Lucille’s violet eyes twinkled. “Ah, you have devised a plan! Excellent.”

  “Yes, but I need your help.” She whispered in Lucille’s ear. “I think I have convinced him to bed me, but he wants me to think about it first. He wants me to be sure I will not regret it.”

  Lucille rolled her eyes. “Mon Dieu, what a very proper gentleman he is.”

  “I’m afraid he will decide that he will regret it.”

  Lucille tsked. “With most men, I should say that is unlikely, but Lord Westerly is a very hard nut to crack, as they say. What do you wish me to do?”

  Theodora leaned close and whispered again.

  “But of course,” Lucille said. “You may count on me.”

  Garrick arrived wearing a faint frown, but he served himself eggs and bacon and took a seat next to Theodora. Lucille brought up the topic of the ruins at Pompeii, which she had visited as a friend of the previous excavator, Pietro la Vega.

  “It was most fascinating,” Lucille said. “Fortunately, Pietro was not shy about showing me some of the more improper finds.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “For instance, a brothel.”

  “Skeletons in flagrante delicto,” Lord Valiant said. “What better way to die?”

  “Oh!” cried Theodora, doing her best to act as if she’d just had an idea. “What an excellent notion that is!”

  “Dying in flagrante delicto?” Lucille said loudly. Conversation at the other end of the table came to a halt.

  Theodora giggled—convincingly, she hoped. “No. Visiting Pompeii. And Rome and Segovia, and all the other places you mentioned. I’ve been thinking how much I should love to travel—it’s so tedious here in England—and Italy is the perfect place to visit. It will be a real adventure!”

  Lady Westerly stared. “My dear Theodora, you must be raving. Are you coming down with a fever?”

  Lucille touched her hand to Theodora’s forehead. “She feels cool to me.”

  “I’m not ill,” Theodora said. “I’m exhilarated.” She glanced briefly at Garrick and away again. She didn’t like his frown, but she soldiered on anyway. “I’m grateful to Lord Westerly for letting me sketch all the relics he dug up. I never would have thought of it if not for him.” She flashed a queasy smile at Garrick and returned immediately to Lucille. “Since you knew Pietro la Vega...” She feigned hesitancy. “Dearest Lucille, would you write me a letter of introduction to the excavators?”

  “I should be delighted, chérie.” Lucille glanced about. “Why is everyone staring at us?”

  “I have no idea,” Theodora lied.

  “Such a plan is preposterous!” Lady Westerly said. “Your parents would never permit it.”

  “They have nothing to say in the matter.” Theodora forced herself not to glance at Garrick again, but his disapproving presence felt like a cloud hovering next to her, ready to drench her with cold rain. Had she taken the wrong tack? It was too late to change that, but she wished it were Garrick who now looked at her with lustful intent, instead of Maynard Buxton.

  “Come now, Theodora!” Lady Westerly cried. “This isn’t like you at all.”

  It was like her. It was exactly like her, but she hadn’t had the courage to say so until now. She clenched her fists under the table. “I have a fortune of my own, and I can afford to go anywhere I wish. I’ve always wanted to travel to the Continent, but the war made it impossible. I’ll engage a couple of servants who are accustomed to foreign ways. I’m sure it will be great fun. I shall go to Segovia to see the aqueduct, and to Rome and Pompeii. Perhaps even to Greece!”

  “Nonsense. Respectable women don’t travel alone,” Lady Westerly said. Another lady tsked, and Mrs. Concord and her daughter looked both appalled and smug.

  “Respectable women lead boring lives,” Theodora said. “I intend to enjoy mine.”

  * * *

  “You and Lucille have been planning this all along,” Garrick said. He’d spent a tedious day with his male guests at the stables of a neighbour with a string of hunters for sale. There’d been no opportunity to confront Valiant until after dinner, so he’d bearded him in his bedchamber, where he’d gone to fetch a greatcoat. “You sent me to the ruins that night because you knew Theodora was there.”

