What would he do if he discovered her secret? She need only get through the next two weeks before she never had to see him again.

Which would tear her heart in two, for she loved him so.

She hadn’t wanted to. For all his naughty, teasing barbs, he was the finest man she had ever met. He was thoughtful, and deeper than the rakish dilettante she first supposed him to be. Charlotte alternately cursed and thanked Deb for tricking her and running off with Arthur. How much easier her life would be if she’d never felt Bay’s wicked kiss that morning on Jane Street.

She threw open all the bedroom windows to air out the room, then turned her attention to her own appearance. The pier glass on the wall told a grim tale. Charlotte splashed some water on her face, pinched her cheeks for color, and borrowed Bay’s tooth powder to get the revolting taste out of her mouth. Before she put on her dressing gown, she turned to the side and examined her reflection. Her stomach, never flat to start with, seemed a little rounder. But perhaps she was just imagining things.

Hearing the rattle of the breakfast dishes, she sat down at the round table tucked into the corner of Bay’s bedroom. She was not going to wind up in bed again, covered with jam and crumbs and clotted cream while Bay feasted.

“Here we go.” The tray was heavy with covered dishes and condiments. Charlotte felt her stomach flip but willed the sensation away. Bay poured her a cup of tea and began to drop a sugar lump into it. He knew her sweet tooth, but today she wanted bitter, black, and harsh.

“No sugar this morning, please. I told you my stomach is not quite settled from all the rich food last night.” She pretended to take a sip. “Ah, isn’t the day just beautiful?”

“The wind is brisk, a perfect day for a sail. I say, Charlie, our breakfast will blow away with all these windows open. Do you mind if I close some?”

“I’ll do it.” She leaped up to shut the window that overlooked the vomit-covered bushes, praying for more rain to wash away the stain. She was not at all sure her stomach was ready for a day spent in a boat, pitching and rolling about.

She came back to a plate loaded with ham, toast, and eggs and began to mince everything into miniscule pieces. “Do you really want to go out on the water? I haven’t been on a boat since my parents died.”

Bay looked stricken. Oh, she was evil, using such an excuse. If she did get ill, she could always chalk it up to plain seasickness.

“Not if you don’t want to. I’m sorry, Charlie, I didn’t think.”

“Perhaps not today. But a walk along the beach would be lovely.” She forked a tiny square of eggy toast into her mouth and chewed determinedly.

“That might put the roses back into your cheeks.”

He was looking at her with speculative intensity. He was a noticing sort of man. She forced a smile. “If you didn’t keep me up all hours of the night, you randy devil, I suppose I might look like less of a hag. A woman my age needs her beauty sleep, you know.”

“I didn’t hear any objection to my attentions, my dear. And I know from experience when you are not pleased, your wicked tongue can lacerate. All I can remember of last night’s conversation was ‘Please, please’ and ‘Oh, yes’ and ‘Oh, God.’” He slathered butter on a muffin and crunched away, looking pleased with himself.

“See? I must have been half-asleep if I confused you with the Lord.”

Bay looked up at the coffered ceiling. “I’m waiting for lightning to strike.”

“Not today.” She took a deep breath of fresh air, reveling in the salty scent. “You must want to visit with your tenants now that it’s not so grim.”

Bay put his napkin down. His plate was clean, whereas she had barely touched a thing. “You know, I may just do that. You won’t mind being alone for a few hours?”

“I welcome a respite from your wicked ways. I shall loll about like a lady of leisure.”

“Good. You might do so in my grandmother’s garden. Feel free to make any improvements. I expect to be inundated with bouquets when I return. I imagine it’s a bit overgrown since I left.”

“As my garden at home must be.”

He got up and chucked her under her chin. “You sound wistful. Homesick. Have I bored you?”

“Don’t be silly. You could never be boring.” How she would miss him when she left. And how she would miss her cozy little cottage. The Widow Fallon could not stay in Little Hyssop and produce a child in seven months’ time.

“We’ll have a romantic picnic supper on the beach. Watch the sun set. How does that sound?”

Charlotte agreed that sounded like a perfect way to end the day. She watched as Bay moved efficiently around the room, his military bearing and training still evident. In a matter of minutes he was shaved and dressed for riding. Charlotte decided it was time to make a foray into cleanliness herself and rang for a bath in her own room. A good soak would help her think and plan more clearly.

