Benfield started to speak, then stopped, silenced by the ice in Michael's eyes.

He swung open the door to the duke's sitting room. Claudia and the others stared, trying to divine what had happened. Looking neither right nor left, he walked across the room and into the hall. Down the polished stairs, one hand on the banister because he was less steady than he pretended. Past the butler, then outside into the blessedly cool air. It soothed the suffocating heat in his lungs.

So he was a bastard. It explained everything: the duke's obvious loathing, the smug way his mother had petted and spoiled him when she was in the mood. Claudia and Benfield had sensed the duke's attitude and become contemptuous in their turn. What should have been a family had become a holocaust.

He had never known Roderick, who had died in the West Indies when Michael was an infant. He had vague memories of being told by the elderly Kenyon nurse that he was just like his poor dear uncle. She had been more accurate than she knew.

Instead of returning to Lucien's house, he deliberately went in the opposite direction. Now that the first shock was over, the news of his birth was curiously liberating. It hadn't been his fault. He had done nothing to justify his father's- no, the duke's-ruthless criticisms and savage whippings. When he was sent to Eton instead of Harrow, the traditional Kenyon school, it was not because of his personal failings.

All of his attempts to be the best, to prove himself worthy, had been doomed to fail, because nothing could have made the duke accept him. Yet the struggles had not been valueless, for they had shaped his character, made him what he was. Feeling like an outsider, he had developed an empathy for other outsiders that was unusual in someone raised as the son of a duke. That empathy had led him to befriend Nicholas and Kenneth and others, greatly enriching his life.

Though the news was jarring, it was of no real significance. He was still the man he had always been, both his flaws and his strengths. If he ever told the truth to his closest friends, they would not care. They had provided shelter, both literally and emotionally, when he was growing up, and they would not abandon him now. He had become a wealthy man through mining and investments to prove that he did not need the duke's help. Because of those efforts, now it didn't matter that he would inherit nothing.

He thought back, reinterpreting the past in the light of this new knowledge. He had not lost his family, because he had never really had one. Oddly, he found that he no longer hated the duke. A better man might have treated his wife's bastard more kindly, but the duke had never had much kindness in him. It was characteristic of the duke's cruelty that he could be so disdainful of his own son in front of Benfield's face. Pride and propriety were his ruling passions, and it could not have been easy to be continuously confronted with the proof of his humiliation.

After Michael walked his way to peace, he returned to Strathmore House. It was better to know the truth than to remain in ignorance. Nonetheless, he felt almost as exhausted as during his long convalescence after Waterloo. Thank God for Nicholas and Clare, who taken him into their own home and cared for him like a brother. With such friends, he didn't need a family.

His tranquillity lasted until the footman handed him a card. "There is a lady waiting to see you, my lord."

Her heart pounded when she heard the salon door open and his familiar footsteps. She donned the serene expression of Saint Catherine, then slowly turned from the window.

Michael had seemed younger, more carefree, that time she had seen him in the park. Now that she was closer, she saw that the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened, and he seemed strained. But there was warmth in his voice when he said, "Catherine?"

Dear Lord, would she be able to carry through such a deception? Throat tight, she said, "I'm sorry to bother you, Lord Michael."

"Are we on such formal terms, Catherine?" He crossed the room and gave her a light, friendly kiss. "It's good to see you. You're as lovely as ever."

Releasing her hands, he asked, "How is Amy? And Colin?"

"Amy is wonderful. You'd scarcely know her. I swear she's grown three inches since last spring. Colin-" she hesitated, searching for words that would be partially true, "is still in France."

Unsuspicious, Michael said, "I'm forgetting my manners. Please, sit down. I'll ring for tea."

Knowing she must speak before she lost her nerve entirely, Catherine said, "I'd better state my piece first. I need some rather unusual aid. You-you may want to throw me out when you hear what it is."

Michael's expression became serious and he studied her face. "Never," he said quietly. "I owe you my life, Catherine. You can ask anything of me."

