OUNTED UPON OLD THUNDER, a swaybacked, evil-tempered gelding who was older than she was and who had belonged to her grandfather, Alexandra plodded down the rutted road toward the OTooles' sprawling cottage, her rifle in a scabbard beside her, her gaze sweeping the side of the road in hopes of spying some small game to shoot on the way to Mary Ellen's. Not that there was much chance of surprising any animal this afternoon, for the long lance tucked under her arm clanked noisily against the breastplate she wore and banged against the shield she carried.

Despite her unhappy confrontation with her mother, Alex's spirits rose, buoyed up by the glorious spring day and the same sense of excited expectation she'd tried to describe to Sarah.

Down in the valley on her left and in the woods on her right, spring flowers had burst into bloom, filling her eyes and nose with their rainbow colors and delicious scent. On the outskirts of the village there was a small inn, and Alexandra, who knew everyone within the eight-mile circle that encompassed her entire world, shoved the visor of her helmet up and waved gaily at Mr. Tilson, the proprietor. "Good day, Mr. Tilson," she called.

"Good day to you, Miss Alex," he called back.

Mary Ellen O'Toole and her six brothers were outside the OTooles' rambling cottage, a rollicking game of knights-of-yore already in full progress in their yard. "Come on, Alexandra," fourteen-year-old Tom called from atop his father's ancient horse. "It's time for a joust."

"No, let's duel first," the thirteen-year-old argued, brandishing an old saber. "I'll best you this time, Alex. I've been practicing day and night."

Laughing, Alexandra awkwardly dismounted and hugged Mary Ellen, then both girls threw themselves into the games, which were a ritual reenacted on each of the seven O'Toole children's birthday.

The afternoon and evening passed in exuberant games, cheerful rivalry, and the convivial laughter of a large family gathered together—something that Alexandra, an only child, had always longed to be part of.

By the time she was on her way home, she was happily exhausted and nearly groaning from the quantity of hearty food she'd eaten at the insistence of kindly Mrs. O'Toole.

Lulled by the steady clip-clop of old Thunder's hooves on the dusty road, Alexandra let her body sway in rhythm with the horse's gentle motion, her heavy eyelids drooping with fatigue. Left with no other way to bring her suit of armor back home, Alexandra was wearing it, but it made her uncomfortably warm, which made her feel even drowsier.

As she passed the inn and turned old Thunder onto the wide path that led through the woods and intersected the main road again a mile away, she noticed that several horses were tied in the innyard and the lamp in the window was still lit. Masculine voices, raised in lusty song, drifted through the open window to her. Overhead the branches of the oak trees met, swaying in the spring night, casting eerie shadows on the path as they blotted out the moon.

It was late, Alexandra knew, but she didn't urge her mount to quicken its walking pace. In the first place, Thunder was past twenty, and in the second, she wanted to be sure that Squire and Mrs. Helmsley had departed by the time she arrived.

The visor of her helmet abruptly clanked down across her face again, and Alexandra sighed with irritation, longing to take the heavy helmet off and carry it Deciding that Thunder was unlikely to feel either the energy or the inclination to try to run off with her, particularly after his exhausting day at the "lists," Alexandra pulled him to a stop, then let go of his reins and transferred the heavy shield she was carrying to her left hand. Intending to take off the helmet and carry it in the crook of her right arm, she reached up to pull the helmet off, then halted, her attention suddenly drawn to the muffled, unidentifiable sounds coming from the perimeter of the woods, a quarter of a mile ahead near the road.

Frowning slightly, wondering if she was about to encounter a wild boar, or a less threatening—perhaps edible—species of game, she withdrew her rifle from its scabbard as quietly as her armor would allow.

Suddenly the serenity of the night was shattered by the explosion of a gunshot, and then another. Before Alexandra had time to react, old Thunder bolted in wild-eyed confusion through the thinning woods—galloping blindly, straight toward the source of the shots, his bridle reins flicking the ground beside his flying hooves, with Alexandra's legs clamped in a death grip against his sides.