She spent the rest of the day in blissful retreat within the high stone walls of Bay’s grandmother’s garden. The roses had rioted over their cages and trellises. Charlotte found an old pair of gloves and kept busy pruning and clipping, wondering if Bay had transplanted Mr. Trumbull’s cuttings. She peered into the empty conservatory and saw four lonely jars on a wooden table. By next spring, the twigs they held would be ready to join the rest of the bushes. She stepped inside with her basket of flowers and shears, imagining the space as it must have been years ago, lush and redolent with plant life. The sun-heated bricks warmed the soles of her slippers. A solitary wicker chair listed in one corner, and she dragged it to the wall of glass so she could watch the ocean beyond the emerald lawn. It wouldn’t do to become so mesmerized by the waves that she forgot to put the cut roses in water, but she couldn’t resist watching the gulls wheeling over the whitecaps. She supposed in a few hours she would be frolicking below like a fat water sprite, drunk on wine and Bay’s attentions.

Sunlight slanted in through the glass roof, making her hot and drowsy. The girls could tend to the flowers. Charlotte rather thought she should have a nap to be ready for the night.


Bay had been busy since he returned home. His tenants had been glad to see him and had pressed all manner of tribute on him-tiny wild strawberries, a tin of biscuits, a thick wedge of Dorset Blue Vinny, a nut loaf fresh from the oven. Mrs. Kelly had augmented her baskets, and Bay sent Frazier and the maids to set up the picnic area sheltered by a crescent of rocks. He had half an idea to sleep under the stars with Charlie, so there was much to-ing and fro-ing with blankets and pillows and whatever else might come in handy. Once things were to Frazier’s satisfaction, he was to walk the girls to the village and take the rest of the evening off. There was the pub-and Kitty’s parlor, if Angus wished to brave the difficult Mrs. Toothaker.

He noted the hall was filled with roses, a sure sign that Charlie had been equally busy. He followed the scented trail to her bedroom. Her door was ajar, and he peeked in. A row of mismatched vases lined the mantel, filling the room with perfume. Charlie lay beneath the coverlet sound asleep under the cloud of fragrance. As tempting as it would be to crawl into bed with her, he reckoned he needed a bath to rid himself of the smell of sweat and horse which all the roses in the garden could not overcome.

He’d done a fair amount of thinking as he rode over his acreage, and had come to a surprising conclusion that had eluded him too long. His grandmother had been an excellent steward of the estate even at her advanced age, but there was no excuse now for him to fritter away any more time in London. His respectable army career was long over. If he hadn’t conquered his demons by now with women and drink, he never would. It was past time he assume his responsibilities as magistrate in his own little corner of the world.

But he didn’t want to live at Bayard Court alone.

In fact, he didn’t want to live anywhere without Charlie.

He didn’t know quite when her singular presence had become so necessary to him. She was a little shrew, and far past the age of biddability. He was unlikely to be Petrucchio to her Kate. In fact, it was she who had tamed him, bringing him back in touch with his boyhood home and ambition. His art was now paramount, and Charlie was his muse. Of course no one could ever set eyes on all the nudes he had done of her over the past weeks-it would be highly improper. Those drawings were for their pleasure alone. But they had warmed him up and unlocked the river of creativity which had been dammed up for a decade. He had plenty of money to indulge his hobby, and would have even more if he implemented improvements to his property. And surely she was not too old to bear him a child or two. His head was buzzing with possibilities. But foremost was securing Charlie permanently.

He would ask her to marry him this evening.

There truly could be no objection. Even if his grandmother had lived to give her opinion, Charlie was from a respectable gentry family, though they’d fallen on hard times. The fictitious Mrs. Fallon could easily disappear from Little Crackup and reappear here as a Dorset lamb come home. The Divine Deborah was now a dull married woman in distant Kent, too busy being Mrs. Bannister to bother them.

And Robert Chase would keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him. Bay was longing to smash him into the ground at the slightest provocation, the merest hint of a knowing smile or whispered word. He would never have the power to hurt Charlie again.

Bay whistled through his bath, pleased with his plans. The only fly in the ointment was Anne Whitley, who was not in France or any other foreign country, despite the fact that Bay had shoved her onto the packet himself weeks ago. He had learned from one of his tenant farmers today that she had been seen shopping in the village with her mother. The man obviously thought that Bay and Anne would be reunited now that the impediment of a living husband was overcome. Bay quickly disabused him of this notion. There would never be a second wedding ceremony for them in the village church no matter how many times Bay was kidnapped. He’d kill himself first.