  “Lucie wasn’t involved in that. We were barely speaking at the time.” He shrugged into his coat. “But yes, since then we’ve been working together.”

  “You’ve been herding us like sheep,” Garrick said. “I suppose she had a mission to reawaken my interest in women, just as yours was to arouse Theodora.”

  Valiant grinned. “Ludicrous as it seems, yes.”

  “And Madame Beaulieu has given her advice as preposterous as what you’ve given me. Not only that, you colluded to send us both the sort of dreams that make abstinence well-nigh impossible.”

  Valiant smirked. “You and Miss Southern wouldn’t have done a thing if left to your own devices.”

  “Yes, we would. It would merely have come about in a different way.” He hoped. Would bedding her make her fall in love with him? Maybe temporarily, but that wasn’t good enough. “Bedding the woman one marries should be a result of love, not a damned inconvenient itch that gets in the way of everything decent people hold dear.”

  He couldn’t bed her and then send her off to the Continent alone. Nor could he send her off to the Continent to be bedded by someone else. He’d seen the gleam in Maynard Buxton’s eyes. He didn’t like the notion of following Theodora about like a lovesick puppy dog while she sought a true love to replace the one who had died, but what choice would he have?

  “We had to fulfill our missions,” Val said. “It’s not our fault if people in power want you both wed—’for the good of England,’ Lucie’s spymistress said.”

  “Bollocks,” Garrick said. “All you’ve done is push Theodora into taking a stand she would never have thought of on her own.”

  “That’s not true,” Val said. “She did think of it on her own. She asked Lucie to help her, but it was all Theodora’s idea.”

  “And it was her idea to bed me, too, I suppose?”

  “Of course. Lucie merely got her to admit it. Lucie wouldn’t encourage another woman to bed a man she wasn’t attracted to. She was forced into that all too often during the war.”

  “I suppose so.” Garrick didn’t doubt that Theodora found him attractive. She was a terrible actress, as she’d proven at breakfast, but her passionate kisses were all too real. But why in God’s name would she publicly declare her intention of adopting a dashing style of life, if not to prove to him that she intended to abandon propriety—which made bedding her acceptable—but that she didn’t love him? “You’ve forced us both into immediate action, which we may regret.”

  “Immediate action is good. Don’t tell me you’d rather court her for months than wed her right now, because I won’t believe you. Why should you regret it? You’re perfect for one another.”

  Yes—if only he could make Theodora believe it.

  * * *

  Theodora spent the day submitting to a great deal of scolding from Lady Westerly. It helped get her mind off worrying about whether Garrick would change his mind. At last, the time for the wassail ritual arrived. Twelfth Night was bright and clear, a vast spread of stars over their heads, children from the village catcalling and laughing amongst the apple trees, playing at hide-and-seek while their mothers tried vainly to shush them. From the distance came the chant of the wassailers, who went from orchard to orchard to chase the evil spirits away from the trees. It was nearly midnight, and judging by their singing, they were all a little over-merry.

  Everyone from Westerly House came out to watch. Garrick seemed to have got over his disapproval since breakfast, for he sought Theodora out with a smile in his eyes.

  “This was my favorite celebration as a child.” His voice was deep with reminiscence. “Running about with the village children, making as much noise as I wished...” He tucked her hand in his arm. “This is where I first kissed you. Remember?”

  It was also the day she’d asked him to marry her and had been rejected.

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” he said softly. “How about you?”

  “Of course not.” Perhaps this was his way of telling her that he was willing to bed her, but if she tried to coax him into marriage, his answer would be the same.

  “Good,” he said. “Here they are—the King and Queen of the Wassail. Come with me to greet them.”

  “Your aunt is the lady of the house,” Theodora said. “She should go with you.”

  “I don’t want her,” Garrick said simply. “I want you.”

  Theodora’s heart twisted. For one night and one night only, she was to be his lady. She must make the best of it. She must revel in it now and treasure it forever.