The bandit's head jerked toward the eruption of clanking metal from the woods beside them, and Jordan Townsende tore his gaze from the deadly hole at the end of the pistol that the second bandit was aiming straight at his chest. The sight that greeted him made him doubt his eyesight. Charging out of the woods to his rescue atop a swaybacked nag was a knight in armor with his visor pulled down, a shield at the ready in one hand and a rifle in his other.

Alexandra stifled a scream as she crashed out of the woods and catapulted straight into the midst of a moonlit scene more sinister than any of her worst nightmares: A coachman was lying wounded in the road beside a coach, and two bandits with red handkerchiefs concealing their faces were holding a tall man at gunpoint. The second bandit turned as Alexandra clattered down on them—and pointed his gun straight at her.

There was no time to think, only to react. Tightening her grip on her rifle and unconsciously counting on the protection of her shield and breastplate against the inevitable bullet, Alexandra leaned to the right, intending to launch herself at the bandit and knock him to the ground, but at that moment his gun exploded.

In a frenzy of terror, Thunder stumbled and lost his balance, pitching Alexandra helplessly through the air to land in a heap of rusty metal atop the second bandit. The impact nearly dislodged her helmet, sent her rifle skidding uselessly into the road, and knocked her half-unconscious.

Unfortunately, the bandit recovered before Alexandra's head stopped reeling. "What the bloody hell—" he grunted and, with a mighty shove, pushed her limp body off him and delivered a vicious kick to her side before running over to help his accomplice, who was now engaged in a physical struggle with their tall victim for possession of the pistol.

In a blur of panic and pain, Alexandra saw both bandits pounce on the tall man, and she heaved herself forward with a strength born of sheer terror—crawling, scrambling, and clanking toward the dark gleaming shaft of her rifle lying on the rutted road. Just as her hand closed around the stock of her rifle, she saw the tall man wrest the pistol from the thin bandit and shoot him, then crouch and whirl, pointing his pistol straight at the other one.

Mesmerized by the terrible deadly grace of the tall man's swift maneuver, Alexandra watched him coldly and calmly level the gun at the second assailant. Still sprawled on her stomach, she closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But there was only the loud click of an empty gun.

"You poor, stupid bastard," the bandit said with an evil laugh and lazily reached inside his shirt, pulling out his own pistol. "Do you think I'da let yer grab that second gun off the ground if n I didn' know fer sure it was empty? You're going to die real slow for killing me brother. It takes a long time for a man to die when he's been shot in the stomach—"

Her mind screaming with fear, Alexandra rolled onto her side, rammed the bolt of her rifle into place and sighted down the barrel. When the bandit raised his pistol, she fired,. The powerful recoil slammed her onto her back, knocking the air from her chest. When she turned her head in the dirt and opened her eyes, the bandit was lying in a shaft of moonlight, the side of his head blown off.

She hadn't merely wounded him as she'd hoped to do, she had killed him. A groan of terror and anguish rose in her throat and tore from her constricted chest, and then the world began to spin, slowly at first, than faster as she watched the tall man kick over the bandit she'd killed, then start toward her, his long-legged gait swift, menacing somehow… The world spun faster, carrying her down through a black hole. For the first time in her life, Alexandra fainted.

Jordan crouched down beside the fallen knight, his hands rough in his urgent haste to tug off the helmet so he could assess the injuries to the inhabitant of the suit of armor. "Quick, Grimm!" he called over to his coachman, who was staggering to his feet, recovering from the bandit's blow which had knocked him unconscious. "Give me a hand with this damned armor."

"Is he hurt, your grace?" Grimm said, rushing over to his master's side and kneeling down.

"Obviously," Jordan said brusquely, wincing at the cut on the left side of the small face.

"He wasn't shot, was he?"

