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Praise for The Handmaiden’s Necklace

“Fast-paced…sizzling love scenes…[Martin has] a well-honed ability to deliver spicy romance.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Kat Martin captivates readers within the first three pages of the story. This book was pure sensational joy…with all the right elements that make this book a non-stop read full of passionate love.”

—Coffee Time Romance

“The sexual tension between Rafael and Danielle was so thick you could cut it with a knife.”

—Romance Reader at Heart

“A dazzling conclusion to The Bride’s Necklace trilogy. I could not put this book down. If you haven’t experienced this trilogy yet, I urge you to run to your nearest bookstore and get it. You won’t regret a minute of it.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A heartwrenching and beautiful love story. You’ll be utterly captivated at Martin’s talent for creating a masterful, emotional and unforgettable experience.”

—RT Book Reviews

KAT MARTIN
THE HANDMAIDEN’S NECKLACE

To my husband, Larry.

My true life hero.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Author’s Note

One

London, England

June 1806

“’Tis a shame, is what it is.” Cornelia Thorne, Lady Brookfield, stood near the center of the ballroom. “Just look at him out there dancing…so completely bored. Him a duke and her such a mousy little thing, completely terrified of the man, I’ll wager.”

The Duchess of Sheffield, Miriam Saunders, raised her quizzing glass to peer at her son, Rafael, Duke of Sheffield. Miriam and her sister, Cornelia, were attending a charity ball along with Rafael and his betrothed, Lady Mary Rose Montague. The evening, a benefit for the London Widows and Orphans Society, was being held in the magnificent ballroom of the Chesterfield Hotel.

“The girl is actually quite lovely,” the duchess defended, “so blond and petite, just a bit shy, is all.” Unlike her son, the duke, who was tall and dark, with eyes even bluer than her own. And there was Rafe, himself, a strong, incredibly handsome man whose powerful presence seemed to overshadow the young woman he had chosen to be his future bride.

“I’ll grant, she is pretty,” Cornelia said, “in a rather white-washed sort of way. Still, it seems a shame.”

“Rafael is finally doing his duty. It is past time he took a wife. Perhaps they don’t suit as well as I would have liked, but the girl is young and strong, and she will bear him healthy sons.” And yet, as her sister had said, Miriam couldn’t miss the bland, bored expression on her son’s very handsome face.

“Rafael was always so dashing,” Cornelia said a bit wistfully. “Do you not remember the way he was before? So full of fire, so passionate about life in those days. Now…well, he is always so restrained. I do miss the vibrant young man he used to be.”

“People change, Cornelia. Rafe learned the hard way where those sorts of emotions can lead.”

Cornelia grunted. “You’re talking about The Scandal.” Thin and gray-haired, she was older than the duchess by nearly six years. “How could anyone forget Danielle…? Now, there was a woman Rafael’s equal. ’Tis a shame she turned out to be such a disappointment.”

The duchess cast her sister a glance, not wanting a reminder of the terrible scandal they had suffered because of Rafe’s former betrothed, Danielle Duval.

The dance ended and the couples began dispersing from the dance floor. “Hush,” Miriam warned. “Rafe and Mary Rose are coming this way.” The girl was nearly a foot shorter than the duke, blond, blue-eyed and fair, the perfect picture of English femininity. She was also the daughter of an earl, with a very sizable dowry. Miriam prayed her son would find at least some measure of happiness with the girl.

Rafe made a polite, formal bow. “Good evening, Mother. Aunt Cornelia.”

Miriam smiled. “You’re both looking quite splendid tonight.” And they did. Rafe in dove-gray breeches and a navy-blue tailcoat that set off the blue of his eyes, and Mary Rose in a gown of white silk trimmed with delicate pink roses.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said the girl, with a very proper curtsy.

Miriam frowned. Was her hand trembling where it rested on the sleeve of Rafe’s coat? Dear God, the child would soon be a duchess. Miriam fervently prayed she would manage to infuse a bit of backbone into her spine as the months went along.

“Would you care to dance, Mother?” Rafe asked politely.

“Later, perhaps.”

“Aunt Cornelia?”

But Cornelia was staring at the doorway, her mind a thousand miles away. Miriam followed her gaze, as did Rafael and his betrothed.

“Speak of the devil…” Cornelia whispered beneath her breath.

Miriam’s eyes widened and her heartbeat quickened, turned wildly erratic. She recognized the short, plump little woman entering the ballroom, Flora Chamberlain, Dowager Countess Wycombe. And she also knew the tall, slender, red-haired woman who was the countess’s niece.

