“The book just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a lady such as you would read.”

“And precisely what sort of lady am I, Mr. Stanton? The sort who is unable to read?”

“Of course not-”

“The sort who is not intelligent enough to understand words containing more than one syllable?”

“Certainly not-”

“The sort who is incapable of forming her own opinions?”

“No.” He raked a hand through his hair. “ ‘Tis abundantly clear that you’re fully capable of that.” How had this conversation gone so wrong so quickly? “I meant that it did not seem the sort of reading material for a proper lady.”

“I see.” She gave him a cool, detached look that tightened his jaw. Definitely not the way he’d hoped to have her looking at him by the end of this evening. “Well, perhaps the Guide is not as scandalous as you’ve been led to believe, Mr. Stanton. Perhaps the Guide could be better described as scintillating. Provocative. Intelligent. But of course, you wouldn’t know as you haven’t read it. Perhaps you should read it.”

He raised his brows at the unmistakable challenge shining in her eyes. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not. In fact, I’d be happy to lend you my copy.”

“Why on earth would I want to read a ladies’ guide?”

She offered him a smile that appeared just a bit too sweet. “Why, so that you could offer an informed, intelligent opinion when next you discussed the work. And besides, you might actually learn something.”

Good God, the woman was daft. Perhaps the victim of too much wine. He took a discreet sniff, but smelled only alluring flowers. “What on earth could I possibly learn from a ladies’ guide?”

“What women like, for one thing. And do not like. And why Lord Nordnick’s wooing attempts directed at Lady Ophelia are bound for failure. Just to name a few.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. He knew what women liked… didn’t he? He couldn’t recall hearing any complaints in the past. But his inner voice was warning him that maybe he didn’t know quite as much about what Lady Catherine liked as he’d thought. Actually, maybe he didn’t know Lady Catherine as well as he’d thought-a notion that simultaneously unsettled and intrigued him. God knows she’d revealed an unexpected side of herself this evening. He recalled Philip’s warning about her newfound headstrong, blunt behavior. He’d put no stock in Philip’s comment at the time, but it appeared his friend was correct. And it further appeared that the blame for this change rested on the Ladies’ Guide’s shoulders.

Damn you, Charles Brightmore. You and your foolish book have made courting the woman I want-an already Herculean task-even more difficult. I’ll relish exposing you and putting an end to your writing career.

Yes, more difficult indeed, for not only had the Guide clearly filled Lady Catherine’s head with ideas of independence, but this discussion, which was supposed to lead to him asking her to dance and the start of his courting campaign, had turned contentious-a turn of events he needed to correct immediately. No, this meeting was not going at all the way he’d envisioned. According to his plans, Lady Catherine should be in his arms, gazing up at him with warmth and affection. Instead, she’d backed away from him and was glaring at him with annoyance, a feeling he shared, as he was more than a little irritated himself.

He pressed his lips together to keep from arguing further. Indeed, arguing was the last thing he wished to do, especially tonight, when they had so little time together. His wooing campaign was off to a disastrous start. Retreat and regroup was definitely his best alternative.

Raising his hands in a show of acquiescence, he smiled. “As much as I appreciate the offer to read your copy, I believe I’ll decline. As for the likes and dislikes of Today’s Modern Woman, I bow to your superior knowledge on the subject, madam.”

She did not return his smile; rather, she lifted a single brow. “You continue to surprise me, Mr. Stanton.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “I continue to surprise you? In what way?”

“I hadn’t taken you for a coward.”

Her words stilled him. Damn it, this had gone far enough. “Most likely because I am not one. And I hadn’t taken you for an instigator, yet you appear to be deliberately baiting me, Lady Catherine. I wonder why?”

Another layer of crimson deepened her flushed cheeks. She drew a deep breath, then emitted a nervous-sounding laugh. “Yes, it seems I am. Forgive me. I’m afraid I’ve had a rather difficult evening and-”

Her words were cut off by a loud cracking sound and the crash of breaking glass. Gasps and cries of stunned fright rose from the party guests. Andrew turned swiftly, sickening dread oozing down his spine as he recognized the first sound as being that of a pistol report. Shards of glass sprayed across the floor beneath the now-broken windowpanes. In the space of a heartbeat, a myriad of tormenting images he’d believed buried flashed through his mind with a streak of vivid anguish. A ringing commenced in his ears, drowning out the sounds around him, and he bludgeoned back the unwanted reminders of the past.

