avid Thurlow was ready for any reaction, from hysterics to satisfaction, but Victoria Shelby just blinked up at him slowly, her face draining of color. He felt a stirring of something, a jolt of emotion that escaped his usual iron control. He hesitated, for once unsure what he should do.

And it cost him, for she suddenly whirled away, flung open the door, and ran down the front steps. He stopped at the doorway and watched her run next door. With a sigh, he retreated inside. He had always worried that his lies would be taken as a betrayal, and evidently he'd been right.

Could this day get any worse, after the second housekeeper in two months had just quit?

He'd spent much of his childhood trying to meet Victoria Shelby in person. It had been a game between them, and she'd proved herself a worthy player by always managing to sneak away before he could catch a glimpse. The mystery of her had lured him on, as much as the kindness she'd shown to a lonely little boy.

She was…not what he had expected. She was a plump little hen dressed in unrelieved black. The hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet was a pale blond, as if it couldn't decide what vivid color to be. In those brief moments when their gazes had met, he saw big wide eyes, the most flattering of her features, the vivid color of amethysts, so violet as to seem unreal. They had flashed the powerful emotions of desperation and despair before she'd fled. What had happened to the optimistic young girl he once thought he knew? She'd been calm and sensible as a child, her words infused with a quiet joy. He'd admired her simple life and her siblings, and had read her journal entries to him with a voraciousness that even then he'd recognized as envy.

Whyever would she be looking for…Tom? He'd almost forgotten about the pretend life he'd created to escape his problems. He'd known even at ten years old that his father would be angry if David had encouraged a real friendship. One simple lie had expanded each year into a larger web of lies. All because of his father.

David's whole life had revolved around his father's whims, and the old man was still exerting his control over the household from his sickbed.

Ever since his father's illness, and David's subsequent move back into the family town house, David's orderly life had spiraled out of control. He hadn't wanted to deal with his father, a man who for years he had spoken to only once a month concerning business matters of the estate. The earl had done enough harm to the family name and position, and it was time for him to retire to the country and do whatever bitter old men did.

Except the earl wouldn't go. It was as if he thrived on making David's life a hell.

David stepped back into his study, his personal retreat in the house. But even amid his favorite scents of old books and beeswax polish, he could not relax.

He glanced at the precise stack of mail that awaited him, and wished he hadn't. The top letter was addressed in the scrawled, sloppy hand of his cousin, the wastrel who would inherit the Banstead estate if David did not marry and produce an heir. He was probably wheedling for an increase in his allowance again. If only David could be rid of him. He could not let his own hard work be wasted. Marriage would seem to be the only solution.

He shook his head in resignation. Twice he had asked for a woman's hand in marriage, only to find that no one of the right bloodlines would have him. He'd made the mistake of fancying himself madly in love with the first woman, and though he thought she loved him in return, she hadn't fought to keep him when her family had refused their permission to marry. It was then that David had begun to realize that his father's scandals would continue to taint his own life.

David had approached his second attempt at marriage with a much more practical mind, knowing he would never allow his heart— suspect as it was— to be involved again. He had thought he'd planned the campaign well, choosing the daughter of a family that surely could not refuse a future earl. Noble yes, but the finances were not quite what they once were. But refuse him they had, leaving David full of anger and frustration. After that last debacle two years before, he had completely retreated from society's affairs until he was ready to plan a new strategy for marriage. He was glad to avoid the kind of parties where he'd been stared at, whispered about, and made the object of an occasional dare.

But there was still the puzzle of Victoria, and what she wanted with Tom after all these years. He'd been a lonely child with an ill mother when, from his nursery window, he'd watched a little girl hide something beneath a bench in her family garden. He'd found that journal and written in it, meaning to tease her. The fictional identity he'd created of a kitchen boy suited his father's constant demand for privacy where the lower classes were concerned. It was also David's way of escaping his life. What started as a lark resulted in his only childhood friendship, since all the other boys of his age went off to school, and his mother's health would not permit him to join them.

Too late, he'd realized he could not undo his lies without hurting Victoria.

Now, ten years later, the revelation of his identity had obviously hurt her. His childhood curiosity came rushing back; he had to find out everything about her.