"I don't think so. Hold his head—gently, dammit!—while I pull this monstrosity off him." Tossing the helmet aside, Jordan pulled off the breastplate. "God, what an absurd costume," he uttered, but his voice was worried as he surveyed the limp body before him, looking for a bullet wound or a sign of blood in the moonlight. "It's too dark to tell where he's hurt. Turn the coach around and we'll take him to the inn we passed a few miles back. Someone there, will be bound to know who his parents are, as well as the direction of the nearest doctor." Reaching down, Jordan gently grasped his young rescuer under the arms, shocked to discover how light in weight the lad beneath the armor was. "He's just a boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen," Jordan said, his voice gruff with guilt at the harm he had evidently caused the courageous youth who had charged to his rescue. Effortlessly scooping the child into his arms, he carried him to his coach.

Jordan's arrival at the inn with an unconscious Alexandra in his arms caused a furor of lewd comments and bawdy suggestions from the occupants of the common room who, because of the lateness of the hour, were deeply in their cups.

With the supreme indifference of the true aristocrat toward lesser mortals, Jordan ignored the raised voices and stalked toward the barmaid. "Show me to your best room and then send the innkeeper to me at once."

The barmaid glanced from the back of Alexandra's curly dark head to the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman and scurried off to carry out all his commands in the order they had been given, beginning with the inn's finest bedchamber.

Gentry, Jordan laid the lad upon the bed and unfastened the laces at the neck of the boy's shirt The boy groaned, his eyelids fluttered open, and Jordan found himself staring into an amazingly large pair of eyes the startling color of liquid aquamarines, fringed with absurdly long, curly lashes—eyes that were gazing back at him in disoriented bewilderment. Smiling reassuringly, Jordan said gently, "Welcome back to the world, Galahad."

"Where—" Alexandra wet her parched lips, her voice an unfamiliar croak. Clearing her throat, she tried again and managed little more than a hoarse, thready whisper. "Where am I?"

"You're at an inn near where you were hurt."

The gory details came flooding back, and Alexandra felt hot tears burn the backs of her eyes. "I killed him. Ikilled that man," she choked.

"And saved two lives by doing it—mine and my coachman's."

In her dazed state, Alexandra seized on that reassurance and clung to it for all the comfort it offered. Not able to focus perfectly yet, she watched as if from a distance as he began running his hands up and down her legs. No hands but her mother's had ever touched her person—and that not for years and years. Alexandra found the sensation both faintly pleasant and oddly disturbing, but when the man's hands began gently probing at her lower rib cage, she gasped and clutched his thick wrists. "Sir!" she croaked desperately. "What are you doing?"

Jordan's gaze flicked to the slender fingers gripping his wrists with a strength that seemed born of fear. "I'm looking for broken bones, stripling. I've sent for a doctor and the innkeeper. Although, since you're awake now, you can tell me yourself who you are and where to locate the nearest physician."

Alarmed and indignant at the exorbitant cost of a physician's services, Alex burst out desperately, "Do you have any idea how much a leech charges nowadays?"

Jordan stared down at the pale lad with the amazing eyes and felt a deep stirring of compassion mingled with admiration—a combination of emotions that was completely foreign to him. "You incurred these injuries on my behalf. Naturally, I'll stand good for the charges."

He smiled then, and Alexandra felt the last vestiges of haziness abruptly clear from her mind. Smiling down at her was the largest and unquestionably the most handsome male she had ever seen, ever imagined. His eyes were the silver-grey of satin and steel, his shoulders very wide, his baritone voice rich and compelling. In contrast to his tanned face, his teeth were startlingly white, and although rugged masculine strength was carved into the tough line of his jaw and chin, his touch was gentle, and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes to testify to his sense of humor.

Looking up at the giant who loomed above her, she felt very small and fragile. Oddly, she also felt safe. Safer than she had felt in three years. Loosening her grip on his hands, she raised her own hand and touched her fingers to a cut on his chin. "You've been hurt, too," she said, smiling shyly at him.

