Lucien returned from France after an unsuccessful quest to locate Perry, only to find that in his absence, his life had been totally taken over by others and was now fully out of his control.

  He was livid.

  "How dare anyone tell me what to do?" he seethed as Charles handed him the decree, signed by the king himself, insisting upon an immediate marriage between His Grace the Duke of Blackheath and Lady Eva de la Mouriére.

  "Well, really, Luce, the king of England isn't just anyone," Andrew said cheerfully as Lucien, his face like a thundercloud, stared numbly down at the decree as though it were a warrant for his own execution. "I do think you've got to listen to him."

  "Yes, it would be very unwise to deny His Majesty's wishes," Gareth added, idly lounging on the library settee.

  "Disastrous," Charles put in.

  Getting up, Gareth splashed a generous shot of whiskey into a glass. "It appears you don't have any choice but to marry the lady, especially since she's carrying the Blackheath heir." He handed the glass to Andrew.

  Andrew handed the glass to Charles. "And we all know how seriously you take family responsibility. Must carry on the line, you know."

  "Absolutely," said Charles, carrying the glass of whiskey toward his stricken brother. "And best of all, Luce, your bride-to-be is right here at Rosebriar."

  "Which is most convenient," said Gareth.

  "Yes, no chasing after her back in France," Andrew added.

  "We even took the trouble of procuring you a special license so you can get married right away."

  Lucien lowered the decree and stood staring into space.

  Charles plucked it from his hands and replaced it with the glass of whiskey. "She'll make a splendid duchess, Luce. Absolutely magnificent."

  Lucien managed to keep his face perfectly still, though inside, it was a different story indeed. A towering rage such as he'd never known was rising like mercury on a thermometer suddenly plunged into boiling oil. For a moment, his vision was obliterated by red haze. For a moment, he feared his very head was going to explode. His fists clenched at his sides — but no. Breeding prevailed. Tight-lipped, his eyes murderous and the untouched whiskey still in his hand, he turned his back on his brothers and walked a little distance away, unable to look at those three benignly innocent faces, all of which looked just a little too happy, a little too satisfied, a little too . . . triumphant.

  Were they somehow behind this appalling mess? Were they scheming to manipulate his life, as he had schemed to manipulate theirs?

  They wouldn't.

  They wouldn't dare.

  But he knew that they had . . . and that he had it coming to him.

  He heard Andrew say as much from somewhere behind him. "Really, Luce, it's not so bad. Just think of all the underhanded things you did to get us married, when that was the last thing any of us wanted. But you knew best, didn't you? Well, in this case we know best. You need a duchess. Blackheath needs an heir. Hell, with Eva, you have both, all ready and waiting for you."

  Lucien set the untouched glass down, keeping his back to his brothers as he used every ounce of control to hold his temper in check. He would not let them know how very, very angry they had made him. So angry, in fact, that he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. So angry, that he dared not speak for fear of losing control of his words and the volume of his voice. So angry that he was ready to do something totally crass and vulgar, such as pummel each of those smirking faces with his fist.

  Better to leave before he could do just that.

  Back stiffly erect, his face darker than an incoming storm, he left them without another word.

  He walked blindly out of the house and outside, into the bracingly raw winter wind. He welcomed the discomfort. He needed to think. To plan. Revenge was the furthest thing from his mind; he wanted only a solution. Alternatives. Escape. He strode to the stables and, summoning a groom, ordered Armageddon saddled. The servant took one look at his thunderous face and paled, then hurried to do his bidding.

  Lucien paced back and forth, his blood boiling as he waited for the stallion to be tacked up. He heard the great beast's savage kicks ringing against its stall, and then the commotion as the jet-black Arabian, a gift from an Bedouin sheik during one of Lucien's many travels, was brought out of the stall, shaking his head, striking out with his lethal forelegs, and nearly yanking the two grooms who were trying to restrain him straight off their feet.

  Moments later, Lucien was astride the foaming, fractious animal and cantering away from the manor.