Miriam’s mouth thinned into a hostile line. A few feet away, her son’s expression shifted from incredulity to anger, deepening the slight cleft in his chin.

Cornelia continued to stare. “Of all the nerve!”

A muscle tightened along Rafe’s jaw, but he didn’t say a word.

“Who is that?” asked Mary Rose.

Rafe ignored her. His gaze remained locked on the elegant creature entering the ballroom behind her aunt. Danielle Duval had been living in the country for the past five years. After The Scandal, she had been banished, shamed into leaving the city. Since her father was dead and her mother had disowned her for what she had done, she had moved in with her aunt, Flora Duval Chamberlain. Until tonight, she had remained in the country.

The duchess couldn’t imagine what Danielle was doing back in London, or what had possessed her to come to a place where she was so obviously not welcome.

“Rafael…?” Lady Mary Rose looked up at him with a worried expression. “What is it?”

Rafe’s gaze never wavered. Something flashed in his intense blue eyes, something hot and wild Miriam hadn’t seen there in nearly five years. Anger tightened the skin across his cheekbones. He took a steadying breath and fought to bring himself under control.

Looking down at Mary Rose, he managed a smile. “Nothing to be concerned about, sweeting. Nothing at all.” He took her gloved hand and rested it once more on the sleeve of his coat. “I believe they are playing a rondele. Shall we dance?”

He led her away without waiting for an answer. Miriam imagined it would always be that way—Rafe commanding, Mary Rose obeying like a good little girl.

The duchess turned back to Danielle Duval, watched her moving along behind her rotund, silver-haired aunt, head held high, ignoring the whispers, the stares, walking with the grace of the duchess she should have been.

Thank heaven the girl’s true nature had come out before Rafael had married her.

Before he fell even more in love with her.

The duchess looked again at petite Mary Rose, thought of the biddable sort of wife she would make, nothing at all like Danielle Duval, and suddenly she felt grateful.

Crystal chandeliers gleamed down from the lavish, inlaid ceilings of the magnificent ballroom, casting a soft glow over the polished parquet floors. Huge vases of yellow roses and white chrysanthemums sat on pedestals along the wall. The elite of London’s elite filled the room, dancing to the music of a ten-piece orchestra in pale blue livery, members of the ton attending the gala in support of the London Widows and Orphans Society.

At the edge of the dance floor, Cord Easton, Earl of Brant, and Ethan Sharpe, Marquess of Belford, stood next to their wives, Victoria and Grace, watching the couples moving around the floor.

“Do you see what I see?” Cord drawled, his gaze turning away from the dancers to the pair of women walking along the far wall of the room. “I swear my eyes must be deceiving me.” Cord was a big man, powerfully built, with dark brown hair and golden brown eyes. He and Ethan were the duke’s best friends.

“What are you looking at so intently?” His wife, Victoria, followed the line of his vision.

“Danielle Duval,” Ethan answered, surprised. “I can’t believe she has the nerve to come here.” Ethan was as tall as the duke, lean and broad-shouldered, with black hair and very light blue eyes.

“Why, she’s beautiful….” Grace Sharpe stared in awe at the tall, slender redhead. “No wonder Rafe fell in love with her.”

“Mary Rose is beautiful, too,” Victoria defended.

“Yes, of course she is. But there is something about Miss Duval…can you not see?”

“There is something about her, all right,” Cord growled. “She’s a treacherous little baggage with the heart of a snake and not the least bit of conscience. Half of London knows what she did to Rafe. She isn’t welcome here, I can tell you.”

Cord’s gaze found the duke, who was concentrating on his petite blond dancing partner with an interest he had never shown in her before. “Rafe must have seen her. Damnation—why did Danielle have to come back to London?”

“What do you think Rafe will do?” Victoria asked.

“Ignore her. Rafe won’t stoop to her level. He has too much self-control for that.”

Danielle Duval fixed her gaze straight ahead and continued walking behind her aunt. They were headed for a spot at the back of the room, a place where Dani could remain for the most part out of sight.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a woman turn abruptly away from her, giving Danielle her back. She could hear people whispering, talking about The Scandal. Dear God, how could she have let her aunt convince her to come?

But Flora Duval Chamberlain had a way of convincing people to her will.

“This charity means everything to me, dearest,” she had said. “You have been instrumental in all the good work we have accomplished and received not a single word of thanks. I refuse to go without you. Please say you will agree to your aunt’s one small request.”