Jordan caught his breath at the unexpected glamour of the lad's glowing smile and froze in amazement when he felt an odd, inner tingle from the boy's touch. A boy's touch. Brusquely shaking off the small hand, he wondered grimly if his boredom with life's ordinary diversions was turning him into some sort of perverted dilettante. "You haven't yet told me your name," he said, his tone deliberately cool as he began exploring the boy's lower ribcage, watching his small face for any sign of pain.

Alexandra opened her mouth to give her name, but gave a shriek of outraged panic instead when he suddenly slid his hands onto her breasts.

Jordan jerked his hands away as if they'd been scorched. "You're a girl!"

"I can't help it!" Alexandra flung back, stung by the sharp accusation in his voice.

The absurdity of their exchanged words struck them both at the same time: Jordan's black scowl gave way to a sudden grin and Alexandra started to laugh. And that was how Mrs. Tilson, the innkeeper's wife, found them—both on the bed, laughing, the man's hands arrested a few inches above Miss Alexandra Lawrence's gaping shirt and bosom.

"Alexandra Lawrence!" she exploded, barging into the room like a battleship under full sail, sparks shooting from her eyes as they leveled on the man's hands above Alexandra's open shirt. "What is the meaning of this!"

Alexandra was blessedly oblivious to the portent of what Mrs. Tilson was seeing and thinking, but Jordan was not, and he found it nauseating that this woman's evil mind could apparently accuse a young girl of no more than thirteen years of collaborating in her own moral demise. His features hardened and there was a distinct frost in his clipped, authoritative voice. "Miss Lawrence was hurt in an accident just south of here on the road. Send for a physician."

"No, do not, Mrs. Tilson," Alexandra said and lurched into a sitting position despite her swimming senses. "I'm perfectly well and wish to go home."

Jordan spoke to the suspicious woman in a curt, commanding voice. "In that case, I'll take her home, and you can direct the physician to the bend in the road a few miles south of here. There, he'll find two thugs who are beyond needing his skill, but he can ensure they're properly disposed of." Reaching into his pocket, Jordan withdrew a card with his name engraved on it beneath a small gold crest. "I'll return here to answer any questions he may have, once I've taken Miss Lawrence to her family."

Mrs. Tilson muttered something scathing under her breath about bandits and debauchery, snatched the card from his hand, glowered at Alexandra's unbuttoned shirt, and marched out.

"You seemed surprised—about my being a girl, I mean," Alexandra ventured uncertainly.

"Frankly, this has been a night of surprises," Jordan replied, dismissing Mrs. Tilson from his mind and turning his attention to Alexandra. "Would I be prying if I were to ask you what you were doing rigged out in that suit of armor?"

Alexandra slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. The room swayed. "I can walk," she protested when the man reached out to lift her into his arms.

"But I'd prefer to carry you," Jordan said firmly and did exactly that. Alexandra smiled inwardly at the blithe way he stalked through the common room, serenely indifferent to the staring villagers, carrying in his arms a disheveled, dusty girl clad in breeches and shirtsleeves.

Once he had set her gently onto the deep, luxurious squabs of his coach and settled in across from her, however, her amusement vanished. Soon, she realized, they would pass by the gruesome scene she'd partially caused. "I took a man's life," she said in a tortured whisper as the coach headed toward the dreaded bend. "I will never forgive myself."

"I would never forgive you if you hadn't," Jordan said with a teasing smile in his voice. In the glow of the lighted coach lamps, huge aqua eyes brimming with tears lifted to his face, searching if, silently beseeching him for more comfort, and Jordan responded automatically. Reaching forward, he lifted her off the seat and onto his lap, cradling her in his arms like the distraught child she was. "It was a very brave thing you did," he murmured into the soft, dusky curls that brushed his cheek.

Alexandra drew in a shuddering breath and shook her head, unknowingly rubbing her cheek against his chest "I wasn't brave, I was simply too frightened to run away like a sensible person."

