“A charming evening as always, Lady Spaulding,” her companion drawled, a glint of sly humour in his blue eyes. “How ever did you manage to lure Czar Alexander to your elegant gathering?”

Amelia shrugged. “I was introduced to Alexander Pavlovich when I attended his sister, the Duchess of Oldenburg, at the Pulteney Hotel. He was kind enough to suggest that I include him during my next salon.”

Sylvester waved a delicate lace fan, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

“The Prince Regent will be furious, of course,” he drawled. “It is said the Russians have flatly refused to attend several of the shockingly expensive entertainments he has planned to celebrate his grand victory over the Frenchies.”

“Considering that our rotund Prince’s only contribution to the war was marching his regiment up and down the streets of Brighton, it is hardly surprising that the Czar is unimpressed.”

Sylvester leaned forwards, a hint of a leer on his face as his gaze lowered to her full bosom.

“And, of course, Alexander Pavlovich does not desire to bed the Prince.”

Amelia stiffened in distaste. Over the past month she had noticed an unwelcome familiarity from Sylvester. Indeed, there had been several gentlemen who had made unwanted advances, perhaps assuming her husband’s continued absence from London meant she was in need of male companionship. She would have to put a swift end to such nonsense.

“Behave yourself, Sylvester.”

“My dear, I could hardly miss Alexander Pavlovich’s languishing glances and awkward attempts to lure you from the crowd,” Sylvester drawled. “He desires to make you his mistress.”

“I have no interest in the Czar.”

“Do not be so hasty, my dear. Czar Alexander is handsome enough, and taking him as your lover would only heighten your position among London society.” The lace fan fluttered. “You would be infamous.”

“Sylvester,” Amelia said softly.

“Yes?”

“If you ever again suggest that I barter my body to acquire the approval of society you may consider yourself an unwelcome guest in my home.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” The blue gaze slowly returned to her face. “You are quite correct to reprimand me. It is all too common among ladies of the ton to take lovers. Your mysterious refusal to discuss your current paramour only makes you more intriguing.”

Sensing the man was in need of a more crushing set-down, Amelia was abruptly distracted by the sound of raised voices echoing from the foyer below.

“What the devil?”

“It sounds as if an uninvited intruder is attempting to force his way past your rather terrifying butler. How very ill-bred,” Sylvester twittered, his brows lifting as Amelia turned to leave the drawing room. “My dear, where are you going?”

“To put an end to this foolishness.”

“But, he might be dangerous. God knows the streets are no longer safe for decent folk.”

“Do not be absurd.” Amelia waved a hand towards the milling guests who had yet to notice the disturbance. “See to the guests. I do not wish them to be bothered.”

“But of course, my dear.”

Slipping into the hallway, Amelia hurried down the corridor to the marble staircase, startled to see her uniformed butler standing on the formal landing, his arms lifted as if he were holding back an intruder.

Not that she could see anything beyond his hulking form. She had specifically chosen several large male servants to ensure her safety. Her butler in particular had once been a famed boxer who was capable of felling the most determined opponent.

“Is there a problem, Boris?”

“This here gentleman claims to be your husband,” the man growled, then he abruptly bent double, as if he had taken a brutal blow to the stomach.

Amelia stumbled, her back slamming into the wall of the corridor as the tall, raven-haired gentleman shoved aside her cursing butler and prowled forwards.

Her heart beat painfully against her chest as she studied the man who she had once been convinced she loved with all her soul.

He was not conventionally handsome. His features were strong rather than refined, and his skin bronzed from the hours he spent on his estate. He had a broad, intelligent forehead and a noble nose. His mouth was carved with a sensuous fullness and his eyes a stunning gold that could shimmer with humour or smoulder with passion. And, as always, his raven hair was in need of a cut, making her fingers ache to run through the satin length.

A shiver raced through her body, stealing away her arrogant belief that she was immune to the man who had crushed her youthful dreams.

“Good evening, Amelia.”

