"Would you like to play with us?"

Before Stephen could answer, Hayley said, "Callie, all that running about might injure Mr. Barrettson's shoulder or ribs. He can join us in a game in a week or two, when he's fully healed."

"Perhaps," Stephen murmured, a feeling of heavy gloom settling over him.

After tomorrow he'd probably never see her again.

Tell her. Tell her now. But he looked into her smiling, happy face and could not make his mouth form the words.

Later. I'll tell her later.


* * *

"May I speak to you privately, Hayley?"

Hayley paused on her way into the house. Stephen leaned against the terrace railing, ankles crossed, arms folded across his chest. The warm breeze ruffled his hair, and the sun glinted in the ebony strands. Dear God, her throat ached just looking at him. After scooting Callie inside with the promise of reading her a story after dinner, Hayley turned to him, ready to smile, but his somber gaze stilled her. She looked down and noticed he held a Gentleman's Weekly in his hand. A sense of foreboding prickled her skin.

"Is something wrong, Stephen?"

He regarded her with an unreadable expression. "I don't know how to ask this other than simply to ask. What is your connection to H. Tripp?"

His words shifted the ground beneath her feet and she locked her knees to steady herself. She felt the blood drain from her face, but she tried her best to hide her stunned distress. "I beg your pardon?"

"H. Tripp. The author. How are you associated with him?"

Hayley's mind spun, frantically searching for the proper words to say. How much did he know? And how on earth had he found out? Swallowing her dismay, praying her voice remained steady, she asked, "Why would you think I have any connection to him?"

Instead of answering, he opened the magazine and read,

…when each of my five were born, the missus and I looked at them and recalled the moment we'd made them… named them all based on where we'd loved. Good thing it was never by a stream or the poor thing would have been called "Atwater!"

He closed the magazine. "I'm sure you understand my question now."

Weakness wobbled her legs and she sank into a wrought-iron chair. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She'd guarded her secret for so long, she didn't know how to respond. And if Stephen had figured it out, how long before other people did? If she lost her income … she clenched her hands together until her knuckles whitened. That simply could not happen. She wouldn't let it. But under the circumstances, there was no point in attempting to lie to Stephen.

Drawing a resolute breath, she squarely met his gaze. "I am H. Tripp."

She'd expected her admission to upset him, or disgust him, but he merely nodded.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No. The publisher demands absolute secrecy-"

"With good reason," he broke in.

"Yes." She searched his eyes for some clue of his feelings, but his expression remained unreadable. "When Papa died, we desperately needed money. I refused to leave the children to take a governess or companion post. The income I receive from Gentleman's Weekly allows me to provide for them here." She rubbed her moist palms on her skirt. "I'm sure you're quite scandalized-"

"I'm not."

She waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. He might not be scandalized, but it seemed apparent he didn't approve. And the possibility of her secret becoming common knowledge filled her with dread. "I hope you will please consider not telling anyone about this. My livelihood depends on retaining my anonymity."

"I have no intention of doing anything that could harm your employment, Hayley. I shall not reveal your secret. You have my word."

Relief flooded her and she released a pent-up breath she hadn't even realized she held. "Thank you. I-"

"You're welcome. Please excuse me."

Before she could say another word, he opened the French windows and entered the house. Hayley stared after him and bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling.

Though he'd said nothing further, his abrupt, cold departure said it all.

SHAPE \* MERGEFORMAT

Chapter 18

Stephen sat through dinner that evening stealing glances at Hayley, who blushed every time their eyes met. He tried to keep his mind on the chatter around him, but it proved impossible. His thoughts kept alternating between the amazing discovery that Hayley was H. Tripp, and the conversation he knew he had to have with her about his upcoming departure from Halstead.

Nathan joined the family, and as he was the center of attention after his fall, Stephen wasn't required to say very much. Which was just as well.

Hayley sat next to him, garbed in a plain gown. Although she talked to everyone, Stephen thought she seemed somewhat subdued. She tried several times to draw him into the conversation, but his comments were desultory at best.

Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow. If I'm alone with her tonight, God only knows what will happen. That decided, Stephen excused himself immediately after the meal, claiming a headache. He headed toward the stairs, but had only made it halfway up the long flight of steps when Hayley caught up to him.

"Are you all right, Stephen?" she asked, touching his sleeve.

Stephen looked down at her hand, then into her eyes. She looked worried. "I'm simply tired and I have a headache," he lied. I'm not ready to tell you I'm leaving. And I have to get away from you or else we'll end up on the study sofa again and I'll finish what I started last night. Believe me, it's for your own good. You're not safe with me.

"May I get you a draught or tisane?"

Stephen shook his head. "No, thank you. I simply need some rest." He turned to go.

"Stephen?"

Stephen paused and looked down at her and almost lost his resolve. The look of concern on her beautiful face nearly changed his noble intentions. "Yes?"

"About our conversation this afternoon…"Her voice trailed off and she dropped her gaze to the floor. "I hope you don't think badly of me."

If only I did, this would be so much easier. Tilting her chin up with two fingers, he smiled at her. "I could never think badly of you, Hayley. As far as I am concerned, that conversation is forgotten."

Her relief was evident. "I'm glad. Sleep well."

"Thank you." He continued up to his bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

Sleep well? Not bloody likely.


* * *

Not bloody likely had proven prophetic. At two in the morning sleep was still nowhere in Stephen's immediate future.

He restlessly paced the length of his bedchamber, tossing back Tripp Albright's excellent brandy at an alarming rate. He felt tense and totally out of sorts.

And sexually frustrated as hell.

He longed to leave the confines of his bedchamber but hesitated to do so, fearing he'd run into Hayley in the study, the drawing room, or the garden. Stephen knew without a doubt that if he happened upon her, his battle with his conscience would be completely lost. He wanted her too damn much. Muttering a savage oath, he stoked up the fire and poured himself another brandy.

Just as he lifted the snifter to his lips, he heard a quiet knock on his door. Thinking he was mistaken, Stephen stood, his drink arrested midway to his lips, and listened.

The knock sounded again.

Damn it, if she'd come to him, how would he ever find the strength to send her away? His heart thumping, he went to the door and pulled it open.

And saw no one.

Then he heard a sniffle. He looked down.

Callie stood in the hallway, clutching her doll to her chest, tears streaming down her small face. A combination of relief, disappointment, and alarm washed over him.

Crouching down, he brushed a curl away from the child's brow and asked, "What's wrong, Callie? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

She raised tear-filled eyes to him. "It's Miss Josephine," she whispered in a quavering, watery voice. "She's had a terrible accident."

"Indeed? What sort of accident?"

Callie handed over the doll with a teary sniff. "Look."

Stephen gently cradled the doll in his hands. Miss Josephine had indeed met with an accident. A very serious accident. Her dress was torn and both her arms were pulled off. Her face, never really clean, was utterly filthy. And she stunk to high heaven.

"What happened to her?" Stephen asked.

"Stinky must have gotten hold of her," Callie said, her chin trembling. "I woke up and couldn't find her. Then I remembered I'd left her on the patio. I went to get her, and this is how she was. I know Stinky didn't mean to hurt her, but I don't think Miss Josephine will ever be the same."

Callie sobbed as if her heart would break. Stephen stared at her, holding her doll, feeling utterly helpless. He awkwardly patted her back.

"Well, why don't you lay her down and perhaps in the morning Hayley or Pamela or your aunt can fix her up," he suggested, at a complete loss as to how to handle the situation.

Callie shook her head. "I can't let Miss Josephine go to bed like this. She's miserable. And how could she sleep, with her arms torn off?" A sob broke from her chest. "She's in terrible pain. We must help her."

We? Stephen panicked at the very idea. "Why don't you see if one of your sisters is awake…" Stephen's words drifted off as Callie raised tear-filled aqua eyes to his.

"Hayley doesn't like it when I wake her up. Pamela either."

"Nonsense. I cannot imagine either one being angry."