“You know what it will be like for me, Aunt Flora. No one will speak to me. They will talk about me behind my back. I don’t think I can bear to go through that again.”

“You have to come out of hiding sooner or later. It has already been five years! You never did anything to deserve being treated the way you have been. It is high time you reclaimed your place in the world.”

Knowing how much the ball meant to her aunt, Danielle had reluctantly agreed. Besides, Aunt Flora was right. It was time she came out of hiding and reclaimed her life. And she would only be in London for the next two weeks. After that, she was sailing for America, embarking on the new life she intended to make for herself there.

Dani had accepted a proposal of marriage from a man named Richard Clemens, whom she had met in the country, a wealthy American businessman, a widower with two young children. As Richard’s wife, Danielle would have the husband and family she had long ago given up hope of ever having. With her new life on the horizon, coming to the ball at her aunt’s request seemed a small-enough price to pay.

Now that she was there, however, Dani wished with all her heart that she were somewhere—anywhere—besides where she was.

They reached the back of the elegant ballroom and she settled herself on a small gold velvet chair against the wall behind one of the urns overflowing with flowers. A few feet away Aunt Flora, undeterred by the hostile glares being cast in their direction, made her way over to the punch bowl and returned a few minutes later with crystal cups filled to the brim with fruit punch.

“Here, dearest, drink this.” She winked. “I put a splash of something in there to help you relax.”

Danielle opened her mouth to say she didn’t need alcoholic spirits to get through the evening, caught another hostile glare and took a big drink of the punch.

“As co-chairman of the event,” her aunt explained, “I shall be expected to give a brief speech a bit later on. I shall ask for a generous donation from those in attendance, express my gratitude to all for their past support, and then we shall leave.”

It couldn’t happen soon enough for Dani. Though she had known what to expect—the scorn she read in people’s faces; the acquaintances, once her friends, who would not even look her way—hurt even worse than she had imagined.

And then there was Rafael.

Dear God, she had prayed he wouldn’t be here. Aunt Flora had assured her he would simply send a hefty donation as he had done every other year. Instead, here he was, taller, even more handsome than she remembered, exuding every ounce of his powerful presence and aristocratic bearing.

The man who had ruined her.

The man she hated more than anyone on earth.

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Flora waved her painted fan in front of her round, powdered face. “Apparently I was wrong. It appears His Grace, the Duke of Sheffield, is here.”

For an instant, Dani’s back teeth ground together. “Yes…so it would seem.” And Rafe had seen her walk in, Danielle knew. For an instant their eyes had met and held, hers as green as his were blue. She had seen the flash of anger before his gaze became shuttered, then the bland expression he had been wearing before he saw her fell back into place.

Her own temper climbed. She had never seen that look on his face before, so calm, so completely unruffled, almost serene. It made her want to hit him. To slap the smug, condescending look off his too-handsome face.

Instead, she sat in her chair against the wall, ignored by old friends, whispered about by people she didn’t even know, wishing her aunt would finish her speech and they could go home.

Rafael handed his betrothed, Lady Mary Rose Montague, back into the care of her mother and father, the Earl and Countess of Throckmorton.

“Perhaps you will save another dance for me later,” Rafe said to the little blonde, bowing over her hand.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He nodded, turned away.

“They will be playing a waltz a bit later,” said Mary Rose. “Perhaps you would…”

But Rafe was already walking away, his mind on another woman far different from the one he intended to wed. Danielle Duval. Just the sound of her name, whispering through the back of his mind, was enough to make his temper shoot to dangerous levels. It had taken him years to learn to control his volatile nature, to bring his emotions under control. These days, he rarely shouted, rarely lost his temper. Rarely allowed his passionate nature to get out of hand.

Not since Danielle.

Loving Danielle Duval had taught him a valuable lesson—the terrible cost of letting one’s emotions rule one’s head and heart. Love was a disease that could unman a man. It had nearly destroyed Rafael.

He glanced toward the rear of the ballroom, catching a flash of Danielle’s bright hair. She was here. He could scarcely believe it. How dare she show her face after what she had done!

Determined to ignore her, Rafe went to join his friends at the edge of the dance floor. The instant he walked up, he knew the group had spotted Danielle.

He took a glass of champagne off the silver tray of a passing waiter. “So…from the astonished looks on your faces, I gather you have seen her.”

Cord shook his head. “I can’t believe she had the nerve to come here.”

“The woman has unmitigated gall,” Ethan added darkly.