Her mouth went dry as her gaze lowered to his large, muscular body attired in a fawn jacket and buff breeches, his cravat tied in a simple knot. The Earl of Spaulding had no need of lace and fripperies to attract female attention. He possessed an innate male arrogance that was annoyingly captivating.

“Justin,” she breathed.

His lips curled in a humourless smile, his hooded gaze sliding down her stiff form with an unnerving intensity.

“I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that my wife is capable of recognizing me, even if my staff does not,” he drawled.

There was a movement behind him and Amelia hastily lifted her hand to halt her butler from attacking. “That will be all, Boris,” she commanded.

The servant scowled, obviously smarting from being bested by a nob. “Are you certain?”

Justin paused to glance over his shoulder. “Lady Spaulding gave you an order.”

“I will handle this,” she snapped, bristling at his interference. She had become accustomed to being the lady of the manor, and she had no intention of handing over her authority to anyone. Especially not her treacherous husband. “Please return to your duties, Boris.”

Boris shot the wryly amused nobleman a venomous glare before offering her a deep bow. “Yes, my lady.”

Waiting until the servant had made his way back to the foyer, Amelia returned her attention to her unwanted companion, her stomach clenching with a bittersweet awareness as he moved to stand close enough for her to feel the heat from his large body and catch the tempting scent of sandalwood.

Her hands clenched at her side. Damn him. She hated him, so how could he still stir her most primitive desires?

“What are you doing here?” she rasped.

“The last I knew this was the Spaulding townhouse, a home that has belonged to my family for the past century, is it not?”

Her chin tilted at his mocking tone. “If you would have possessed the courtesy to inform me of your intention to travel to London I would have taken rooms in a hotel and ensured that you would have your privacy.”

Without warning Justin shifted to place his hands flat on the wall on either side of her shoulders, effectively trapping her. “You mean that you would have cowardly fled as you did on our wedding day?” he demanded, his head slowly lowering. “That is precisely why I did not inform you of my impending arrival.”

She flinched, the memory of that day seared into her mind.

The brief, impersonal marriage ceremony before the Bishop. The long, silent carriage ride to the small inn where they were meant to spend their wedding night before travelling on to Rosemount, Justin’s estate in Hampshire. And then her impulsive flight back to London when she noticed the mail coach waiting in the stable yard.

She could still feel the sick dread in the pit of her stomach as she had arrived at this townhouse and the hours she had paced through the shabby, dark rooms, expecting Justin to arrive at any moment.

But he hadn’t arrived.

Not that evening. Or the following evening. Or the one after that.

Eventually she had accepted that her husband was content to have her in London while he settled at his beloved Rosemount. And why not? He had only taken her as his wife to salvage his heavily mortgaged estates. He was no doubt deeply relieved not to be burdened with his awkward, inconvenient wife.

But no more relieved than she had been, she sternly assured herself. Why would she desire him to chase after her, pretending that she was anything more than a means to replenish his family coffers?

Burying her pain and disillusionment deep inside her, Amelia had concentrated on building a new life for herself. First, she had overseen the renovations to the townhouse, ignoring any guilt at the vast changes she was making without regards to whether or not Justin would approve. The feckless Spauldings had allowed the place to fall into ruin. It was her money that had restored it to a habitable home. Why should she not choose what pleased her?

Next, she had set about renovating herself. Without the oppressive yoke of her mother’s overbearing presence, Amelia had slowly emerged from her cocoon. She bought a new wardrobe and hired a French maid who was an artist with her hair. She slowly and carefully began opening her home to a select collection of friends, deliberately ignoring those in society who had treated her with such disdain over the years.

She had been ironically aware that her hasty marriage to an earl, combined with her presence in London while her newly wed husband remained in Hampshire, had made her the source of avid interest among the ton. And the very fact that she refused to accept the piles of invitations that arrived with the post each morning only increased the fevered desire by London hostesses to secure her as a guest.

Absurd dolts.

Briefly lost in her thoughts, Amelia was jolted back to the present as she felt the brush of Justin’s warm lips over her mouth.