The temptation to spend hours indulging in the delicious sensation of whirling around the dance floor with him nearly overwhelmed her.

No, to dance with him again would be most unwise. And prove yet another failure to her avoid-and-ignore plan. Yet she had no desire to dance with anyone else present.

The sound of feminine laughter caught her attention, and she turned. The duke’s three nieces were descending upon them, their gazes riveted on Mr. Stanton, each girl clearly hoping for an invitation to dance.

And Catherine realized, quite unsettlingly, that not only did she have no desire to dance with anyone else save Mr. Stanton, but she did not desire Mr. Stanton to dance with anyone other than she. His earlier words echoed through her mind: Identify the competition, then outmaneuver them.

Looking up at him she said softly, “I fear I’m feeling a bit… overheated. Would you mind terribly if we went home?”

Instant concern flashed in his eyes, pricking her conscience, although she felt, in truth, quite overheated. “Of course not. We’ll leave immediately.”

She tried, very hard, to ignore the glow of pleasure suffusing her at his agreement as it boded very poorly indeed for her avoid-and-ignore plan.

She tried, but she failed.

Chapter 11

Every so often fate smiles, presenting Today's Modern Woman with the rare and precious opportunity to obtain her hearts most secret desire. If she should find herself in such a fortunate, glorious circumstance, she should heed those wise words, Carpe Diem, and not hesitate to seize the day, as it may be her only chance. Be a woman of action, not a woman of regret, for it is those things we do not do that bring us sorrow.


A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore


Andrew paced the confines of his bedchamber, alternating between staring into the low-glowing embers in the grate, and looking out the window into the moonlit garden below. He stalked past the bed, shooting the navy blue counterpane a dark scowl. Comfortable as the bed looked, there was no point in lying down, for he knew all too well sleep wouldn’t come. His mind, his thoughts, were too full. Of her.

Catherine. With a groan, he paused in front of the glowing embers in the grate and dragged his hands down his face, vividly recalling her exhilarated expression as they’d waltzed this evening. The exquisite feel of her in his arms, her beautiful eyes glowing with delight, her delicate floral scent filling his head. It had required every ounce of his self-control not to simply yank her against him and profess his love in front of the entire assemblage of guests.

While tonight’s pleasant carriage ride and waltz had afforded him a flicker of hope regarding his wooing campaign, that light had been all but extinguished when they’d arrived back at Bickley cottage and she’d immediately excused herself and retired.

One week. He had one bloody week to court her. Make her fall in love with him. Change her mind about wanting to marry again. Convince her that they belonged together. That in spite of his nonnoble birth, he would be a worthy husband to her and a good father to Spencer. That he loved her so much he ached.

He squeezed his eyes shut as dread suffused him. One week-for unless something drastic happened, he strongly sensed she wouldn’t invite him to remain longer, and in any event, he needed to return to London to oversee the museum. No, in one week’s time, he’d return to his life in Town, and she’d remain here.

One week. Even if he were, by some miracle, able to accomplish all those seemingly impossible tasks, managed to convince her to share their futures, he couldn’t ignore what might happen when he revealed his past. Would she reject him when he confessed to her the secrets he’d never told anyone? The circumstances that had forced him to leave America?

Opening his eyes, he stared into the fire, futilely seeking answers in the dancing orange flames. His conscience fought the same battle it waged every time he mulled the daunting question of whether or not to reveal his past. He hated the thought of lying to her, of there being any secrets between them. Liked to think if the time should ever arise that he’d tell her.

But would he? God help him, he didn’t know. If he were lucky enough finally to win her favor, would he, could he risk losing her by telling her the truth? His conscience prodded him to tell her. She deserved the truth. But then came the rationalization that always twisted his guts into a knot-no one knew except him. If he didn’t tell her, she’d never find out.