  Once out of sight of any watching eyes, he let the horse have his head. Armageddon's body levelled out as he thundered across a pasture, his hooves cutting up the flinty turf, flushing a pheasant, and sending two rabbits diving for cover as he pounded past a thicket of brambles. The damp winter wind was exhilarating, heavy with the scent of damp earth, but Lucien's fury was inescapable; even a headlong gallop across the cold winter heath could not dispel it.

  Suddenly Armageddon's head went up, his ears flicked back, and Lucien knew he was no longer alone.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Another rider, mounted on a lathered chestnut, was coming up just behind him, approaching fast.

  It was Eva.

  For a moment, the sight of her — face flushed with wind, skirts flying, her slender, curvy form beautifully erect in the saddle — made desire swell his loins and the breath to catch in his lungs. But only for a moment. He was too angry with her to indulge himself by admiring her superior horsemanship, her flawless seat and balance, the picture she made — that glorious red hair swept up beneath a hat, eyes glowing with the exhilaration of the ride — atop her mount. He shortened rein so she could catch up.

  "You shouldn't be pounding across the heath in your condition," he said coldly as she drew up alongside him.

  "You are aware of it, then."

  "Of course I'm aware of it. My gloating siblings couldn't wait to inform me." He turned and fixed her with his blackest glare as Armageddon, furious at being held back, pranced forward. "You'll be happy to know, madam, that for the sake of both our prides I neglected to tell them the real story."

  "What, that I had my way with you?"

  He directed his cold stare forward. "Precisely."

  "Well, Blackheath, be that as it may, if my memory serves me correctly you were as equally determined to have me as I was to have you. You consented. It was a game. I thought you understood that, as did I. Just because I initiated it on my terms is no reason to put all the blame for this unfortunate consequence on me."

  "You were careless."

  "I was careless? May I remind you, Blackheath, it takes two to conceive a child."

  "Do not condescend to lecture me, madam. I am not in a fit temper at the moment."

  "And don't you condescend to lecture me about fit tempers," she returned sourly. "It's bad enough to find myself in the family way, but to know that you, of all people, are the father causes me no end of grief."

  He turned and regarded her levelly for a moment, expertly controlling the prancing, blowing, stallion. "And do we know, madam, that I am indeed the father?"

  Her eyes narrowed beneath the brim of her plumed riding hat. "I loathe men," she said frostily. "You were the first since my wretched husband died and, I can assure you, will be the last." She turned to face straight ahead, letting her horse keep pace with Lucien's. "The only reason I allowed you into my bed at all was because I needed to ensure that I had the real aphrodisiac."

  "Which, may I remind you, is now safely out of your treacherous clutches, and shall remain so."

  "As it's twice been my undoing, I no longer have need of it, so try not to revel in your triumph."

  "Ah, yes, your need of it. For what nefarious purpose was it intended, madam, that you were willing to inflict bodily harm on my brothers and break into my bedchamber in order to get it?"

  "That is absolutely none of your concern."

  "Perhaps not." His smile was chilling. "But I can assure you, I will find out. In the meantime, I am still waiting for you to tell me how you managed to render me insensible back in Paris without even a blow."

  "I am not about to share my secrets."

  "Ah, so you intend to remain a woman of mystery, do you?"

  "I intend to remain a woman of independence. Now do stop talking to me, Blackheath. I — I must think."

  They continued on side by side, the horses blowing great plumes of steam from their reddened nostrils, their hooves sinking into creamy white mud as the track took them uphill between a copse of maple and beech; overhead, leafless branches scraped against the low pewter sky. Lucien shot his companion a sidelong glance. Her color was high, her eyes bright, and there were cracks in her otherwise composed bearing. A thin smile stole over his lips. He knew enough — more than enough — about women to know what those signs met. He had rattled her. Shaken her. Thrown her off balance.