“Dear God, she’s hurt!”

The frightened cry from directly behind him jerked his head around, and everything inside him froze.

Lady Catherine, a trickle of blood oozing from between her lips, lay sprawled on the floor at his feet.

Chapter 3

There comes a time in the relationship between a man and a woman when they notice each other in that way. Many times this notice manifests itself with either an inexplicable tingle or a clenching of the stomach. Unfortunately the feeling is therefore often mistaken for a fever or indigestion.


A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore


Voices, jagged and disjointed, echoed through Catherine’s mind, along with a myriad of inexplicable, contradictory sensations. Her head ached as if someone had smashed it with a rock. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the hellfire burning in her shoulder. And who precisely had set the swarm of angry bees upon her bottom lip? Yet she somehow felt as if she were floating, engulfed in a strong, comforting embrace that suffused her with warmth, like being wrapped in her favorite velvety blanket. Her cheek rested against something warm and solid. She inhaled, filling her aching head with the scent of clean linen, sandalwood, and something else… a delightful aroma she couldn’t define, other than to know she liked it.

She became aware of the hum of voices. One voice, low, deep, and fervent, and very close to her ear infiltrated past the noise of the others. Please wake up… God, please.

Something jounced her, shooting pain through her, and she groaned.

“Hold on,” the voice next to her ear whispered. “We’re almost there.”

There? Forcing her eyelids open, she found herself looking up at Mr. Stanton’s profile. His face appeared pale, his jaw tight, his rugged features stark with some unreadable emotion. A breeze dislodged a curl of her hair, blowing it across her cheek, and she realized that she was moving swiftly down a corridor… a corridor in her father’s town house, cradled tightly against Mr. Stanton’s chest, her knees draped over his one arm, his other arm supporting her back.

He glanced down, and she found herself staring into intense ebony eyes, which burned like twin braziers. His gaze locked on to hers, and a muscle jerked in his cheek.

“She’s awake,” he said, turning his head slightly, but his gaze never wavering from hers.

Awake? Had she fallen asleep? Surely not. She blinked several times, but before she could force her sore mouth to form a question, they passed through a doorway and entered a room she recognized as her father’s bedchamber. Seconds later, Mr. Stanton gently laid her upon the maroon counterpane. She instantly missed his warmth as a chilled shudder rushed through her, but seconds later her eyes widened when he hitched one hip upon the mattress, and sat next to her on the bed, the heat of his hand pressing against her stinging shoulder. Some small corner of her mind protested that his nearness reeked of impropriety, but his presence was so comforting… and she felt so inexplicably in need of that comfort.

A movement caught her eye, and her gaze shifted over Mr. Stanton’s shoulder, where she noted her father looking down at her with an anxious expression.

“Thank God you’ve come around, my dear,” Father said, his voice rough. “Dr. Gibbens is on his way.”

Mr. Stanton leaned closer to her. “How do you feel?”

She licked her dry lips, wincing when her tongue, which felt oddly thick, touched a sensitive spot. “Shoulder hurts. Head, too.” She tried to turn her head, but immediately thought better of it when a sharp pain bounced behind her eyes, roiling a wave of nausea through her. “Wh… what happened?”

Something undecipherable flashed in his eyes. “You don’t remember?”

Trying to ignore the aches thumping through her, she forced herself to concentrate. “Father’s party. His birthday. You and I were arguing… and now I’m here.” Lying in bed, with you sitting so very close. Touching me. “Feeling as if I were coshed… hopefully not the outcome of our disagreement.”

“You were shot,” Mr. Stanton said, harshness evident in his quiet voice. “In the shoulder. And it appears you hit your head quite hard when you fell. I’m sorry for the pain-I‘m keeping pressure on your shoulder wound to stem the blood until the doctor arrives.”