Rafe flicked a glance at Grace, who studied him over the rim of her glass of champagne.

“She is quite beautiful,” Grace said. “I can see why you fell in love with her.”

His jaw tightened. “I fell in love with the woman because I was an idiot. Believe me, I paid the price for my folly, and I assure you it won’t happen again.”

Victoria’s head came up. She was the shorter of the women, with heavy brown hair as opposed to Grace’s rich auburn curls. “Surely you don’t mean you will never again fall in love,” she said.

“That is precisely what I mean.”

“But what about Mary Rose? Surely you love her at least a little.”

“I care for the girl. I wouldn’t marry her if I didn’t. She’s a lovely young woman with a pleasant, biddable nature, and a very fine pedigree.”

Ethan rolled his pale blue eyes. “Need I remind you, my friend, we’re discussing a woman here, not a horse?”

Cord stared off toward the redhead at the far end of the ballroom. “You’re doing a splendid job of ignoring her. I don’t know if I could be quite so magnanimous.”

Rafe scoffed. “It isn’t all that hard. The woman means nothing to me—not anymore.”

But his gaze strayed again across the dance floor. He caught a glimpse of the deep red curls on top of Danielle’s head and felt a rush of angry heat to the back of his neck. He itched to stride across the floor and wrap his hands around her throat, to squeeze the very life from her. It was a feeling he hadn’t known since the day he’d last seen her—five years ago.

The memory returned with shocking force…the weeklong house party at the country estate of his friend Oliver Randall. The excitement he felt, knowing Danielle, her mother and aunt would be among the guests. Ollie Randall was the third son of the Marquess of Caverly, and the family estate, Woodhaven, was palatial.

The weeklong visit was magical, at least for Rafe. Long, lazy afternoons spent with Danielle, evenings of dancing and the chance for them to steal a few moments alone. Then, two nights before week’s end, Rafe had stumbled upon a note, a brief message signed by Danielle. It was addressed to Oliver, had obviously been read and tossed away, and in it Dani invited Ollie to her room that night.

I must see you, Oliver. Only you can save me from making a terrible mistake. Please, I beg you, come to my room at midnight. I will be waiting.

Yours, Danielle

Rafe felt torn between anger and disbelief. He was in love with Danielle and he had believed she loved him.

It was only a few minutes after midnight that Rafe knocked, then turned the knob on Danielle’s door. When the door swung open, he saw his friend lying in bed with his betrothed.

Lying naked beside the woman he loved.

He could still remember the wave of nausea that had rolled through his stomach, the awful, terrible feeling of betrayal.

It rose again now as the music in the ballroom reached a crescendo. Rafe fixed his gaze on the orchestra, determined to dispel the unwanted memories, to bury them as he had done five years ago.

He spent the next hour dancing with the wives of his friends, then danced again with Mary Rose. A brief speech was made by one of the co-chairwomen of the fund-raising event, and recognizing Flora Duval Chamberlain, he understood why Danielle had come.

Or at least part of the reason.

If there were others, he would never know. After the brief speeches ended and the dancing resumed, Rafe looked again across the ballroom.

Danielle Duval was no longer there.

Two

“Did you see the way he looked at her?” Smoothing back a curl of her heavy chestnut hair, Victoria Easton, Countess of Brant, sat on the brocade sofa in the Blue Drawing Room of the town house she shared with her husband and ten-month-old son. Her blond, elegantly lovely sister, Claire, Lady Percival Chezwick, and her best friend, Grace Sharpe, Marchioness of Belford, sat just a few feet away.

“It was really quite something,” Grace said. “There was fire in that man’s eyes. I have never seen quite that expression on his face.”

“He was probably just angry she had come,” Claire reasoned. “I wish I had been there to see it.”

Tory had ordered tea but the butler had not yet arrived with the cart, though she could hear the wheels rattling down the marble-floored corridor on the other side of the door. “You weren’t there because you were home with Percy doing something far more fun than attending a benefit ball.”

Claire giggled. She was the youngest of the women and, even after her marriage, still the most naive. “We had a wonderful night. Percy is so romantic. Still, I should have enjoyed seeing a truly scarlet woman.”

“I felt sorry for Rafael,” Grace said. “Rafe must have truly loved her. He tried to hide it, but he was furious, even after all these years.”

“Yes, and Rafe rarely loses his temper,” Tory said. She sighed. “It’s terrible what she did to him. I’m surprised she fooled him so completely. Rafe is usually a very good judge of character.”

