Around her the final strains of the waltz swirled, wrapping the room in music. It was almost midnight.

So little time left.

«Jessi, you’re shaking. What’s wrong? I thought you outgrew your fear of storms when you were ten.»

«Only because I knew you would protect me.»

«You survived quite well while I was gone,» Wolfe said dryly.

«Only because I knew you would come back. And you did.» Jessica looked up at Wolfe with a plea that was all the greater for its lack of artifice. «You must marry me, WolfeLonetree. Without you, I am lost.»

At first he thought she was teasing him again; then he realized that she meant every word. Automatically, he executed a graceful turn and released Jessica as the music ceased. She clung to his hand as she had at the end of their first dance only a few minutes before.

«Elf, you must let go of me,» Wolfe said quietly, looking down into the face that had become so unexpectedly, dangerously beautiful to him. «I’m not a lord and you are no longer a child. You are a lady of the realm whose engagement will soon be announced. One dance with the viscount’s savage will be tolerated. Two will elicit comments. Three will cause a scandal. We have danced twice. We will not do so again.»

«Wolfe,» she whispered.

It was too late. He bowed over her hand and turned away.

With eyes darkened by fear, Jessica watched Wolfe walk away. No matter how great the crush of people, he was easy to find. It was not his height, though he was taller than many men. Nor was it his looks, though he was undoubtedly handsome with his straight black hair, dark skin, and remote indigo eyes. What set Wolfe apart was his way of moving, a combination of strength and unconscious grace. He was a man thoroughly at home within his body in the way a hunting cat is at home within its own body.

Jessica needed that masculine strength, that self-assurance. The prospect of Wolfe’s return was all that had kept her from screaming as the net of circumstance and custom had drawn more tightly around her each day. Somehow she had to make Wolfe understand her need. She had made no joke when she proposed marriage to him. Far from it. She had never been more serious in all her twenty years.

A gust of wind moaned outside Lord Robert Stewart’s London house and rattled windowpanes. Winter was coming to an end but spring had not yet fully arrived, and now the seasons were fighting for supremacy, shaking the puny stone cities of man in their battle. Jessica’s heart squeezed with fear as the wind’s voice became a sustained, soul less howling that threatened her composure. Automatically, her hand went to the locket that held Wolfe’s likeness inside.

I’m safe. Wolfe won’t let me be hurt. I’m safe. Whatever stalks the storms can’t get to me.

The feel of the locket and the silent litany had soothed Jessica during the years when Wolfe had been exiled to America. Now he had come back…yet she felt more alone than she had ever felt since he had plucked her from her fragrant hiding place in the hay and held the storm at bay by calling to the thunder in the words of his Cheyenne mother.

Jessica laced her fingers together, concealing their trembling, but there was nothing she could do to conceal the pallor of her skin or the bleak desperation in her eyes.

«Come, is that a face with which to celebrate your birthday and your engagement to be married?» Lady Victoria asked in a voice that was as gentle as her eyes were shrewd.

«I want never to marry.»

Victoria sighed and caught one of Jessica’s cold hands between her own. «I know, sweet, I know. I kept your wishes in mind when I chose your husband. You will not be burdened by Lord Gore for long. He is old andoverfond of port. In a handful of years he will die. Then you will be a wealthy widow with your whole life in front of you.» She smiled thinly. «If you wish to be as scandalous as a French duchess, you may.»

«I would die before I let a man rut upon me.»

Rueful laughter was Victoria’s only reply. «Ah, Jessica. You should have been born to a staunch Catholic family and sent to a nunnery, but you were not. You are the only offspring of a Scots Protestant highland lass and a lowland earl. The title and lands passed elsewhere, leaving you no wealth of your own. You must marry. Lord Gore, whatever his drawbacks as a gentleman, has enough wealth to keep the Queen herself in luxury.»

«So you have told me. Often.»

«In the hope that someday you will listen,» retorted Victoria.

«In America slaves have been freed. Would that we in England treated our women so tenderly!»

A soft hand closed around Jessica’s chin. «Stubborn little Scots lass,» Victoria said. «But in this I am more stubborn even than you. You have enjoyed the perquisites of aristocracy. A common woman your age would have been tumbled and set to breeding years ago by the first lout who got beneath her skirts.»

