He wanted to tear the clothes from her body, lay her down on the soft grass, and claim her as his own in the most primitive way possible. And then when he was done, when she could have no doubt that she belonged completely and irrevocably to him, he wanted to do it again, this time slowly, exploring every inch of her with his hands, and then with his lips, and then, when she was hot and arching with need-

Abruptly, he yanked his hands away from her shoulders. He couldn't touch her when his mind was racing into such dangerous territory.

Elizabeth sagged against the tree, raising huge blue eyes to meet his. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and James felt that little flick straight in his gut.

He took another step away. With each move she made, each tiny, barely audible breath, he lost another piece of his control. He no longer trusted his hands; they itched to reach for her.

"When you admit that this is why you want me," he bit off, his voice hot and intense, "then I'll marry you."


* * *

Two days later, the memory of that last kiss still made Elizabeth shake. She had stood by the tree, dazed and stunned, and watched him walk away. Then she had remained in place for another ten minutes, her eyes fixed on the horizon, staring blankly at the last spot where she'd seen him. And then, when her mind had finally woken from the passionate shock of his touch, she had -at down and cried.

She had been dishonest when she had tried to convince •wrestle that she wanted to many him because he was a wealthy marquis. It was ironic, really. She'd spent the last month resigning herself to the fate of marrying for money, and now she'd fallen in love, and he was wealthy enough to give her family a better life, but everything was all wrong.

She loved him. Or rather, she loved a man who looked just like him. Elizabeth didn't care what Lady Danbury or the Ravenscrofts told her; humble James Siddons could not be the same man inside as the lofty Marquis of Riverdale. It simply wasn't possible. Everyone had his place in British society; this was something people were taught early, especially people like Elizabeth, daughters of minor gentry who lived on the fringes of the ton.

It seemed that she could solve all of her problems by going to him and telling him she wanted him, not his money. She'd be married to the man she loved, with ample resources to support her family. But she could not shake the nagging suspicion that she did not know him.

The pragmatist inside reminded her that she probably wouldn't know any man she chose to marry, or at least that she would not know him well. Men and women rarely conducted courtships beyond the most superficial of levels.

But with James, it was different. Just as he said he could not tolerate a marriage of convenience with her, she did not think she could withstand a union without trust. Maybe with someone else, but not with him.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and lay back upon her bed. She'd spent much of the past few days holed up in her room. After the first few attempts, her siblings had given up on trying to talk with her and had taken to leaving trays of food outside her door. Susan had prepared all of Elizabeth's favorite dishes, but most of the food had gone untouched. Heartbreak, apparently, did little to build an appetite.

A tentative knock sounded at the door, and Elizabeth turned her head to look out the window. Judging from the level of the sun, it was about the right time for the evening meal. If she ignored the knock, they would just leave the tray and go away.

But the knock persisted, and so Elizabeth sighed and forced herself to her feet. She crossed the small room in three steps and pulled open the door, revealing all three younger Hotchkisses.

"This came for you," Susan said, holding out a creamy envelope. "It's from Lady Danbury. She wants to see you."

Elizabeth raised a brow. "You've taken to reading my correspondence?"

"Of course not! The footman she sent over told me."

"It's true," Jane put in. "I was there."

Elizabeth reached out and took the envelope. She looked at her siblings. They looked back.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Lucas finally said.

Jane nudged her brother in the ribs. "Lucas, don't be rude." She glanced up at Elizabeth. "Are you?"

"Now who's being rude?" Elizabeth countered.

"You might as well open it," Susan said. "If nothing else, it will take your mind off of-''

"Don't say it," Elizabeth warned.

"Well, you certainly cannot wallow in self-pity forever."

Elizabeth made a sheeshing sound on top of a sigh. "Aren't I entitled to at least a day or two?"

"Of course," Susan said conciliatorily. "But even by that schedule, your time is up."

Elizabeth groaned and tore open the envelope. She wondered how much her siblings knew of her situation. She had told them nothing, but they were little ferrets when it came to uncovering secrets, and she'd wager they knew over half the story by now.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Lucas asked excitedly.