Victoria opened her town house door and slammed it shut behind her as her heart pounded and her breath came much too fast. She couldn't make sense of her racing thoughts, could only hear "I'm Tom," over and over again.

Oh God, she'd been such a fool.

"Miss Victoria?" Mrs. Wayneflete came into the entrance hall, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did everything go well at the shop?"

It took her a moment to remember her first reason for leaving the house today.

"Of course, Mrs. Wayneflete." How she managed to make her voice sound so normal, she couldn't explain. "Mr. Tillman gave me a fair price. I'll be down to help you with dinner shortly."

She hastily began to climb the stairs and pretended that she didn't see the housekeeper's confused frown.

In her room, Victoria closed the door and leaned against it, suddenly exhausted. She knew there were other items on her list to do today besides helping with dinner, but at just this moment, she couldn't think about anything but Tom—

Viscount Thurlow.

Why was she feeling so betrayed? They'd shared writing in a journal, not an undying commitment.

But she'd trusted him, confided in him, believed in him.

And it had all been a lie.

She'd spent six years writing her deepest secrets…to a viscount. Her face burned with embarrassment, and she couldn't stop feeling a rising tide of anger and despair.

Her last plan to save her mother winked out of existence.

Surely that was why she found herself crying. She pulled a handkerchief from a drawer and blew her nose, taking satisfaction in its unladylike loudness.

She could spend no more time dwelling on this mistake— oh, why had she even allowed impulse to guide her to his door?

It was done— no one need know of her foolish idea to marry Tom.

She washed her face in cold water, dried it, pasted on a false smile, and went down to the kitchen. If Mrs. Wayneflete noticed anything unusual, the dear woman said nothing.

It took until early afternoon the next day for David's curiosity to be satisfied. The investigator he'd hired presented his formal report at luncheon and went away paid handsomely. The money was worth it, for David never approached anything without knowing every fact.

He drank his coffee and opened the folder of papers. As he read, he eventually allowed his drink to grow cold. Victoria's mother had been widowed ten months before— which explained the mourning gown. Victoria's foolish father, once so successful in business, had let several bad decisions erase his empire. He'd left his wife and daughters with nothing but a mortgage that had since been purchased by a cousin, who was on his way home to England to claim the town house. The man had his own family, and did not want strangers— relatives though they were— to intrude on him. The Shelbys had no other family to take them in, and would be forced to support themselves somehow. He imagined shy Victoria confronted by the hard work required of a governess. She'd be overrun by the children.

And now she'd come looking for Tom. Why?

Because maybe he'd been her only childhood friend beside her sisters. Such thoughts made him uncomfortable, for he had to admit he'd considered her a friend, too. It was hard for him to remember how innocent he'd once been, before his father had ruined the family name.

As a child, the longer he had written to her, the more his fictional life had chafed at him. He'd wanted to tell her about his sick mother, about so many things that Tom the cook's son wouldn't know. But he'd been trapped in his lies. Then after his mother had died, he couldn't put into words the loss he'd felt, couldn't tell Victoria the truth, so he'd just stopped writing. He'd gone away to school after years of tutors, glad to escape from his father, whom David blamed for his mother's death.

David and Victoria had been so close as children. Would she come to him to help solve her problems?

There was a brisk knock on the dining room door, and Smith the butler entered. With a single look from Smith, both footmen bowed and left the room.

David sighed, already guessing the gist of what was to come. "What is it now, Smith?"

"The previous housekeeper"— the butler no longer said her name, as if she no longer existed— "has told the upstairs maids that they answer to the downstairs maid, and not to me. Forgive me for disturbing you with this, my lord, but my authority must not be questioned."

David sighed. "Please tell me you've placed an advertisement for a new housekeeper."

"Heavens, no, my lord. I will find the right employee without resorting to such public displays of our…problems. Now if you'd be so good as to meet with the maids."

David didn't need this. He had an important railway meeting to host soon, and since the directors' families needed to attend as a diversion, he'd been up to his elbows in party details that were normally a woman's domain. And he'd thought he could count on his housekeeper's help.

Bracing his forehead on his hand, David looked down at the report on the Shelby family. There was a housekeeper to find, a party to plan, his wastrel cousin to deal with, his father to placate— all the things a wife would take care of.