Holding the trusting child in his arms, Jordan was startled by the unprecedented thought that he might like to have a child of his own to hold someday. There was something profoundly touching about the way this little girl was snuggled against him, trusting him. Remembering that fetching little girls inevitably become spoiled young women, he promptly discarded the notion. "Why were you wearing that old suit of armor?" he asked for the second time that night

Alexandra explained about the jousts, which were a ritual whenever one of the O'Toole children had a birthday, then she made him repeatedly laugh aloud by describing some of her foibles and triumphs during today's lists.

"Don't people outside of Morsham have jousts and such? I always assumed people were the same everywhere, although I don't know it for certain, since I've never been beyond Morsham. I doubt if I ever will."

Jordan was shocked into momentary silence. In his own wide circle of acquaintances, everyone traveled everywhere, and often. It was hard to accept that this bright child would never see any place beyond this godforsaken tiny village on the edge of nowhere. He glanced down at her shadowy face and found her watching him with friendly interest, rather than the deferential awe he was accustomed to. Inwardly he grinned at the image of uninhibited peasant children throwing themselves into jousts. How different their childhood must be from that of the children of the nobility. Like himself, they were all raised by governesses, ruled by tutors, admonished to be clean and neat at all times, and constantly reminded to act like the superior beings they were born to be. Perhaps children who grew up in remote places like this were better and different—guileless and courageous and unaffected, as Alexandra was. Based on the life Alexandra described to him, he wondered if perhaps peasant children were the lucky ones, after all. Peasant children? It dawned on him that there was nothing of the rough peasant in this child's cultured speech.

"Why did your coachman call you 'your grace'?" she asked, smiling, and a dimple appeared in her cheek.

Jordan jerked his eyes away from the fetching little dent. "That is how dukes are generally addressed."

"Dukes?" Alexandra echoed, disappointed by the discovery that this handsome stranger obviously dwelled in a world far beyond her reach and would therefore vanish from her life forever. "Are you truly a duke?"

"I'm afraid so," he answered, noting her crestfallen reaction. "Are you disappointed?"

"A little," she floored him by replying. "What do people call you? Besides Duke, I mean?"

"At least a dozen names," he said, both amused and confused by her genuine, unguarded reactions. "Most people call me Hawthorne, or Hawk. My close friends call me by my given name, Jordan."

"Hawk suits you," she remarked, but her agile mind had already leapt ahead to an important conclusion. "Do you suppose those bandits specifically chose you to rob because you're a duke? I mean they took a terrible risk in accosting you on the road not far from an inn."

"Greed is a powerful motivation for risk," Jordan replied.

Alexandra nodded her agreement and softly quoted," 'There is no fire like passion, no shark like hatred, no torrent like greed.' "

In blank amazement, Jordan stared at her. "What did you say?"

"I didn't say that, Buddha did," Alexandra explained.

"I'm familiar with the quotation," Jordan said, recovering his composure with an effort. "I'm merely surprised that you are familiar with it." He saw a faint light coming from a shadowy house directly ahead and assumed the home was hers. "Alexandra," he said quickly and sternly as they neared the house, "you must never feel guilty about what you did tonight. You have nothing whatever to feel guilty about."

She looked at him with a soft smile, but as the coach drew up in the rutted drive of a large, run-down house, Alexandra suddenly exclaimed, "Oh no!"

Her heart sank as she beheld the squire's shiny carriage and fancy mare, which were still tied near the front door. She had so hoped they'd be well gone by now.

The duke's coachman opened the door and let down the stairs, but when Alexandra attempted to follow the duke out of the coach, he reached in and scooped her into his arms. "I'm certain I can walk," she protested.

His lazy, intimate smile made her catch her breath as he said, "It's embarrassing in the extreme for a man of my dimensions to be rescued by a slip of a girl, even one wearing a suit of armor. For the sake of my wounded ego, you'll have to permit me to be gallant now."