  She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  And God help him, he certainly wanted her — despite his fury with her, with his brothers, with fate. And how could he not? He let his gaze slide over her bosom, admiring the way it filled out the rich plum velvet of her riding habit. He suspected the nipples beneath were taut and hard, the coral flesh aching for his touch. Well, they wouldn't be aching for long. And neither would he — for there was no pretending the pressure in his loins was anything but what it was: lust. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, snare her reins, and kiss that proud, unhappy expression from her beautiful face.

  Wanted nothing more than to slide his hand between the tightly buttoned closure of her smart-fitting jacket and let those perfect breasts fill his hand.

  Wanted nothing more than to yank her off that horse, tumble her to the ground, and take her right here in the wet grass, over and over again, until he'd had his fill of her.

  He tore his gaze away. "So here we are, neatly maneuvered into a situation that neither of us wants. Tell me, madam, how do you propose we settle this matter?"

  "I should let you figure that out, since it's all your fault that we're even in this predicament."

  "My fault?"

  "Yes, yours. If your sister hadn't found out that you — not some fictitious Spanish relative — machinated Lord Brookhampton's departure from England, your brothers wouldn't have gone to the lengths they did to give you a taste of your own medicine. They are all very upset with you, you know. And now I'm expected to pay the price for your diabolical schemes."

  Lucien felt the blood drain from his face at this added disclosure. "My sister — knows?"

  "Of course she knows! And don't think she's going to forgive you for it anytime soon, you monster."

  Lucien took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly pounding heart. Hell and damnation! Nerissa knew. She knew. Oh, dear God . . .

  He set his jaw. "My brothers have good reason to turn the tables on me, but I can assure you it has nothing to do with Nerissa or Lord Brookhampton."

  "Ah, yes. I've heard all about how you arranged their lives, too. You're despicable, Blackheath."

  "Yes, so I've been told. But this senseless bickering about my character will not resolve our own situation. Let us get to the heart of the matter. I assume it's marriage you're after?"

  "Marriage? Ha! Marriage, especially to an odious monster such as yourself, would be a burden, not a blessing." She jerked her head up, her gaze distant. "Besides, I know far too much about men to ever regard matrimony as a state worth repeating."

  "My dear Eva," he murmured sarcastically, "surely you must have had marriage in mind, otherwise you never would have sought me out in England, let alone remained here after learning of my brothers' plans for us."

  "I came to England because I was asked to leave Paris and had nowhere else to go — another disruption to my life for which I can place all blame directly on you."

  "An eye for an eye."

  "This isn't funny, Blackheath."

  "Indeed, madam, I am not laughing. In fact, this is a serious matter we are discussing."

  "I don't see as if we have anything to talk about."

  "A child is something to talk about. Regardless of the circumstances of its conception, regardless of our feelings toward each other, regardless of our mutual aversion to the idea of marriage, the truth is, you are in the family way. I will not pay you off and send you away like some unwanted baggage. I will not allow you to manage this complication on your own."

  She gave him a sidelong glance. "What are you saying, Blackheath?"

  "That I see no alternative but to make you my duchess."

  She paled and abruptly reined up her mount. "Oh, no, Blackheath, don't even think it. I will not — I repeat, not — even consider your proposal."

  "You have no choice." He brought Armageddon in front of her horse and down its opposite side so that the stallion faced the direction from which they'd come. Eva was riding sidesaddle; her legs, hidden beneath generous folds of lush aubergine velvet, were all but crushed beneath his own hard thigh as he pressed his own mount close. He snared her horse's reins and stared into Eva's defiant green eyes. "And neither, I might add, do I."

  "Of course you have a choice, men always do. And you, being a duke, have more choices than most."

  "Not when the king himself decrees that said duke must marry."

  "Your king — not mine. I need not abide by his wishes, and won't."

  "I am not asking you to abide by his wishes. I am asking you to abide by the needs of this child."

