him as she should. Then she pushed him away and ran inside, still clutching the little music box, as her life fell to pieces around her.
Lucas stood very still as he watched her disappear into the house. Desire, frustration and black despair surged through every muscle of his powerful body.
Parting after that sweet autumn almost two years ago was for the best, he told himself bitterly as he walked slowly in the direction of the stables. It was the only thing to do. You knew that.
And yet he hadn’t expected to still want her so badly. Hadn’t expected her to be so damned beautiful. And he hadn’t expected her to look up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes, as if he were the devil himself.
Who could blame her? He’d lied to her. Deceived her.
His visit to Wycherley had not been a matter of chance, far from it. Five days ago in London he’d seen the notice in the newspapers of the Sheldon family’s dispersal sale. And then he’d heard of the attempted burglary.
His good friend Captain Alec Stewart, in London also, had tried to warn him. ‘For God’s sake, man. She’s no fool. Why all this “passing by” pretence? Can’t you trust her with the truth?’
‘The truth?’ Lucas answered sharply. ‘How much of it—how little of it will she be able to bear? And why should I expect her to believe a word I say?’
Well, he’d lied to her and achieved—nothing.
Lucas Conistone was aware of the occasional whispers that he had left the army because he had no stomach for war. But most people gave no thought to his resignation. The fact that, since his father’s early death ten years ago, he was heir to his grandfather’s earldom, with all the responsibilities that entailed, meant that many people had thought him irresponsible to have joined the army in the first place.
Verena clearly thought otherwise. He just hadn’t expected her to actually despise him.
Now Alec was approaching from the stableyard, with the reins of both their horses in his hand. ‘Everything’s sorted, Lucas—horses watered, curb chain fixed—but other than that,’ commented Alec drily, ‘I’m saying nothing. Nothing at all’.
Lucas took the reins from him. ‘I know,’ he said tersely. ‘You told me. I’m not welcome here, and I should have realised it. I’ll go on to wait for Bentinck, at the place and time we arranged, and you—will you set off back to Portugal?’
Alec, already mounting his horse, nodded. ‘Portsmouth first, then Lisbon—I should be back there in ten days. Any messages?’
‘Yes. Let them know in Portugal, Alec, that I still believe what I’m looking for could be here’.
‘At Wycherley?’ Alec’s face creased in doubt.
‘At Wycherley,’ Lucas emphasised.
And it was true—he did.
The diary. A year and a half ago, Lucas had followed Wild Jack across the mountains in hopes of getting that diary. Thought he’d seen Jack clutching it, as he faced death.
But now the body had been found, the diary with it—and it was the wrong one. Which meant that what Lucas really wanted must be here, somewhere, at Wycherley.
And he cursed the fate that had brought him here.
‘The girl will have nothing to do with you,’ Alec warned as he started gathering up his reins.
‘There are other ways’.
Alec’s pleasant eyes narrowed just a little. He said quietly, ‘In that case, I’m glad, for her sake, that she’s over you’.
Lucas watched him ride off towards the Chichester road before mounting his own horse. Alec was right. But for her to throw herself away on Bryant….
Something inside him twisted like a knife as he remembered the Verena he’d known. She’d been young and beautiful, and full of hope and, yes, love, for him. And he’d thought, this is the one.
But now, she hated him. And, by God, it was as well.
Chapter Three
Swiftly Verena, up in her bedchamber, pulled on an old cotton shift instead of the silk chemise, and then over it a shabby print gown, which did an excellent job of disguising her full breasts and narrow waist. Not even Lucas could accuse her of playing the whore in this.
She pulled it up viciously high at the neck, then, turning to her looking-glass, began to tug a comb through her rippling chestnut curls, which were damp from the rain. She stopped and gazed at herself. Her eyes were still bright with emotion, her skin still tingled from Lucas’s insultingly casual caress.
Meu amor. My love. That was what he had once breathed to her. One of his many damnable lies.
She pulled on a shawl and hurried to knock on the door of a nearby room. No answer—but she thought she heard the sound of sobbing. ‘Deb. Deb? It’s me—Verena’. She pushed the door open, and saw her sister sitting on the edge of the bed, her head bowed. When Deb looked up, her blue eyes were brimming with tears.
Verena quickly shut the door. ‘Oh, Deb!’ she cried, and rushed to embrace her, but Deb shrank away.
‘Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?’ she whispered. ‘I will not, I will not face him!’
Dear God. Had her sister observed that insult of a caress? ‘Did you—did you see him out there?’
‘No, but Izzy told me! She saw him and his friend Captain Stewart riding up the drive, and was full of it…’.
Be grateful for small mercies. Verena drew a deep breath and sat down beside her. It had been the final blow—almost laughable, really, were it not so cruel—to find out that less than one year ago Lucas had tried his luck with Deb also. What fair game her family must have seemed.
‘Deb, listen to me,’ she urged. ‘Lord Conistone is leaving. He only called here because he was on his way to Stancliffe Manor’.
‘You mean—’ Deb shivered ‘—he said nothing about me?’
‘Nothing at all’. Verena sighed. ‘Look, he will have gone already. Deb, you must forget him. You must be strong’. And so must I.
‘Oh, Verena’. Deborah flung herself into her arms, in a fresh storm of weeping.
And Verena did her best—an almost impossible task—to soothe her, then left her sister at last, returning to her own room to endure fresh heartbreak herself as she remembered how nearly two years ago she herself was fool enough to fall in love with Lucas, Lord Conistone.
In the early August of 1808, all of Hampshire was deluged by heavy rainfall, and the harvests were ruined. Verena’s father had gone away again on his travels—from which, in fact, he was never to return—and Verena, young as she was, found