"Very well," Alexandra agreed with a resigned chuckle. "Who am I to crush the ego of a noble duke?"

Jordan scarcely heard her, his sweeping glance was registering the overgrown lawns surrounding the house, the broken shutters hanging askew at the windows, and all the other signs of a house that was sadly in need of repair. It was not the humble cottage he'd expected to find; instead it was an old, eerie, neglected place, which the inhabitants could obviously not afford to keep up. Shifting Alexandra's weight against his left arm and leg, he raised his right hand and knocked upon the door, noting the peeling paint.

When no one answered, Alexandra volunteered, "I'm afraid you'll have to knock more loudly. Penrose is quite deaf, you see, although he's much too proud to admit it."

"Who," Jordan said, rapping more loudly upon the heavy door, "is Penrose?"

"Our butler. When Papa died, I had to discharge the staff, but Penrose and Filbert were too old and infirm to find new employment. They had nowhere to go, so they remained here and agreed to work in return for only lodging and food. Penrose does the cooking, too, and helps with the cleaning."

"How very odd," Jordan murmured the thought aloud, waiting for the door to be opened.

In the light of the lamp above the door, her piquant face was turned up to him in laughing curiosity. "What do you find 'odd'?"

"The idea of a deaf butler."

"Then you will surely find Filbert even more of an oddity."

"I doubt that," Jordan said dryly. "Who is Filbert?"

"Our footman."

"Dare I ask what his infirmity is?"

"He's shortsighted," she provided ingenuously. "So much so that only last week he mistook a wall for a door and walked into it."

To his horror, Jordan felt laughter welling up inside him. Trying to spare her pride, he said as solemnly as possible, "A deaf butler and a blind footman… How very—ah—unconventional."

"Yes, it is, isn't it," she agreed almost proudly. "But then, I shouldn't like to be conventional." With a jaunty smile, she quoted," 'Conventionality is the refuge of a stagnant mind.' "

Jordan raised his fist and pounded so hard she could hear the sound thunder through the inside of the house, but his puzzled gaze was riveted on her laughing face. "Who said that about conventionality?" he asked blankly.

"I did," she admitted impenitently. "I made it up."

"What an impertinent little baggage you are," he said, grinning, and before he realized what he was doing, he started to press an affectionate, paternal kiss on her forehead. He checked the impulse as the door was flung open by a white-haired Penrose, who glared indignantly at Jordan and said, "There is no need to hammer on the door like you're trying to waken the dead, sir! No one in this house is deaf!"

Stunned into momentary silence by this dressing-down from a mere butler and, moreover, one whose uniform was faded and threadbare, Jordan opened his mouth to give the servant the blistering setdown he richly deserved, but the old man had just realized that it was Alexandra whom Jordan held, and that there was a bruise on her jaw. "What have you done to Miss Alexandra?!" the servant demanded in a furious hiss, and reached out his feeble arms with the obvious intention of snatching Alexandra into them.

"Take me to Mrs. Lawrence," Jordan ordered curtly, ignoring the butler's gesture. "I said," Jordan enunciated more loudly when the servant seemed not to hear, "take us to Mrs. Lawrence at once."

Penrose glowered. "I heard you the first time," he declared irately, turning to do as he was bidden. "The dead could hear you…" he muttered as he walked off.

The faces that turned to stare at them in the drawing room were beyond Alexandra's worst imaginings. Her mother jumped up with a startled scream; the stout squire and his stouter wife both leaned forward in their chairs, intent, avidly curious—staring at Alexandra's shirt, which was gaping open nearly to her breasts.

"What happened?" Mrs. Lawrence burst out. "Alexandra, your face—dear God, what has happened?"

"Your daughter saved my life, Mrs. Lawrence, but in the process, she suffered a blow to her face. I assure you it looks much more serious than it really is."

