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breezily, “Oh, I’ve been ruined before. As painful as it was, I lived through it.”
    “You should not suffer because of me.” Lucien’s warm voice sounded at her ear. “Never again, Bella mia . Never again.”
    She turned and found herself drowning in his sea-green eyes. She knew she should speak, say something cutting. After all, this man had taken her heart and discarded her
    as if she were of no more importance than a wrinkled cra- vat. His heartless actions had hurt her with a pain that had been as soul-deep as it had been long in duration. She could still feel the sting of his rejection.
    At the time, she had believed she would never forgive him. She had dreamed of the day when she would have the chance to face him. But the words she had imagined her- self saying for so long fled, and all she could do was stare at him: at his incredible eyes, the smooth, golden line of his face, the sensual shape of his mouth.
    “So beautiful,” Lucien murmured. As if sensing her longing, he lifted a hand to her cheek. His eyes glistened with hunger as he lowered his mouth to hers.
    Arabella was lost at the first touch of his lips. Once again she was sixteen, pledging her love to the only man who had lifted her senses to such heights. Waves of desire raced through her, stealing her breath and tangling her in feelings she had no strength to deny.
    A slow heat began to build inside her. She gripped him closer, and felt his groan rumble deep in his chest.
    Abruptly, Lucien’s mouth slipped away and he fell back against the seat.
    Arabella stared down at him.
    Lucien Devereaux, the dashing and dangerous Duke of Wexford, had fainted.

    nm

    Chapter 3

    L

    ady Melwin sat knitting, her needles clacking through the red yarn like a barnyard full of hens.
    “ Something must be done.”
    “Indeed.” From the other chair pulled close to the fire, her sister, Lady Durham, looked up from her embroidery. “More than one thing, if you ask me.”
    Jane silently agreed and forced herself to knit at a slower pace. The last time she’d knit so furiously, she had inadvertently lost count and poor Wilson’s sweater had come out with one arm a good five inches longer than the other. She always felt a twinge of regret every time she saw the sleeve drooping over his hand. She sighed. It was just one of many things that needed correcting at Rose- mont. “It’s a disgrace, the way poor Arabella runs from dawn till nightfall, staying out far too late.”
    Emma stabbed her needle into the material. “She works much too hard.”
    “As if she were a servant. Though it is improper to
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    speak ill of the dead, our brother was derelict in his duty to his daughter. The ninny, losing everything on faro.”
    Emma lifted her brows, her blue eyes owlish behind her spectacles.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” Jane said defensively. “Whist is an entirely different matter. Besides, James had an addiction. I, meanwhile, merely enjoy an occasional game of cards.”
    Emma snorted, but offered no more comment. Glad to see that her sister was disinclined to argue, Jane glanced at the painted wooden box in which she kept her winnings. At one time it had been satisfyingly full, and she’d thought to help Arabella with the debts left after James’s death. Now, however, she’d be lucky to find a shilling for a single game.
    Unaware of her sister’s musings, Emma tied off a thread. “It is beyond me how our foolish dolt of a brother could be a descendent of a man like the Captain.” She turned her gaze to the portrait that hung over the mantel and, as one, they both stared in silent admiration.
    The picture was of a decidedly rakish man dressed in the height of fashion for 1551. A red silk doublet sat across his wide shoulders, the slashed sleeves revealing the rich blue velvet of his tunic. Cream-colored hose encased his muscular legs, outlining their fine shape. One hand rested casually on a sword set with jewels.
    But it was his expression that