It was only one of many deaths in her short life.

The first was her beloved father. She remembered him as unrestrained and vital, a dashing man who laughed often and adored her Spanish mother. Then he fell ill and wasted away. Later, Maria would become intimately familiar with the signs of poison. At the time, however, she knew only fear and confusion, which worsened when her mother introduced her to a dark-haired, beautiful man who was to replace her father.

“Maria, child,” her mother had said in her softly accented voice. “This is Viscount Welton. He and I plan to wed.”

She had heard the name before. Her father’s closest friend. Why her mother wished to remarry was beyond her immature comprehension. Had her father meant so little?

“He wishes to send you to the best academies,” was the explanation. “You will have the future your father wished for you.”

Sent away. That was all she heard.

The wedding took place and Lord Welton took over, whisking them to the moors to a house that resembled a medieval castle. Maria hated it. It was cold, drafty, and scary, so very far removed from the golden-bricked home they had lived in before.

Welton begat a daughter on his new wife and then promptly left them. Maria went to school, and he went to Town where he drank, whored, and gambled her father’s money to his heart’s content. Her mother grew paler, thinner; her hair began to fall out. The illness was hidden from Maria until the last possible moment.

She was sent for only when the end was near and assured. Returning to her stepfather’s home, she found the Viscountess Welton a ghost of the woman she had been only months before, her vibrancy depleting along with their coffers.

“Maria, my darling,” her mother whispered on her deathbed, her dark eyes pleading. “Forgive me. Welton was so kind after your father passed. I-I did not see beyond the façade.”

“All will be well, Mama,” she had lied. “Your health will improve and we can leave him.”

“No. You must-”

“Please do not say any more. You need rest.”

Her mother’s grip was surprisingly strong for a woman so wan, a physical manifestation of her urgency. “You must protect your sister from him. He cares not at all that she is his own blood. He will use her, as he has used me. As he intends to use you. Amelia is not strong like you. She has none of the strength of your father’s blood.”

She had stared at her mother in dismay. In the decade of the Welton marriage, Maria had learned many things, but most of all she had learned that beneath Lord Welton’s incomparably handsome face, Mephistopheles dwelled.

“I am not old enough,” she breathed, the tears falling. She spent most of her time at school, training to become a woman Welton could exploit. But on her occasional visits, she watched the way the viscount belittled her mother with razor-sharp barbs. The servants told her of raucous voices and pained screams. Bruises. Blood. Bed rest for weeks after he left.

Seven-year-old Amelia remained in her rooms when her father was in residence, frightened and alone. No governess would stay long with them.

“Yes, you are,” Cecille whispered, her lips white, her eyes red. “When I go, I will give what strength I have to you. You will feel me, my sweet Maria, and your father. We will support you.”

Those words were her only anchor in the years that followed.

“Is she dead?” Welton had asked flatly when Maria emerged from the room. His bright green eyes held no emotion at all.

“Yes.” She waited with bated breath and shaking hands.

“Make whatever arrangements you desire.”

Nodding, she turned away, the swishing of her heavy silk skirts loud in the deathly silence of the house.

“Maria.” The soft drawl floated ominously after her.

She paused and faced him again, studying her stepfather with new appreciation of his evil, absently noting the broad shoulders, trim hips, and long legs that so many women found appealing. Despite the coldness within him, his green eyes, dark hair, and rakish smile made him the handsomest man she had ever seen. The devil’s gift for his black-as-sin soul.

“Tell Amelia about Cecille’s passing, will you? I am running late and do not have the time.”

Amelia.

Maria was devastated at the thought of the task ahead. Added to the near-crippling pain of her mother’s loss, she almost sank to the floor, crushed beneath her stepfather’s heel. But the strength her mother promised her stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.

Welton laughed at her bravado. “I knew you would be perfect. Worth the trouble your mother gave me.” She watched him turn on his heel and take the stairs to the main floor, disregarding his wife completely.

What could she say to her sister to ease the blow? Amelia had none of the happy memories that sustained Maria. Now the child was orphaned, for her father might as well have been dead for all the attention he paid to her.