Elizabeth raised her brows and looked over at her brother. He was actually jumping up and down. "I can't imagine why you're so excited to hear what Lady Danbury has to say," she said.

"I can't imagine, either," Susan growled, slamming a hand down on Lucas's shoulder to keep him still.

Elizabeth just shook her head. If the Hotchkisses were bickering, then life must be returning to normal, and that had to be a good thing.

Ignoring the grunts of protest Lucas was making at being manhandled by his sister, Elizabeth slipped the paper from the envelope and unfolded it. It took her eyes mere seconds to scan the lines, and a surprised "Me?" escaped her lips.

"Is something wrong?" Susan asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Not precisely. But Lady Danbury wants me to come see her."

"I thought you weren't working for her any longer," Jane said.

"I'm not, although I imagine I shall have to eat crow and ask for my position back. I don't see how else we're to have enough money to eat."

When Elizabeth looked up, all three younger Hotchkisses were chewing on their lower lips, obviously dying to point out that (A) Elizabeth could have married James or (B) she could have at least deposited the bank draft instead of tearing it into four neat pieces.

Elizabeth dropped to her hands and knees to grab her boots from under the bed, where she'd kicked them the day before. She found her reticule sitting beside it, and she snatched that up as well.

"Are you leaving right now?" Jane asked.

Elizabeth nodded as she sat on the braided rug to pull on her boots. "I shouldn't wait up for me," she said. "I don't know how long I'll be. I imagine Lady Danbury will have a carriage bring me home."

"You might even stay the night," Lucas said.

Jane walloped him in the shoulder. "Why would she do that?"

"It might be easier if it's dark," he returned with a glare, "and-"

"Either way," Elizabeth said loudly, finding the entire conversation somewhat bizarre, "you needn't wait up."

"We won't," Susan assured her, herding Lucas and Jane out of the way as Elizabeth stepped out into the hall. They watched as she dashed down the stairs and yanked open the front door. "Have a good time!" Susan called out.

Elizabeth threw her a sarcastic look over her shoulder. "I'm sure I won't, but thank you for the sentiment."

She pulled the door shut behind her, leaving Susan, Jane, and Lucas standing at the top of the stairs. “Oh, you might just be surprised, Elizabeth Hotchkiss," Susan said with a grin. "You might just be surprised yet."


* * *

The past few days would not rank among James Sidwell's finest. To deem his temper foul would be a gross understatement, and Lady Danbury's servants had long since started taking circuitous routes around the house just to avoid him.

His first inclination had been to get good and drunk, but he'd already done that once, on the night Elizabeth had discovered his true identity, and all it had left him with was a blistering hangover. And so the glass of whiskey he'd poured when he'd returned home from her cottage still sat on the desk in the library, sipped at no more than twice. Ordinarily, his aunt's well-trained servants would have swept away the half-filled glass; nothing upset their sensibilities more than a stale glass of liquor laying directly upon a polished tabletop. But James's ferocious expression the first time anyone had dared to knock on the locked library door had ensured his privacy, and now his haven-and his stale glass of whiskey- remained his own.

He was, of course, wallowing in self-pity, but it seemed to him that a man deserved a day or two of antisocial behavior after what he'd been through.

It would have been easier if he could have decided with whom he was more angry: Elizabeth or himself.

He picked up the glass of whiskey for the hundredth time that day, looked at it, and set it down. Across the room, HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS sat on the shelf, its red leather spine silently daring him to look at anything else. James glared at the book, just barely suppressing the urge to hurl the whiskey at it.

Let's see… if he doused it with whiskey, then tossed it into the fireplace… the resulting inferno would be most satisfying.

He was actually considering it, trying to gauge how high the flames would reach, when a knock sounded at the door, this one considerably more forceful than the servants' paltry attempts.

"James! Open this door at once."

He groaned. Aunt Agatha. He rose to his feet and crossed the room to the door. He might as well get this over with. He knew that tone of voice; she'd pound the door until her fist turned bloody.