  The king and queen—actually the local butcher and one of the barmaids from the Rose and Crown—danced forward, arrayed in outlandish costumes. Garrick bowed low to the wassail royals and Theodora curtsied. Garrick welcomed them to his orchard and escorted them to the oldest of the trees. Servants passed out cups of cider. Everyone joined in the song.

  “Here’s to thee, old apple tree, we all come to wassail thee!”

  While everyone sang through the verses, the king and his attendants picked up the giggling queen. She raised the earthenware cup with sops dipped in cider and presented it to the tree, setting the sodden toast in the crook between two boughs and splashing cider wildly over the branches.

  “Bushels full! Sacks full!” Everyone sang to encourage the trees to produce abundantly. Toasts were drunk, sops savoured, hands shaken, and then the clamour began. Everyone had something to drive away the evil spirits—drums, pots, pans—making a dreadful racket. Theodora had brought a gong from home. After a minute or two, Garrick, his gamekeeper and two other men raised their guns and shot a volley into the air. “Huzza, huzza, hip, hip, hurrah!”

  The ritual done, everyone drank up, and the wassailers wended their way onward. Village women herded children toward home. The guests hurried back to the great house, Miss Concord with a distinct stomp to her gait. She disappeared into the darkness ahead of the rest.

  “There’s no one indoors to stop her from hiding in my bedchamber,” Garrick said, as he and Theodora took up the rear. “Which means I shall come to yours.” He kept her close beside him, his arm brushing her breast through her pelisse. Thrills shivered up and down Theodora’s spine.

  For a while he didn’t speak. Then he said, “You’re absolutely determined to travel to the Continent, are you?”

  “Absolutely.” Her voice wavered. “Do you object?”

  “Not at all. It’s an excellent notion.” Must he sound so pleased? Why couldn’t he argue with her, like a pigheaded, uncomprehending man was supposed to do? “There are so many fascinating places to go, sights to see...” His voice drifted into wistfulness. “I’ve never been to Rome, but I hope to go someday.”

  “You should.” She wished he could come with her, but that would be far too improper even if he wanted to, which he obviously didn’t. “Wouldn’t you like to see Pompeii, too?”

  “Indeed I would.”

  After that came more waiting in agonizing expectation whilst everyone drank more cider and finally went up to bed. Theodora took a bedroom candle and followed. She paced back and forth before the hearth in her chamber, her heart pattering, her palms sweaty in spite of the chill.

  * * *

  Garrick strode lightly down the dark corridor. He knew his way almost by touch. Either Miss Concord had given up or was hiding in his room; he didn’t care which. The house was quieter than it had been lately—no creaking bedsteads, no thumping against walls, no cries and groans. People were too tipsy or too tired to indulge their carnal desires yet again.

  Tonight was for him and Theodora—and a ghost. How could one compete with a dead man? Garrick had committed to satisfying Theodora’s desires tonight, but would passion encourage her to relegate her dead fiancé to the past where he belonged? She must have loved him dearly to become so adamant about marrying only for love.

  He reached her bedchamber and slipped silently inside.

  A solitary candle lit the room, casting tall shadows, barely showing Theodora as she paced back and forth. She stopped, wringing her hands. Went to the window and parted the curtains, staring out. Turned again and saw him.

  “You’ve changed your mind,” Garrick said.

  “No,” she said. “No, I can’t change my mind.” Yet she didn’t come to him, merely stood there, clasping and unclasping her hands.

  “Of course you can.” He went across to the hearth, stirred the banked coals and added some kindling. He plied the bellows.

  “No! I want this badly, Garrick.”

  “You don’t look like you want it.” He added a couple of split logs to the fire, replaced the fireguard and lit a branch of candles. “There, now I can see you properly.”

  She paced again, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked.

  She whirled. “Of course not,” she said scornfully. She returned to the window and parted the curtains again, resting her forehead on the cool window glass.