"Tom" could do nothing to help Victoria, but with one decision, David would solve everyone's problems.

He would marry Victoria Shelby.

She was not the woman his father would have picked for him, but that was almost a grim pleasure. Although she was not of noble birth, she was long bred for the duties required of her— he remembered her writing about her studies of the feminine arts. And the most important duty would be providing him with an heir to secure the family fortune with his own line.

For a moment, he felt like his father, who demanded heirs of his mother even though David had already been born. But this was not the same situation, and he could not allow himself to worry about Victoria handling a pregnancy. She was a healthy woman, one who couldn't refuse his proposal as other women had done. He didn't even feel guilty for taking advantage of her desperation. After all, it would not be difficult to be the wife of a future earl. Women lived to plan parties, didn't they?

He remembered Victoria as shy and kind, a girl who worried about hurting the servants' feelings as much as her family's. She had no great mission in life, as some women had, to reform society or negate poverty. She would cast little scandal on a family already brimming with its own. And Victoria could deal with his father and his household, leaving David free to pursue his business interests.

Everything figured out before dinner. The day was looking up. Now all he had to do was tell the bride.

Victoria had to admit that the drawing room looked splendid, with a riotous bloom of flowers from their garden in a beam of sunlight. It was a simple way to make her mother feel better. One room in the house would look as normal as possible. She'd gathered their last decent possessions: the sofa from Mama's sitting room, matching tables from a guest room, the last of her sister Louisa's collection of clocks Father had brought her from his trips to the Continent. There were still so many paintings on the wall. She allowed herself to enjoy them for a few minutes, and then she began to catalogue their worth in her household journal. Much as she loved art, they would have to be sold soon.

Mrs. Wayneflete entered the room, and in a formal voice, said, "Viscount Thurlow is here to see you, Miss Shelby."

Before Victoria could say that she wasn't at home today, the viscount himself rudely appeared behind the housekeeper. He loomed large in the doorway, so very foreign in this household of women.

It had been only a day since Victoria had seen him, but her feelings of anger had not lessened, only waited to be roused.

"Mrs. Wayneflete, do tell His Lordship that I am feeling ill today." She wished she could have left the room, but he was blocking the only exit. So she simply stared at him, waiting for his good manners to assert themselves.

They didn't.

He handed his hat and gloves to Mrs. Wayneflete. "Do leave us alone, please."

"That wouldn't be proper, my lord," the housekeeper said stiffly. "I did not realize that Miss Victoria was unwell."

Victoria felt gratitude pour through her.

Lord Thurlow looked down at Mrs. Wayneflete with a respect that Victoria didn't trust.

"Your protection of your mistress is understandable, but we are childhood friends, and I need to explain something to her."

Victoria wanted to call him a liar, but she couldn't. And she couldn't leave her dear housekeeper in the middle like this. "Mrs. Wayneflete, you may leave us, but keep the door open."

The housekeeper curtsied, shot a curious look between the viscount and Victoria, and left the room.

Victoria faced the man and waited. She didn't have to make this easy on him. His presence was still just as intimidating, though he watched her almost warily.

"We need to discuss what happened yesterday, Miss Shelby," he said, "and what happened all those years ago. I have no excuse for the lie about my identity. I was but ten years old, and can only blame my behavior on my own unhappiness at the time. I ask for your forgiveness."

Well, he wasn't going to get it.

"Thank you." She started to walk past him to show him down to the front door, but he caught her arm.

"I'm not finished yet," he said firmly.

She hardly heard his words. She was staring at his hand on her black sleeve, feeling the hot imprint of each of his fingers. He leaned over her; tall, powerful, a man who didn't know what it was like to wonder when his next meal would be.

"You may release me, Lord Thurlow. We are quite done."

His hand fell away, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "I have more I wish to say to you."

"What more could there be?" she asked, not bothering to hide her bitterness. "You have revealed your lies, and shown me what a fool I was."

"I didn't mean to— "

"Good day, Lord Thurlow. If you don't wish me to escort you to the door, then I assume you can find it on your own."

"Miss Shelby, I have a proposition that might help us both."

"I don't need your help."

