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flagway. “Ella!”
    The shades at the carriage windows were drawn down. She neither saw nor heard him. Too late. It had been too late even before
     they met.
    “Ella,” he murmured. “My beloved Ella.”

Chapter Three

    N o man was good enough for his daughter. Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, turned the pages of a document his solicitor had left
     for signature that morning.
    A calm manner would serve him well in the days to come. And an unruffled air would be mandatory in such matters as dealing
     with the callers he was expecting today. Yes, an air of nonchalant control.
    He threw down his pen. He could not be dispassionate where Ella was concerned. “Absolutely not! No!”
    “My lord?”
    Startled, Struan looked up to see Crabley, the Hanover Square butler, standing before the mahogany desk. “I didn’t hear you
     enter,” he said, more sharply than he intended.
    “I did knock, my lord.”
    “Are they here?”
    “
They,
my lord?” Crabley’s small, protruding black eyes magnified the question conveyed by his words.
    Struan pushed to his feet and advanced around his desk. This study usually brought him peace and pleasure. He felt neither
     today. “They, Crabley. The people I told you were calling on me this afternoon.”
    “It is not yet eleven, my lord.” Doughy of complexion, his width and height similar, the butler had always performed his duties
     impeccably. Both Struan and his older brother, Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, found the servant’s manner irritating, but his
     loyalty and scrupulous attention to detail made him invaluable.
    Struan eyed the man speculatively. “Are you a man of passion, Crabley?” There, let him come up with a suitably butlerlike
     response to that!
    Crabley pushed out his lips and wriggled his snub nose as if some thought were necessary. “Considerable passion,” he said
     without inflection. “Yes, my lord, I am a very passionate man. I would protect those I serve to the death … if such an extraordinary
     measure should prove necessary. Is that what you meant, my lord?”
    Struan coughed, and waved a hand. “Um, yes, yes, I suppose it is.” He smiled. “Very admirable, Crabley.” And somewhat humbling—humbling
     enough to make a man a deal less angry at the world.
    “This was delivered,” Crabley said, extending a small bundle of silk the color of emeralds and bound shut with gold braid.
     “For Miss Ella.”
    “What is it?” Struan asked, deeply suspicious. “Who would send Ella gifts? She knows no one in London.”
    “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”
    “Didn’t the messenger say who it was from?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “There isn’t a card?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “In God’s name!” Struan roared. “Must you always be so—?” Ella’s entrance, with Justine at her heels, saved him from losing
     his composure completely. “Someone sent something for me?” Ella asked.
    Struan glared. “How do you know someone sent something for you?”
    She had the grace to blush a little. “I was …I heard the doorbell and looked down to see who it was.”
    “Are you expecting someone?”
    Ella, dressed in one of the overly simply-cut gowns she favored, swept to a little gilt chair and sat down. She twitched her
     lavender-colored skirts and crossed her hands in her lap. Too nonchalant, Struan thought. And too exotically beautiful for
     any father’s peace of mind. Her eyes were particularly dark today, her skin translucent despite its burnished quality. Her
     blue-black hair had been tightly restrained in braids and knotted at her crown. Rather than producing the plain effect most
     would achieve, the stark style only accentuated her mysterious perfection. A man should not be burdened with such extraordinary
     loveliness to protect and guide.
    He glanced at Justine. Their eyes met, and he saw her understanding of his feelings. They could not love this girl more. She
     and her brother, Max, were as dear to them as little Edward and