  He moved slowly across the room to her, trying to gauge what was wrong. “Then what is it? It’s all right if you don’t want to.”

  Her voice shook. She hugged herself. “No, it’s not!”

  Garrick put his arms around her, holding her against him. He kissed her soft, scented hair. “Dora, I am and always will be your friend.”

  She whimpered, but not in a good way. She didn’t want to be his friend? Or being his friend wasn’t enough for her? He hoped it wasn’t enough.

  “Dora, if it’s because of your decision never to marry except for love, I understand.” Oh, he certainly understood, but his gut ached with the pain of it. “Love, passion and marriage belong together. If you can’t do this because you don’t love me, it’s all right.”

  “Oh, Garrick...” She straightened and turned within his arms. “I want this more than anything, and I want it with you.”

  “Then what’s wrong? I won’t hurt you, and I won’t get you with child.” She said nothing, so he went on. “There’s no reason to be ashamed. Society’s rules and standards are for our protection, so women won’t have children without a husband to support them, and men won’t have cuckoos in the nest.”

  “I understand all that!” she said indignantly.

  He stroked her hair. He rocked her back and forth. “So between you and me there’s no cause for shame or fear.... Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, it’s right.” Her words were firm, her voice less so. “I don’t think doing this with you is wrong. I know it’s not. How can it be, when I—”

  “When you...?”

  * * *

  She’d almost blurted that she loved him. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe carnal activity isn’t right for you,” he said. “Maybe you’ve simply been influenced by the presence of Lord Valiant and Madame Beaulieu. Maybe—”

  “How dare you!” She clenched her fists. “Just because I’m a spinster, just because I’m hedged about by society’s rules, doesn’t mean I don’t have any carnal desires.”

  “Perhaps not, but—”

  She gritted her teeth. “I am wanton. I am...I am brimful of lusts and desires and cravings.”

  “Are you sure?” Was his dubious expression real or feigned?

  Either way, it made her furious. “Yes, I’m entirely sure, damn you, and you’re making me so angry I could...I could kill you!”

  “I’d much rather you bedded me.” He beckoned, the corner of his mouth curling up teasingly, and she went to him, still and always the girl who would come when he called. “Let’s get on with undressing you. Or you could undress me, if you like.”

  “Both,” she said, unbuttoning his waistcoat with determined fingers. She freed the ends of his cravat and attacked the knot. “Why do you men wear these ridiculous things?” she muttered. “Such as that piece of folly, the Trône d’Amour. It’s a barrier to love!” At least she could still carry on a civilized conversation. “We women bare our necks and half our bosoms. Don’t men want to be nuzzled and kissed?”

  “This one does,” Garrick said. “I never bother with starchy sorts of cravats like the Trône, which just goes to show you.” She tossed the cravat to the floor and buried her nose in his throat, and he responded with a low, satisfied “Mmm.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed him in, the exquisite male scent of him sending heat spiraling down to her toes. “You smell delicious.”

  His lips trailed from her temple to her ear. “As do you, my love.” The endearment both thrilled and chilled her. She couldn’t afford to think about that right now. She tugged his shirt out from his breeches and pulled it over his head.

  “Oh, my.” His muscled chest, with a smattering of dark hair. A trail of hair leading to his navel and below, to the bulge that caught and held her eyes.

  “Do I meet with your approval?” His murmur shot an arrow of heat straight to her core. He laughed and stripped off her pelisse. He pulled her close and kissed her hard, then more gently, opening her to his teasing, exploring tongue, whilst his fingers began on the hooks and ties of her gown.

  How could he so easily do two things at once? It was all she could manage to keep her hands coordinated. All she could do to control the tendency to make embarrassing little sounds. Gently still, he pulled the gown over her head and tossed it onto a chair.

  She stood in her shift and stays, eyes closed but in control. He set about unlacing her, and she whimpered.

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “Let it all out, my lovely wanton.”