"Of course you do. Your father is dead and you have no way to support yourself."

She pressed her trembling lips together. She never should have given in to impulse and gone to Banstead House. "So you already know everything about me."

"I'm sure it is not quite everything. But after you left yesterday, I was curious about your motives. I discovered your regrettable situation."

"Discovered?" she echoed.

"I hired a man to look into the situation."

"You had someone spy on me?" She didn't think she'd ever be able to breathe again. She looked about the room as if she expected to find a man hiding behind the draperies.

"Of course not," said the viscount. "He looked into public records. My sympathies to you and your family on the death of your father. I was in the north at the time."

"And you would have come to his funeral?" she said, appalled at the bitterness that filled her every word. She had sworn she wouldn't allow her desperate circumstances to change her so very much, and she regretted it. "Forgive me, my lord, that was uncalled for."

"You do not need to apologize to me," he said in the mildest voice she'd yet heard from him. "You have been through enough."

Oh God, did he know the truth about Father's death? Was he even now going to shout her deception to the world? She'd never thought that the man she'd known as Tom the cook's son would be capable of such a thing. But this was Viscount Thurlow, a man whose family was no longer respected by the ton, their own class of society.

"You are a survivor, Miss Shelby," he continued. "I am impressed at your thought to come to me."

"I didn't come to you," she said, swallowing back her relief. Surely he would have said something if he knew her secret. "I came for Tom's help."

"But I'm Tom, and I have a proposition for you. Marry me."

Victoria stared up at the viscount, feeling the blood drain from her face. Surely he was making a terrible joke at her expense. She looked for a sly expression, but found none. He was watching her impassively, and there was nothing to indicate that he was even attracted to her.

Because, of course, he wasn't. He had his own plans, just as she did. Stepping away, she put down her notebook and really looked at him: a successful, handsome nobleman asking a poor, maidenly commoner to marry him.

A buried part of her was weak enough to want to shout "Yes!" with terrifying relief. Thank goodness another, stronger part of her surfaced. "My lord, this is terribly presumptuous on your part. We don't even know one another."

"Don't we?"

His voice had deepened, softened, and for a moment she thought back longingly to lazy summer days spent reading his words and laughing, so anxious to write back. She stared into the viscount's eyes, looking for the man she thought she'd known. But he was a stranger.

"No, I don't know you," she answered firmly. "You may have written to me, but since you pretended to be someone else, everything you wrote is suspect."

"My true identity was a secret, but that did not mean everything was a lie."

He looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn't used to needing persuasion to get his way.

"But I'll never be able to believe that, will I?" Oh, where did her words spring from? In the end, what would she accomplish by this— driving away a rich viscount who'd asked to marry her? How could she let her pride stand in the way of her mother's empty belly— of the woman's very sanity? But if Victoria married him, how would her own name be tainted?

With a heavy sigh, she turned away from him and sat down in a straight-backed chair. She rubbed her arms as if she might never be warm again.

Without looking at him, she said, "Tell me why you wish to marry me— and don't say that you're rescuing me. We both know that that is not the reason."

"It's part of the reason. You came to me for help, and I'm offering it."

At least he didn't know that she'd been forward enough to come looking for a husband. "You can have any woman you want, my lord, and they would bring along fine dowries."

"I don't need money," he said shortly.

She studied him, trying to step away from her emotions to see what he was hiding. But he was too good at wearing a mask. After all, this was the man who'd lied about his identity from the time he was ten.

She had to make certain of his motives. "Then you need prestige, a woman who can bring you connections."

"I don't need that, either. I remember everything you wrote to me about your training as a gentleman's daughter. You will make a fine wife."

A fine wife. What did that mean? And most of Lord Thurlow's class would not call her father a gentleman. He was their banker, their trusted confidant where their finances were concerned— but not a gentleman, because he had accepted money for his services.

She tried to remember what girlish musings about her wifely education could have possibly impressed Tom— Lord Thurlow— but her thoughts were too jumbled with confusion. She needed to understandwhy before she accepted his offer of marriage.

Because, of course, she couldn't refuse. She could tell herself to be wary of his reputation, but in the end rumors mattered little compared to a harsh life in poverty.