  Eva stared out over the heath for another long moment, fighting the urge to yank her mount — and her legs — safely away from Blackheath's thigh, fighting her rising panic, fighting the maelstrom of emotions that were making her heart spin like a top in her chest. God help her, if she wed him and he were to learn the real reason she'd stolen the aphrodisiac, that same English king who wanted a marriage between them would have her head for treason. Eva's mouth went dry. She felt suddenly trapped. Scared. Desperate —

  Something in her face must have alerted him to what she was thinking. He leaned close — so close that she could see straight down into the empty black well of his eyes, straight down into the demise of her own freedom. He reached out and grasped her chin, forcing her to look right at him. "I warn you, Eva, that if you think to flee me, I will find you. Always. I will hunt you down as a wolf hunts a rabbit. And I will not give up until I find you." He released her. "Do I make myself clear?"

  She stared off over the heath, head high, refusing to look at him and hoping he wouldn't see her shaking hands or hear her suddenly pounding heart.

  "Remember, it is not your wishes we are discussing here — but the needs of an unborn child. I will give you until the end of the week to accept my suit, Eva. No more." He moved the stallion into her line of vision, forcing her to look at him, and into those black, black eyes that held no pity, and even less compassion. "Good day, madam."

  He sketched a bow from the saddle, and it was only as he sent the hellish beast galloping off that Eva allowed herself to take a great shaky breath . . . and the very real freedom to feel exactly what she was.

  Terrified.

  Chapter 13

  Lucien galloped back to Rosebriar, handed Armageddon to a groom, and immediately sought out Nerissa. She was closeted in her apartments, unwilling to receive anyone.

  He knocked on the door. "Nerissa," he called gently.

  "Go away, Lucien. I have no wish to see or speak to you ever again."

  If she had taken a carving knife to his heart, Lucien could not have felt more pain. He bent his head and rested his brow on two fingers for a moment. She was his sister. His only sister, his littlest sibling, the only woman he would gladly have given his life for, if only to see her happy. And now he had destroyed her — and any chance she might have had for finding that happiness. He took a deep breath, let his hand fall to his side, and tried again. "Nerissa, please. We have much to discuss."

  Silence. Then the dull patter of feet across a floor, the latch lifting, and there — Nerissa.

  The sight of her shocked him. She had lost weight. Her once-sparkling blue eyes were sunken and lifeless in cheeks that had gone hollow; her hair had lost its shine and her mouth looked as though it would never smile again. She looked at him flatly, her face mirroring hurt, betrayal, and loathing.

  "Why?" she whispered. Her lower lip began to tremble. "Why couldn't you have just left us alone, Lucien?"

  For once in his life, Lucien didn't know what to say. He moved into the room and shut the door behind him.

  "You weren't content to all but ruin our brothers' lives," she continued in that awful, fragile whisper. "Oh, no. You had to play God again, didn't you?"

  "How did you find out?" he asked hoarsely, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

  "Oh, one of your friends had a bit too much to drink at Celsie's and Andrew's ball and got rather loose of tongue. He told me about the Spanish estate. I guessed the rest. You just wanted to get Perry out of England, didn't you?"

  Lucien could not face the accusation in those tragic blue eyes. He looked down and then away, his jaw hard.

  "I hate you," she murmured. "I hate you so much that it hurts to even look at you."

  The words cut him to the marrow, but not as much as the revulsion in that once-trusting, once-loving face. Nothing — not even death — could strike such a blow as that. His stomach tightened, and pain seared his chest until it hurt just to breathe. He deserved this, he could not deny that; but he could not stand here and face what had become of his little sister, could not stand here and know that he — and he alone — had done this to her.

  He did not trust himself to speak. He would talk to her later, when he'd had time to gather his thoughts, time to brace himself for her disgust and revulsion. He bowed, turned, and somehow found himself at the door. He had just lifted the latch when her voice cut through his stupor of grief, a tiny, pathetic sound that was little more than a choked whisper.

  "Why?" She paused. "Why do you do the things you do, Lucien?

  He remained where he was, staring hopelessly down at his boot. "Does it matter?"