tolerate such a stain on his honour.

  “Look at it logically,” Lucille said. “When will you ever be in the same house as Lord Westerly again, night after night?”

  “Never,” Theodora said glumly. “If his aunt invites me, I shan’t come.”

  “So this is your only chance to bed a man you find extremely attractive. What harm is there in a little affaire?”