Anne laughed. It was perfect, sitting here, the rest of the house asleep. The earl sent his servants to bed––the place, as he had said, would not become any more untidy overnight. The clean-up operation could begin in the morning.

  So here they were, the only people in the world. Timothy’s hand was close to hers, but Anne did not have the bravery to reach out for it. Her gloves had been discarded when she had entered the room, and the intensity of that connection would be unbearable.

  Who knew what would happen if she did?

  Giddy, that’s what she was. Anne could barely believe the evening had succeeded: everyone had accepted her as the Countess of Clarcton without a second thought.

  Being a countess was, on the whole, rather wonderful.

  “I believe I could get used to this,” she said. “Being a countess. Having everyone bow and scrape––did you see the Duchess of Axwick? She couldn’t wait to speak to me!”

  “Oh, Tabitha is all right,” Timothy said nonchalantly. “I think she was hoping for a friend, more than anything else. It can be lonely, being a duke’s wife.”

  Anne giggled. “And what would you know about such things?”

  “I think you’ll find I have plenty in my acquaintance who married into nobility, rather than been born to it,” said Timothy with mock severity. “And quite a challenge it is, too!”

  Anne swallowed. It was a taboo topic, marriage into the nobility.

  She was not his countess. For all she could parade about and impress those who never knew the original, there was a woman––had been a woman who had truly been married to him.

  Had been Timothy’s wife.

  Though the evening had been magical, it was not her life. Her reality was that of a servant, a governess. Her charge was upstairs, hopefully still asleep, while here…

  Here was a man she could not have. Anne’s gaze raked over Timothy—his cropped hair, that smile that teased as it praised, his arms, muscles showing through the thin linen shirt.

  Here was a man she could love. She did love. She was dallying with danger, sitting here, almost as though they were on an equal level.

  “You are quiet.”

  Anne snapped out of her reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

  Timothy was looking at her closely, as though he had never seen her before. “You. You are quiet, and though I would never have described you as loud, I have not known you to hold your counsel so before. What are you thinking?”

  What was she thinking? Anne almost laughed. The Earl of Clarcton would like to know what his governess, who had paraded for the entire world as his wife, was thinking!

  “This whole evening has been magical,” she said aloud. “I do not think I could ever have believed I would experience such a thing. It’s…it’s like stepping into someone’s story.”

  She had no better words to describe the madness of this evening, and Timothy appeared to understand.

  “In a way,” he said delicately, “aren’t you?”

  Anne's cheeks flushed. Yes, she was. Despite Timothy’s revelation that the countess had died, there was a small part of Anne that wondered whether it was the entire truth.

  The truth. Something in scarce supply in Clarcton Castle. Timothy had kept this small morsel of information from her, and gave her no cause to believe it other than his word.

  She wanted to believe him. Anne looked into his eyes and saw integrity, but she had known the man but two months. Despite her feelings, despite the intensity of connection that this charade brought, she was still not sure if she could trust him.

  “I apologize, that was…careless of me,” Timothy said quietly. “I did not mean––”

  “I know what you meant,” said Anne.

  She swallowed, tiredness seeping through her temples. All she needed to do was sleep.

  It was strange, feeling such opposite emotions. A desperation to be near him, and a dull need to be alone and try to ascertain precisely what she felt. What was she supposed to do with all these emotions? How could she return tomorrow to the sedate role of a governess?

  She was supposed to be his governess, not his countess.

  “I could never have dreamed all this,” she said quietly. “Not with all imaginings could I have created such a sight.”

  Timothy glanced at her. Even a look was enough to heat her body.

  “The food, the dancing, the gown,” Anne added, drawing his attention to things other than herself.

  It was not working. Timothy’s blue eyes were transfixed on her, and Anne found she enjoyed the attention.

  If she were honest, she rather liked this make believe. She liked the smiles from dukes and duchesses, she liked…she liked being the center of every room she was in.

  Who would not? It made her special, something she had never been. She did not want it to end. She did not want to stop being important to him. Being his wife, even in name only.

  “I need a whiskey,” Timothy announced and rose, stepping towards a cabinet.

  Anne let her breath out slowly, unaware she had been holding it in. Her gaze followed him as he moved across the room. Oh God, she loved him. She could at least admit it here, in her mind. Besides, who would she tell? A house maid, or footman? They would laugh and rightly so, for raising her expectations to such a man.

  “I would offer you one,” Timothy said, “but I doubt you would like it.”

  Anne nodded mutely [I read this to mean she was asking for one]. Mrs. Seton, Dewey? They would not laugh, but would consider her impertinent. Telling Frances was absolutely out of the question, and as for her father…

  Anne swallowed all the things she wished to say to Timothy as he sat back beside her and took a gulp of the amber liquid.

  He would never consider her as anything more than a very convenient servant. Able to play the countess, yes, but unworthy to actually step into those shoes.

  And even if he did…Anne smiled at the thought. Even if she was foolish enough to convince herself he felt anything for her more than physical desire, so much stood in their way. Society would never permit it. An earl and a governess?