Jessica’s mouth flattened.

«You were protected by my second husband and raised as gently as though you were a child of his own loins,» Victoria continued, her voice cool and relentless. «You were educated in managing a great house and a great fortune. Despite that dreadful American maid whom you imitate, you were taught to speak proper English and to be a proper lady. Now you must repay the generosity of your upbringing by producing an heir who will forever bind together the fortunes of the Viscount’s family and the wealth of Baronet Gore’s shipping empire.»

Long auburn lashes swept down, concealing the revulsion in Jessica’s eyes. «My lady, please —»

«No,» the older woman interrupted. «I have heard your pleas for much too long. I have spoiled you, but that is at an end. Your engagement to Lord Gore will be announced at midnight. You will marry within the month. If the old drunkard can coax his staff into readiness, you will produce an heir within a year and your duty will be fulfilled. Then you may live as you please.»

«OH, Lady Jessica,» Betsy said unhappily, «I don’t think you should go to Mr.Lonetree’s rooms.»

Jessica pushed away from the vanity where Betsy had been at work undoing her mistress’ elaboratejewelled coiffure and brushing out the long, silky hair. Normally, the ritual soothed Jessica, but tonight it had made her impatient. She began pacing the room like a caged cat. As she moved, the lacy peignoir which she wore while attending to her toilet billowed and rustled in pale shades of blue.

«There’s no choice.»

«But —»

«I won’t hear any more,» Jessica interrupted sharply. «You are forever telling me how women in America have more freedom in the choosing of their husbands and the living of their lives. If I must marry, I will choose my husband and live my life as it pleases me.»

«You aren’t American.»

«I shall be.» Jessica tied the peignoir’s robe around her waist with a firm yank. «American men don’t have titles or great wealth, so they don’t need heirs. I won’t have to endure revolting marital duties or ruinous pregnancies with an American husband.»

Hesitantly, Betsy said, «American men do like a warm bed, my lady.»

«Then they can sleep with hounds.»

«Oh dear. I fear I’ve led you astray. Just because American men aren’t titled doesn’t mean that —»

«No more arguing,» Jessica interrupted, putting her hands over her ears.

For a moment she stood very still, fighting the fear that threatened to choke her. The feel of Lord Gore’s sweating palms closing over her hand was too fresh, as was the memory of the lechery in his bloodshot eyes. The thought of those same hands touching her in the marriage bed made bile climb in Jessica’s throat.

A nightmare prowled just beneath her awareness, chilling her even as it strengthened her determination. She lowered her hands, straightened her spine, and headed for the door.

«My lady,» the maid began.

«Sweet Betsy, do shut up.» Jessica smiled at her maid with trembling lips. «Wish me well. If I succeed, you’ll get that trip to America I promised you three years ago.»

Jessica opened the door and stepped into the hall. Betsy’s low sound of distress was cut off by the soft thump of the closing door. Gathering the flyaway layers of silk in her hands, Jessica hurried toward the wing of the house where Wolfe’s rooms were. Fragrant oil lamps burned in stone niches in the hall, for Lord Robert was a great lover of tradition in the home. The illumination was dim, but that didn’t worry Jessica. She knew every alcove and corner of the great house.

Flinching when she passed windows where the storm beat in merciless demands for entrance, Jessica hurried through the huge stone house. She didn’t expect anyone else to be about, for she had waited until even the servants had gone to bed. She did avoid the library, however, for she knew the lord often gamed there until dawn with his friends.

Jessica hurried down another hall and ran lightly up a stairway. Just as she gained the top, she overran Lord Gore, who was considerably under the weather from port.

«Dear God,» she said, righting herself frantically.

Gore staggered, then caught himself by grabbing Jessica. Though drunk, he wasn’t beyond telling the difference between male and female flesh. Nor was he weak. When Jessica tried to twist free of him, his hands tightened. One hand dug into her breast. The other bruised her shoulder.

«Damn, but ‘tis my little lady.» Gore’s eyes narrowed as he dragged himself erect and focused on the silk and lace confection Jessica wore. «Very fetching, sweet. I’d not hoped to find you so eager for the marriage bed. Had I known, I’d have put less port under my hatches and got under yours sooner.»