"Please put me down," Alexandra said urgently, for her mother seemed about to swoon. When Jordan complied, she decided to belatedly make the introductions and thus restore some semblance of decorum to the atmosphere. "Mother," she said in a quiet, reassuring voice, "this is the Duke of Hawthorne." Despite her mother's gasp, Alexandra continued in a polite, matter-of-fact tone, "I came upon him when he and his coachman had been set upon by bandits and I—I shot one of them." Turning to Jordan, she said, "Your grace, this is my mother, Mrs. Lawrence."

Silence reigned complete. Mrs. Lawrence seemed to be struck dumb and the squire and his wife continued to gape, their mouths slack. Embarrassed by the total silence in the room, Alexandra turned with a bright relieved smile as Uncle Monty tottered into the room, swaying slightly, his glassy eyes testifying to an evening spent secretly imbibing his forbidden Madeira. "Uncle Monty," she said a little desperately, "I've brought home a guest. This is the Duke of Hawthorne."

Uncle Monty leaned heavily on his ivory-handled cane and blinked twice, trying to focus on the face of their guest. "Good God!" he exclaimed in sudden shock. "It is Hawthorne, by Jove! It truly is." Belatedly recalling his manners, he executed a clumsy bow and said in a hearty, ingratiating voice, "Sir Montague Marsh, your grace, at your service."

Alexandra, who was embarrassed only by the awkwardness of the prolonged silences and not by her shabby house, ancient servants, or peculiarly behaving relatives, smiled brightly at Jordan, then inclined her head toward Filbert who was shuffling into the room bearing a tea tray. Ignoring the fact that she was probably committing a grave social faux pas by introducing a nobleman to a mere footman, she said sweetly, "And this is Filbert, who takes care of everything which Penrose does not Filbert, this is the Duke of Hawthorne."

Filbert glanced up in the act of putting the tea tray on a table and squinted nearsightedly over his shoulder at Uncle Monty. "How do," he said to the wrong man and Alexandra saw the duke's lips twitch.

"Would you care to stay for tea?" she asked the duke, studying the suspicious glimmer of laughter in his grey eyes.

He smiled, but shook his head without a trace of regret. "I cannot, moppet I've a long journey ahead of me and before I can resume it, I will have to return to the inn and meet with the authorities. They will require some sort of explanation for tonight's debacle." Directing a brief nod of farewell at his watchful audience, Jordan looked down at the beguiling face turned up to his. "Would you see me out?" he invited.

Alexandra nodded and led him to the front door, ignoring the babble of voices that erupted behind them in the drawing room, where the squire's wife was saying in a shrill voice, "What did he mean 'back to the inn'? Surely, Mrs. Lawrence, he cannot possibly have meant Alexandra was there with—"

In the hallway, the duke paused and gazed down at Alexandra with a warmth in his grey eyes that made her entire body feel overheated. And when he lifted his hand and laid it tenderly against her bruised jaw, her pulse leapt in her throat. "Where—where do you go on your journey?" she asked, trying to delay his leavetaking.

"To Rosemeade."

"What is that?"

"My grandmother's small country estate. She prefers to spend most of her time there because she thinks the house 'cozy.' "

"Oh," Alexandra said, finding it quite difficult to speak or breathe because his fingertips were now deliciously sliding over her cheek, and he was looking at her in a way that struck her as being almost reverent.

"I'll never forget you, poppet," he said, his voice low and husky as he bent down and pressed his warm lips to her forehead. "Don't let anyone change you. Stay exactly the way you are."

When he left, Alexandra stood stock still, reeling from the kiss that seemed branded into her forehead.

It did not occur to her that she might have just fallen under the spell of a man who automatically used his voice and smile to charm and disarm. Practiced seducers were beyond the realm of her experience.

Dishonest rakes and practiced seducers were not, however, beyond the experience of Mrs. Lawrence, who had fallen victim to just such a treacherous charmer when she was scarcely older than Alexandra. Like the Duke of Hawthorne, her husband had been outrageously handsome, with suave manners, beautiful clothes, and absolutely no scruples.