"You give me more credit than I deserve." She swallowed hard and reminded herself of why she must lie. "I'm afraid that… that I need a husband. A temporary husband."

Chapter 19

Michael stared at Catherine, wondering if he had heard properly. The obvious, vulgar interpretation could not be true. Perhaps he'd fallen from his horse and landed on his head and this whole day was a fever dream. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry, my thoughts are rather scrambled." She sat down and drew a deep breath. "I've just come from a solicitor's office, where I learned that I'm the only granddaughter of the Laird of Skoal. My grandfather wishes to look me and my husband over to see if we are worthy of inheriting the island. According to Mr. Harwell, the laird is very ill, so it must be done soon. It would take weeks to notify Colin so he could return from France. By that time, my grandfather might be dead and this opportunity lost."

"You can reach Skoal from London in two or three days."

Catherine smiled mirthlessly. "Alone, I'm not good enough. Mr. Harwell said the laird wants to approve my husband as well as me. Otherwise, the island may be left elsewhere." Her eyes slid away. "Since Colin can't possibly get here in time, could… could you come with me for a few days and pretend to be my husband?"

In its way, this request was as shocking as the duke's announcement. "You're joking."

"I'm afraid not." She bit her lip. "I know this is an outrageous request, but I can think of no better solution."

There was definitely a God, and He had a very strange sense of humor. Michael said carefully, "In other words, you'd like me to take part in a charade to deceive your grandfather."

"It sounds dreadful, doesn't it? I hate the idea of deceit. Yet, to be blunt, the legacy would be welcome. Very welcome indeed." Her mouth twisted wryly. "To be even more blunt, my grandfather might approve of you more than Colin. I gather that the laird is looking for reliable hands in which to leave Skoal."

And Colin Melbourne was not the steadiest of men. Remembering the signs of financial strain in Brussels, Michael could understand why this legacy was vitally important to her.

Catherine continued, "It's not as if the deception will cause any harm. A woman can run an estate as well as a man, and I will learn whatever is necessary."

He wondered if she feared that Melbourne would refuse to live such an isolated life. Or perhaps she could no longer accept her husband's infidelities and wanted to build a life of her own. Whatever her reasons, he could not ask. But there were other questions that must be answered. "The mere thought of telling a lie has tied you in knots. Are you a good enough actress to successfully pass me off as your husband?"

She closed her eyes for the space of a dozen heartbeats. Then she opened them and said easily, "I'm an excellent actress, Colin. I can do whatever I need to do."

She was serene Saint Catherine again, and her voice was so convincing when she called him by her husband's name that he felt chills. Were all women born deceivers? A good thing she was nothing like Caroline, or she would be dangerous.

Perhaps she could carry off the charade, but could he? They would have to spend a great deal of time together. In public, they would have to mimic the physical and verbal intimacy of a long-married couple. In private, he must keep his distance. Feeling about her as he did, the combination would be sheer hell.

Of course, she did not know how he felt about her. She also had the innocence of a long-married, monogamous woman. She had forgotten what unruly beasts men could be, if indeed she had ever known. Yet he could not say no. Not only because he had given her a carte blanche for help, but because he could not resist the opportunity to be with her. He was as much a fool as he had ever been. "Very well. You have yourself a temporary husband."

She gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much. There is no one else I could trust to do this."

Because her other male friends had more sense, Michael thought dourly. "If time is of the essence, shall we leave for Skoal tomorrow?"

"If you can get away so quickly, that would be ideal." Her brow furrowed. "But don't you have social commitments?''

He shrugged. "Nothing that can't be canceled."

"Bless you, Michael. I don't know what I would do without you." She got to her feet. "I'll go back to Mr. Harwell's office and tell him we'll be going to Skoal. No doubt he'll have instructions for me. Also, he said he would advance me the money for travel expenses if I decided to go."

"No need. I'll take care of the costs."

"I can't possibly let you do that."