Although required by the conventions of courtship to suffer his company, she made every effort to avoid being alone with him. In his presence, she endured his admiring, brilliant gaze with as much fortitude as she could muster, pretending to function in a rational way. When he was away, she tried to block from her mind any thought of him or what their impending union would bring.

At least there was one advantage of wedding in such haste, she discovered. Between arranging the details of the service, settling her youngest brother’s future, and preparing to totally uproot her life, she had less time to worry.

And just possibly her concern was inflated out of proportion. The women in her family, Brynn reminded herself, could marry without disastrous consequence if they took care not to fall in love. And she was entering into a marriage of convenience, nothing more.

Moreover, her dark dream of Wycliff hadn’t returned. Perhaps her feeling of impending doom was mere bridal nerves.


Lucian’s dreams of Brynn, however, turned more vivid-visions of his death mingling with erotic images of their marriage bed. The unsettling dreams, along with the warnings he encountered about his future bride, did give him a moment’s pause.

His elderly host, the Duke of Hennessy, reacted to the betrothal with surprising distress.

“It troubles me, Wycliff, that you chose Miss Caldwell when you could have countless other brides. There is a history in her family you should know about-”

“I’m aware of the tales,” Lucian replied. “But I don’t give them much credence. I confess surprise that you do.”

His grace looked uncomfortable. “I am not superstitious as a general rule, but I knew her mother. In fact, I courted Gwendolyn myself once. I must say, I consider myself fortunate to have escaped. But if your mind is made up, I suppose I have no right to protest.”

“My mind is made up,” Lucian asserted.

The duke’s genteel neighbors seemed just as disturbed by the news. They eyed Lucian with disbelief and whispered behind his back, although they didn’t presume to express their opinions. The villagers, too, seemed dismayed by the turn of events. And Lucian’s valet was concerned enough to venture his master’s displeasure by relating tales he’d heard from the ducal servants. There were even veiled accusations about Brynn Caldwell being a witch.

Lucian, however, dismissed the tales and maintained his course. He didn’t investigate the church records as Brynn had suggested, for he disliked bowing to superstition. And when his betrothed suggested once more that he withdraw his suit, that he still had time to change his mind, he shook off his misgivings.

He didn’t believe in curses. He wanted Brynn Caldwell for his wife, and he wouldn’t be intimidated into giving her up.

It felt magical, his skillful touch. His lips moved over her flushed face, her throat, her breasts, claiming her nipples, his mouth wet and warm. She arched her back, seeking his gentle torment. As if he understood her desperate need, his hand brushed her loins. She trembled, her flesh burning for hint…

Brynn awoke with a start, her body suffused with heat as the remnants of her erotic dream faded. Lucian-Lord Wycliff-had been kissing her, touching her, arousing her to passion.

She shivered in remembrance. Her dream bore no resemblance to her dark nightmare where she’d envisioned his death. This one had been lush, searing, strangely alluring. She could still feel a sweet throbbing between her thighs, still feel a yearning ache in her heart.

Surely her dream wasn’t a premonition. She hadn’t wed Wycliff yet-

Brynn sat up abruptly, realization dawning. This was her wedding day. She would soon be his bride. A feeling of panic curled inside her as she hugged the covers to her still throbbing breasts, wondering if she was making a terrible mistake.


She tried to put her dream from her mind and treat the day as any other, yet it was all Brynn could do to choke down a morsel of breakfast. Afterward, with the aid of their one maid, she bathed and donned her best gown of pale peach sarcenet.

As she stared at herself in the cheval glass, she bit her lip hard. She had slept poorly, and there were smudges of circles under her eyes, while her face seemed ghostly pale. Yet even her wan appearance didn’t adequately show her turmoil.

A wedding day was supposed to be a special- perhaps sacred-time in a woman’s life. But for her there would be no joy, no sweet anticipation. Only loneliness and dread.

Even had there been no risk involved in wedding Wycliff, this still was the end of her life as she knew it. Today she would leave behind her girlhood forever. More despairing to contemplate was that she would forsake her home and her family for good. Early tomorrow morning she would set sail with her new husband for London.