"I need more of an explanation from you, my lord," she said simply, too tired for subterfuge. "Why me?"

"Because I need a wife, and you need a husband," he said briskly, beginning to pace as if he didn't want to truly see her. "You came to Tom because you thought the two of you got on decently together, am I right?"

She gave a reluctant nod.

"And I think the same thing. Yes, I could choose some pretty chit fresh into her first Season, and I might be lucky— or not. They seem so very young lately. But with you— "

He paused, and she thought she almost detected a hesitation in his gait.

"But with you," he continued smoothly, "I have a better idea of the woman I'd be marrying."

"Do you, my lord? We have never spoken, and haven't written to each other in ten years. You think you know me so well?"

"I would never presume such a thing, Miss Shelby. But I know the kind of girl you were, and that is enough for me."

But she wasn't that girl anymore. Life had changed her. It had certainly changed him. But in what ways?

Victoria's mother chose that moment to enter the drawing room, draped in a black gown that hung on her thinner frame. Mama stared between her daughter and the viscount in obvious confusion. Victoria's resignation faded into tender worry. She rose and took the woman's cold hand in hers.

"Hello, Mama. I'm so glad you came. I'd like to introduce you to our neighbor, Lord Thurlow. Lord Thurlow, my mother, Mrs. Lavinia Shelby."

Confusion clouded her mother's eyes, but then a tentative smile touched her pale lips. "Are you the little boy from next door?"

Victoria smothered a gasp, staring at her mother in shock. Had Mama read Victoria's journal all those years ago?

Lord Thurlow bowed over Mama's hand, watching the older woman as if he sensed nothing amiss. "I am, Mrs. Shelby. Have we met?"

"Once on the street my bonnet blew away, and you ran and fetched it for me."

"Ah, I see," he said. "Forgive me for not remembering."

"You were quite young, but very polite."

She looked around, and Victoria saw her gaze take in the moved furniture, and regretted the confusion it caused.

"I don't believe you've come to call before," Mama said.

Victoria frowned at the viscount, warning him not to speak of what was not yet settled between them.

"And it was past time I did visit," he said. "We are neighbors, after all, and such bonds carry a certain…weight."

Victoria didn't know what he was implying, and it was obvious her mother was even more confused. Victoria slipped her arm into Mama's, and she almost flinched away. The rejection stung, and Victoria felt the unwanted start of tears. She wouldn't cry in front of Lord Thurlow.

Victoria guided her to the door. "Why don't you find Mrs. Wayneflete, Mama? I understand that she wanted your opinion about the dinner menu."

Without even acknowledging the viscount, her mother wandered out of the room. Victoria turned and looked at Lord Thurlow, waiting for what he would say. Would he change his mind and leave her to poverty? Or would he stay, which was frightening in itself?

Suddenly she couldn't stop thinking of the intimacy involved in a marriage. She would have to let him…touch her.

He clasped his hands behind his back. "I'm sorry to see how difficult your father's death has been on your mother."

He was watching her too closely, and it unnerved her. She turned away, waiting for his rejection.

"Our marriage would help your mother, too," he said.

She let out a deep sigh. "Why are you trying so hard to convince me to marry you, my lord? You know how difficult it would be for me to refuse. Tell me what you require of me as your wife."

He'd begun pacing again; she could feel his movement behind her. It made it easier for her to turn and face him.

"My requirements are quite simple, Miss Shelby. You will run my household, and the household of my family seat, where we'll spend several months of each year. I shall need an heir"— that part was rather rushed— "and of course, I would need my wife to be above scandal at all times."

Inside a coldness began to grow within her.

"Scandal, my lord?" she said, trying to sound unperturbed.

"Yes. I have a career in the House of Commons— and someday the House of Lords— to think about. Members listen to the opinion of a man they can respect."

He didn't quite meet her eyes, as if he wasn't telling her everything. Was that what he longed for, respect? What had his father done to make the name of Banstead something that harmed even the next generation?

Yet she could not find fault with Lord Thurlow's honesty, when her own was suspect. What would he do if he discovered that her father, a man who was well known within the circles of the ton, had killed himself, and that she and her family had hidden the truth?

But she would live with the guilt of her crime, rather than ruin this opportunity to keep her mother safe.