Which was why, when Alexandra awakened the next morning, it was to see her mother storming into her room, her voice vibrating with fury. "Alexandra, wake up this instant!"

Alexandra wriggled into a sitting position and pushed her curly hair out of her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong," her mother said, and Alexandra was shocked at the virulent rage emanating from her mother. "We've had four visitors this morning, beginning with the innkeeper's wife, who informed me you shared a bedroom there with that low, conniving seducer of innocents last night. The next two visitors were curiosity seekers. The fourth visitor," she enunciated in a voice shaking with pent-up wrath and tears, "was the squire, who told me that, because of your scandalous behavior last night, your state of undress, and your general lack of modesty and sense, he now considers you beyond the bounds of a fit wife for his son or for any other self-respecting man."

When Alexandra merely stared at her in visible relief, Mrs. Lawrence lost control. She grabbed Alexandra by the shoulders and shook her. "Do you have any idea what you've done," she screamed. "Do you? Then I'll tell you—you've disgraced yourself beyond recall. Gossip has stretched everywhere, and people are talking about you as if you were a slut. You were seen being carried into an inn in a state of undress and you occupied a bedroom alone with a man. You were carried out of that same inn a half hour later by the same man. Do you know what everyone thinks?"

"That I was tired and needed to rest?" Alexandra suggested sensibly, more alarmed by her mother's pallor than her words.

"You fool! You're a bigger fool than I ever was. No decent man will have you now."

"Mama," Alexandra said with firm quiet, trying to reverse their roles as she had needed to do so often in the past three years, "calm yourself."

"Don't you dare use that condescending tone on me, miss!" her mother shouted, her face only inches from Alexandra's. "Did that man touch you?"

Growing increasingly alarmed by her mother's hysteria, Alexandra said matter-of-factly, "You know he did. You saw him carry me in here and—"

"Not that way!" Mrs. Lawrence cried, positively shaking with rage. "Did he put his hands on you? Did he kissyou? Answer me, Alexandra!"

Alexandra actually considered defying the principles her grandfather had ingrained in her, but before she could open her mouth to lie, her mother had already spotted the telltale flush blooming brightly in her cheeks.

"He did, didn't he!" she screamed. "The answer is written all over your face." Mrs. Lawrence reared back and stood up, pacing frantically back and forth in front of Alexandra's bed. Alexandra had heard of women who became so overwrought that they tore at their own hair, and her mother looked on the verge of doing just that.

Swiftly climbing out of bed, she put her hand out to stop her mother's aimless pacing. "Mama, please don't upset yourself like this. Please don't. The duke and I did nothing wrong."

Her mother almost ground her teeth in rage. "You may not understand that what you did was wrong, but that low, conniving, corrupt degenerate knew it. He knew. He waltzed in here as bold as brass, knowing you were too naive to understand what he'd done. God, how I hate men!"

Without warning, she pulled Alexandra into her arms in a fierce hug. "I'm not the blind fool I used to be. I let your father use us for his own amusement and then discard us, but I'll not let Hawthorne do that to us. He ruined you, and I'll make him pay, you'll see. Ill force him to do what's right."

"Mama, please!" Alexandra burst out, pulling free of her mother's suffocating embrace. "He did nothing wrong, not really. He only touched my limbs, looking for broken bones, and bade me farewell by kissing my forehead! That can't be wrong."

"He destroyed your reputation by taking you to a public inn. He's ruined any chance of your making a decent marriage. No other man will have you now. From this day forward, wherever you go in the village, scandal will follow you. For that he must pay, and dearly. When he returned to the inn last night, he gave the doctor his direction. We shall go after him and demand justice."

"No!" Alexandra cried, but her mother was deaf to all but her own inner voice that had been screaming for vengeance these three long years.

"I've no doubt he'll be expecting us to call," she continued bitterly, ignoring Alexandra's pleas, "now that we've learned the whole truth of last night's debacle."