“Sweet mercy,” she whispered to the insipid person in the mirror.

She was leaving behind everything she knew, everyone she held dear, to wed a stranger. Lamentably, she couldn’t even say farewell to her three other brothers, Arthur and Stephen and Reese. None of them would be attending today’s ceremony, for there had been no way to get word to their various ships in time, although it was doubtful they would have been able to obtain leave in any case.

Brynn felt a tightness in her throat. She wasn’t certain which was worse: the pain of losing her family, or the prospect of spending a lifetime with a man she didn’t dare love.

Either way, the irrevocable moment loomed. In less than an hour, Grayson would escort her to the village church, where the ceremony would be officiated by the vicar. The wedding “breakfast”-a feast funded by Wycliff, organized by the Duchess of Hennessy, and prepared by the duke’s vast staff of servants-would follow immediately afterward and last most of the afternoon.

The wedding night would be spent at Caldwell House, rather than the duke’s castle or Wycliff’s ship. Gray had insisted on that detail for her own protection, a demand for which Brynn was grateful.

Until now she had shied away from contemplating exactly what the physical intimacy of marriage would entail, but despite Wycliff’s vaunted prowess with the female sex, he was a man like any other. Under the influence of the Gypsy’s spell, he might very well let his passions become carried away and require restraint. She felt safer, knowing she could call on her brother should things get out of hand. But she would still have to face her own apprehension about sexual matters-

A quiet rap on her door interrupted her distressing thoughts. It was Theo, wearing his best jacket, which he had long outgrown. His gangly wrists stuck out a good two inches below the sleeves.

His mouth formed an O when he caught sight of her. “You look so beautiful, Brynn.”

“I think you must be a trifle biased,” she said, trying to strike a light tone as she stepped back to let him enter her bedchamber.

“I came to see if I might help you in any way… packing your trunks, perhaps.”

She looked at her beloved youngest brother and had to smile. “Since when have you ever been interested in such trifling corporeal matters as packing? If so, I am honored that you plan to bring your head down from the clouds for my sake.”

Theo grinned, a grin that slowly faded. “Well, actually I… I came because I wanted to give you something.” He opened his hand to reveal a small vial of yellowish liquid. “I’ve made you a potion. Perhaps it will help to ward off the curse.”

Accepting the vial, Brynn unplugged the stopper and grimaced at the pungent odor that assaulted her nostrils. “What in heaven’s name is in this? Bat’s wing and toad’s tongue?”

“Only a few chemicals. You should wear it like perfume. I don’t believe it will burn your skin.”

“I am vastly relieved,” Brynn said wryly. “Thank you, darling. This should indeed ward off anyone who decides to become over amorous. Even Wycliff. He doesn’t believe in the Gypsy’s curse, but if nothing else, I can pour it over him.”

“It isn’t wise to ignore such things,” Theo said seriously. “There are some phenomena even science cannot explain.”

Brynn thought her brother would take his leave then, but his face grew even more solemn. “Brynn… I know you are doing this for my sake… marrying his lordship so I can attend school. And I… I want you to know how grateful I am.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, forcing the words past the sudden ache in her throat. “I’ve always fancied myself as a countess.”

Theo gave her a reproving glance. “You always taught me not to tell plumpers.”

“So I did.” She feigned a smile. “Don’t mind me, love. I’m the one who is being silly. I suppose I am suffering from bridal nerves. They are quite common, I understand.”

“Well, if you must marry, I think Wycliff is a good choice. He seems a capital fellow.”

“You only say so”-Brynn tried to feign a teasing tone-“because he has bribed you with promises of fresh supplies for your laboratory.”

“He has also promised that I may visit you in London on my first holiday from school. Is that all right with you?” Theo had chosen to attend Harrow and would soon be leaving for the start of the term.

“Of course it is all right! I would like nothing better than to see you,” she said fervently. “I am sure to be lonesome in London. I know no one there except Meredith, and she repaired to her husband’s country seat for her confinement. Even when she returns, she will doubtless be busy with her new baby.”

The look her young brother gave her held wisdom far beyond his age. “I don’t want you to be sad, Brynn.”