  Meredith might have managed it, but they had kept the news out of the gossips ears and therefore had got away with it. No such fortune here. The Earl of Clarcton was already such gossip fodder, any marriage would be considered the hottest scandal.

  “You are very quiet.”

  Anne looked over at Timothy, the man who had absorbed her thoughts.

  “Yes, I am,” she said softly.

  Timothy did not seem offended that she offered no explanation. “Well, ’tis to be expected. After a night of being my countess, I imagine you have much to think on. Good God, who would have thought it would go so well!”

  Anne smiled weakly. It was strange no one had thought to quiz her more precisely on where she had been––but then, who would speak that way to a countess?

  “And…and will I get the chance to do that again?”

  The words had slipped out of her mouth before she had been able to stop them. It was a desperate wish, a hope rather than an expectation, but now she had spoken…

  Timothy’s blue eyes met hers. “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Anne said with a wry smile. “The world knows your countess is alive now, alive and kicking. They are going to expect to see her again.”

  “Do you think?”

  Anne nodded. She could not look away. “How often do you want to trot her out to prove it? She cannot simply disappear out of sight, there will be questions.”

  Timothy took another gulp of whiskey. “You know, I have no idea. It had not even occurred to me that our success would be so very great––God, the Reverend, of course.”

  Anne waited, but no explanation seemed forthcoming. “The Reverend?”

  “You met him, the elderly man who––”

  “I know who he is,” said Anne. “Why did you mention him?”

  There was a haziness to Timothy’s eyes now, but it was not due to the whiskey. His glass was still full, but the way he was looking at her…it was far more intoxicating.

  “Mention him––oh, Reverend Critchley,” said Timothy, as though unable to focus. “Yes, he said how much he looked forward to seeing us at church.”

  Anne stifled a smile. “He grows old. Surely he remembers your rather direct conversation?”

  Timothy chuckled. “Well, he was always better at homilies than noticing what was going on under his nose. Still, we may have to trot you out every week or so, prove you still exist. If it gets too much for you, we could always ‘send you away.’”

  He spoke so calmly, as though discussing the potential merits of a type of carriage. Anne's heartrate quickened. Though she was tired due to the late hour, her mind was sharp.

  “Send me away?”

  Timothy waved a hand. “Not actually away. The countess. The governess would stay—and we should probably ensure few visitors see you as Miss Gilbert, the governess, though God knows how many people actually come here. Not many.”

  Anne swallowed. He spoke so nonchalantly, so easily, as though it was a simple case of picking up one type of life and putting another aside, as interchangeable as a pair of gloves.

  He was smiling, but Anne could not remain silent. Timothy may treat the whole exercise as though it was all one large reward, but Anne had to say something.

  Though she may regret her words, she would regret staying silent far more. When would there be a better time to speak? When they were alone, after such…such an evening?

  “So, tell me, Anne,” said Timothy. “How do you like being a part-time countess?”

  He spoke with a wry smile, that sort of knowing smile Anne had come to love but felt out of place now. He could not possibly know how she felt or he would speak differently.

  Anne swallowed. “I do not like it at all.”

  Astonishment flashed across his face. “You surprise me. I thought you enjoyed this evening.”

  It was impossible to know what to say. A blur of words rushed through Anne’s mind. How could one respond to that, spoken by the man she loved?

  “Though I dare say,” he added with a smile, “perhaps half the fun is tricking people?”

  Anne took a deep breath. There was no going back from this. Miss Clarke would be astonished to have her returned to the Bureau so soon, but she was not one to lie about her feelings, and it was intolerable for this to continue.

  “This will surprise you,” she said softly, “but I find, Clarcton, that––”

  “Timothy.”

  Anne’s breath caught in her throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  Timothy placed his glass of whiskey on the floor and turned to her. “I thought we had reached a first name business, Anne––or would you prefer Miss Gilbert?”

  Was he purposefully attempting to make this as difficult as possible?

  “I prefer Anne, as I well think you know,” she said ruefully. His hands were only a few inches from hers… “I think it best I tell you that…oh, you will undoubtedly spot the signs soon enough. I would rather tell you––have it on my own terms, as it were.”

  A crease appeared between Timothy’s eyebrows. “This is serious conversation indeed for…what is it, four o’clock in the morning?”

  But Anne could not stop. She loved him, and until he knew…a part of her hoped…

  “I know ’tis foolish, but I have to say it,” she said in a rush. “I…this whole experience has been…”

  He was looking with such interest, such openness, Anne could not bear it.

  “I am falling in love with you.”

  The words echoed around the room, finding a life of their own.

  Anne swallowed, her throat dry. “You…you intoxicate me, Timothy. I know ’tis out of place to say such things, let alone feel them, but I cannot help it. I shall pack my bags in the morning and––”

  She had intended to say more. Words, whole sentences, designed to indicate how she realized it was inappropriate for her to even look at him––yet not another word was uttered.

  His mouth met hers in a deep and passionate kiss. Timothy was kissing her. Anne quickly lost herself in the heady sensations that his lips imparted onto hers.