“Hello, poppet,” Maria greeted softly as she entered her sibling’s room, bracing herself to absorb the impact of the small body hurtling toward her.

“Maria!”

Clutching her sister close, Maria moved them toward the bed draped in dark blue silk that contrasted gently with the pale blue of the damask-covered walls. She rocked the sobbing child in her arms and cried silent tears. They had only each other now.

“What will we do?” Amelia asked in her precious voice.

“Survive,” Maria said quietly. “And stay together. I will protect you. Never doubt that.”

They fell asleep and when she woke, she found Amelia gone.

And her life had changed forever.

Suddenly eager to be productive in some manner, Maria rose to her feet. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out to the gallery. The two footmen who stood on either side to keep the ambitiously amorous away snapped to attention. “My carriage,” she said to one. He hurried away.

Then she was bumped none too gently from behind, and as she stumbled, was caught close to a hard body.

“I beg your pardon,” murmured a deliciously raspy voice so near to her ear she felt the vibration of it.

The sound stilled her, caught her breath and held it. She stood unmoving, her senses flaring to awareness far more acute than usual. One after another, impressions bombarded her-a hard chest at her back, a firm arm wrapped beneath her breasts, a hand at her waist, and the rich scent of bergamot mixed with virile male. He did not release her; instead his grip upon her person tightened.

“Unhand me,” she said, her voice low and filled with command.

“When I am ready to, I will.”

His ungloved hand lifted to cup her throat, his touch heating the rubies that circled her neck until they burned. Callused fingertips touched her pulse, stroking it, making it race. He moved with utter confidence, no hesitation, as if he possessed the right to fondle her whenever and wherever he chose, even in this public venue. Yet he was undeniably gentle. Despite the possession of his hold, she could writhe free if she chose, but a sudden weakness in her limbs prevented her from moving.

Her gaze moved to her remaining footman, ordering him silently to do something to assist her. The servant’s wide eyes were trained above her head, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed hard. Then he looked away.

She sighed. Apparently, she would have to save herself.

Again.

Her next action was goaded as much by instinct as by forethought. She moved her hand, setting it over his wrist, allowing him to feel the sharp point of the blade she hid in a custom-made ring. The man froze. And then laughed. “I do so love a good surprise.”

“I cannot say the same.”

“Frightened?” he queried.

“Of blood on my gown? Yes,” she retorted dryly. “It is one of my favorites.”

“Ah, but then it would more aptly match the blood on your hands”-he paused, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, making her shiver even as her skin flushed-“and mine.”

“Who are you?”

“I am what you need.”

Maria inhaled deeply, pressing her corset-flattened bosom against an unyielding forearm. Questions sifted through her mind faster than she could collect them. “I have everything I require.”

As he released her, her captor allowed his fingers to drift across the bare flesh above her bodice. Her skin tingled, goose-flesh spreading in his wake. “If you find you are mistaken,” he rasped, “come find me.”

He stepped back and she spun in a flurry of skirts to face him.

She expertly hid the true depth of her surprise. The renderings in the papers did not do him justice. Pale golden hair, sun-kissed skin, and brilliant blue eyes enriched features so fine they were almost angelic. His lips, though thin, were beautifully sculpted by a master hand. The entire sum of his countenance was so stunning, it was disarming. It made one want to trust him, something the cold intentness of his gaze told her would be a mistake.

As she studied him, Maria absently noted the undue attention they were attracting from the other patrons in the gallery, but she could not spare a quelling glance. Her attention was snared by the man who stood so arrogantly assured before her. “St. John.”

Showing a leg in a courtly bow, he smiled, but it did not reach his eyes-glorious eyes that were made more poignant by the shadows that rimmed them. He was not a man who slept often or well. “I am flattered by your recognition.”

“What is it that I am supposed to be lacking?”

“Perhaps whatever it is your men search for?”

The surprise elicited by that statement could not be hidden. “What do you know?”

“Too much,” he said smoothly, his gaze intensely searching. Sensual lips curved and trapped her attention. “And yet, not enough. Together, perhaps, we could achieve our aims.”