Blowing out a long breath, he tunneled his hands through his hair and shoved the matter from his mind, leaving it once again unresolved. What he needed to concentrate on now was revising his courting strategy, because thus far his carefully thought-out plan was not the smashing success he’d hoped for. He needed a new plan, and given his time constraints and the fact that other suitors hovered on the horizon, it needed to be a brilliant, not to mention drastic, plan. But what? Damn it, I need help. I need-

An idea popped into his mind, and he stilled for several seconds. Yes… that might be the very thing to help him. With a purposeful stride, he crossed the blue-and-gold Persian rug to the wardrobe and pulled his brown leather portmanteau from the back corner. Reaching inside, he carefully unfastened the hidden pocket in the lining and withdrew the item he’d secreted there after purchasing it in London the morning they’d departed for Bickley cottage.

A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore. He turned the slim, leather-bound volume over in his hands.

She’d wagered that he wouldn’t read it, but he’d prove her wrong. Not only would he read it, hopefully he’d learn something from this Charles Brightmore that might inspire a new wooing campaign. At the very least, he’d win his wager with Lady Catherine and be entitled to a boon… a prospect ripe with possibilities.

He pulled the wing chair closer to the fire and settled into the comfortable upholstery. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to read the book. Then he’d map out his new campaign.

This time he’d go into battle armed to the teeth.


Ensconced in her bedchamber in the comfort of her favorite wing chair next to the fireplace, Catherine leaned her head back against the soft upholstery and closed the slim learner volume. Pressing the book against her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and cursed her folly at once again reading the words that filled her with dark yearnings. Stark needs. And insatiable curiosity.

Snippets of passages from A Ladies‘ Guide invaded her brain, igniting desires she’d tried so hard to suppress.

The leisurely caress of a man‘s hand up the length of a woman’s thigh… the incredible sensations experienced by both partners when the woman takes his hardness slowly into her body… making love in the light so as to see every nuance of passion your lover is feeling… learning each other’s intimate secrets with hands and lips and tongues… a naked man will provide a feast of delights for the woman willing to explore…

A soft moan escaped her lips. Heat that had nothing to do with the low-burning fire in the grate swamped her. She could feel her pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. Between her thighs. Her breasts felt heavy and swollen and almost painfully aroused.

Lifting one hand, she slowly cupped the sensitive flesh through the material of her gown. Her nipple, hard and aching, pressed against her palm. She gently squeezed, shooting ribbons of fire to her womb, increasing rather than relieving her discomfort. Setting the Guide aside, she rose and paced the length of the room.

Dear God, the things Genevieve had described in the Guide… incredible, unthinkable, unbelievably tantalizing things. While she’d taken dictation from Genevieve, writing in a shaky hand such intimate wonders, she’d questioned whether Genevieve was creating fiction. But her friend had assured her she was not. Genevieve had spent ten years as the mistress of an earl, captivating him with her sensual prowess. Prowess she’d learned as a result of tutelage from her mother, who’d spent her entire adult life as a mistress, and Genevieve’s own imagination, which was inspired out of deep love for her earl. It was very unwise for me fall in love with him, Catherine, Genevieve had said. It broke my heart when he ended our liaison. He found someone younger. Prettier. He no longer wanted my ugly hands to touch him…

Catherine paused near the window. Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing save the images bombarding her. Herself and Mr. Stanton… hands exploring. Mouths touching. Limbs entwined.

What would his large, strong, callused hands feel like caressing her? His lovely mouth kissing her? His long, muscular legs pressing against hers?

She actually felt feverish. She should not have reread that book. Should have allowed her wants and needs to remain dormant. And surely they would have. If Mr. Stanton had not brought them roaring to life.

After she’d helped Genevieve write the book and had learned of the wonders that could physically exist between a man and a woman, she’d been stunned. Never had she experienced anything like that with Bertrand.

After being exposed to the tantalizing information in the Guide, however, her thoughts had much more frequently strayed to sensual matters, piquing her long-suppressed desires and her curiosity. Since embarking on writing the Guide eleven months ago, shortly after Bertrand’s death, how many nights had she lain in her lonely bed, her body throbbing with newly awakened, unfulfilled needs? More than she cared to recall. Her attempts to ease the aching had left her only more frustrated.