  Timothy Lexington, Earl of Clarcton, was kissing her.

  More, his arms were around her, pulling her closer, and he broke the kiss only to capture her lips once more and deepen the connection between them. There was no going back from this. She would pack in the morning.

  Further thought became impossible as Timothy’s hand moved slowly down her back, cupping her buttocks through the silk of her gown, and Anne moaned, unable to help herself.

  The kiss was broken. As Anne opened her eyes, it was to see Timothy pulling back to the other side of the sofa.

  “Anne, I had not expected such a declaration,” he said. “I…I hardly know what to…”

  Anne swallowed. “You do not need to speak. I expect no––”

  “I want to give you something.” Timothy’s voice was soft now, but his gaze was no less penetrating. “Something only an earl would give his countess.”

  Anne’s heart fluttered. “I require nothing from you.”

  “I know,” he said softly. “But I want to give it to you. Something that has no price. Something worth far more than words.”

  Anne gasped as he took her hand in his, his fingers entwining with hers. As she looked down, she saw a future, a future she wanted desperately, but knew she could not have.

  He rose, pulling her upwards as he started towards the door.

  “Where are we going?” Anne lowered her voice as they entered the corridor, though no one was going to hear her. They alone in the castle were awake. They alone knew what would happen this night.

  “You’ll see.”

  Anne took comfort in the strength of his hand, the warmth of his fingers. Her body tingled at the connection. What was she about to see?

  It was only when they reached the double doors of his bedchamber that Anne realized precisely what the earl intended.

  Her hesitation was not spoken, but Timothy must have felt it. He stopped, looking deep into her eyes. “Anne?”

  “This was not the sort of gift I had in mind,” she said softly.

  It was a wonder she was able to get those words out. What did Timothy think he was doing? He knew the rules of society; a lady should never even be kissed before matrimony, though Anne was not so childish to think that all adhered to that rule.

  But to take her to his bedchamber…that could only mean one thing.

  What would Miss Clarke think? More, what would she think of herself? Once she stepped over this threshold, once she allowed a gentleman to…to make love to her, there was no going back.

  She would be ruined, forever, for any other man.

  Timothy took her hands in his, and Anne looked into the face of the man for whom she would do anything.

  Almost anything.

  “Anne, I would never––I will never make you do anything you don’t want to do,” he said quietly, “but…surely a countess should end her evening of triumph in the bed of her earl?”

  If she had never fallen in love with him, then this would be simple. She would merely laugh, throw it off as a bad joke, release her fingers from his intoxicating grip…

  And return to her bedchamber. Large. Cold. Empty.

  “I can make it safe.” Timothy had evidently seen the hesitation on her face. “I can make it safe so you do not––so we do not conceive a child. You are aware of this?”

  Anne nodded mutely. Yes, it was impossible to be a member of the Earl of Allun’s household without being aware of it. The French letter.

  Her gaze met his; two pairs of blue eyes caught in each other. She trusted him, and walking away would be a mistake she would live to regret.

  He had lied about his wife. Perhaps he still did; perhaps she was out there, unable or unpermitted to return. If only that could cancel out her growing passion. Anne knew it could be a step towards her own misery, but she could not say no to him.

  “Let me love you, Anne,” Timothy whispered.

  It was hardly the declaration of love Anne wished for, but it was close enough. Every inch was desperate for his touch. She could not walk away from such temptation.

  “Love me,” she whispered.

  How he managed to kiss her so ardently as he opened the door, Anne did not know. All her senses were lost in the kiss, the way his lips knew precisely what to do to extract every iota of pleasure.

  The room faded into the background as Timothy shut the door behind her and brought his arms more tightly around her. Her body was on fire, blazing for him, as his kisses trailed from her lips down her neck.

  “Oh, Anne,” he murmured.

  Anne willingly met his lips when they returned to hers. There was no response possible other than clinging to him and wondering just how she would ever look at him again.

  Giving herself up to the passion appeared to be the only thing she could do. Timothy was far more experienced, and Anne found she did not care. She would reap the rewards of a man well-practiced, and trembled as his hands moved to the ties of her gown.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, breath fluttering on her shoulders as they were freed from the expensive silk. “So beautiful, Anne.”

  If she had time to think, Anne would have been embarrassed as the silk gown pooled by her feet––but she was not given the time to feel fear. Timothy’s quick fingers were already pulling at her corset strings, and within a moment, his fingers stroking and lips kissing her body as he did so, he had entirely stripped her.

  Anne swallowed. Here she was, standing before the Earl of Clarcton, utterly naked––and it did not feel wrong. It felt right. It felt like all her life had been leading to this moment, this moment of perfection.

  “Christ, Anne,” Timothy said in a jagged voice. “You are…”

  It was only then Anne saw Timothy’s expression. His eyes were wide, his mouth open as his fingers fumbled at his buttons in his haste to mirror her nakedness.

  Growing in bravery, Anne leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his.

  Timothy groaned, losing himself in the kiss for a full heady minute before pushing her away, fingers pulling off his clothes.