“So exactly what did she do?” Claire asked, leaning forward in her chair.

“According to Cord, Danielle invited a friend of Rafe’s into her bed—with Rafe and a number of guests just down the hall. He caught them and that was the end of their betrothal. It was all very public. The scandal followed him for years.”

Grace smoothed a faint wrinkle in the skirt of her high-waisted apricot muslin skirt. “Danielle Duval is the reason Rafe is determined to marry without love.” A week ago, her little boy, Andrew Ethan, had just turned six months old, but Grace’s lithe figure had already returned.

Timmons knocked just then and Tory beckoned the short, stout butler into the room. The tea cart rattled over to the Oriental carpet and stopped in front of the sofa, then the small man silently left the drawing room.

“All is not yet lost,” Tory said to Grace, leaning forward to pour the steaming brew into three gold-rimmed porcelain cups. “You gave Rafael the necklace, so there is still a ray of hope.”

Rafe had been instrumental in saving Grace’s life and that of her newborn baby. She had wanted her friend to find the happiness she had found with Ethan, so she had given the duke a very special gift. The Bride’s Necklace, an ancient piece of jewelry made in the thirteenth century for the bride of the Lord of Fallon. The necklace, it was said, carried a curse—it could bring great joy or terrible tragedy, depending on whether or not its owner’s heart was pure.

“I suppose you’re right,” Grace agreed. “Rafe has the necklace, so there is yet a chance for him to find happiness.”

Claire toyed with the handle on her teacup. “What if all the things that happened to you and Tory were just strange coincidences and nothing at all to do with the necklace? It could be, you know.”

Tory sighed, knowing her sister might be right. “It’s possible, I guess, but…” But Tory couldn’t help thinking of the time the necklace had belonged to her, of the wonderful man she had married and their beautiful infant son, Jeremy Cordell, who was asleep in the nursery upstairs.

She couldn’t help remembering that she had given the necklace to Grace, who had met Ethan and saved him from the darkness that surrounded him. Grace, who now also had a wonderful husband and son.

And there was her stepfather, Miles Whiting, Baron Harwood, an evil man who had owned the necklace and now lay moldering in his grave.

Tory shivered, shoving away the unwanted thought. “We know Rafe has a good heart. We can only hope the necklace will work.”

Claire looked up from studying the leaves in the bottom of her teacup. “Maybe the duke will fall in love with Mary Rose. That would be the perfect solution.”

Tory cast Grace a look and tried not to grin when Grace rolled her eyes. “That is a very good notion, Claire. Perhaps he will.”

But when she thought of the searing glance Rafe had tossed at Danielle Duval, she couldn’t make herself believe it.

“Please, Aunt Flora. I simply cannot do it. How can you even think of asking me to go through that again?”

They were standing in Danielle’s bedchamber, in their elegant suite at the Chesterfield Hotel, a lovely room done in shades of gold and dark green. Aunt Flora had let the rooms for the next two weeks, until their ship set sail for America.

“Come, now, dearest. This is an entirely different sort of affair. To begin with, this is an afternoon tea, not a ball, and a number of the children will be there. You know how you love children, and you are always so good with them.”

Dani toyed with the sash on her blue quilted wrapper. It was not yet noon. The benefit tea would begin in a little over an hour. “The affair may be different, but I will be shunned, just as I was before. You saw how people treated me.”

“Yes, I did, and I was proud of the way you conducted yourself. You made it clear you had every right to be there. I thought you handled the situation beautifully.”

“I was miserable, every single moment.”

Aunt Flora sighed dramatically. “Yes, well, I am truly sorry about the duke.” She looked up at Dani from beneath a set of finely plucked, silver-gray eyebrows. “At least the man didn’t cause you any trouble.”

Dani didn’t mention the angry look he had tossed her, or the furious expression he couldn’t quite hide. “He would have been sorry if he had said even one word.”

“Well, he won’t be there this time, I promise you.”

She glanced down at her aunt, who was a good eight inches shorter and quite a few stone heavier. “How can you be so certain?”

“It was merely a fluke the last time. An afternoon tea is hardly the sort of affair that would interest a duke. Besides, I wouldn’t ask you to go if I were feeling up to snuff. Lately I’ve been a bit under the weather.” She coughed lightly for effect, hoping to make Dani feel guilty.

Instead, Danielle saw it as a last thin ray of hope. “Perhaps, since you are ill, it would be best if you stayed home, as well. We can have some nice hot tea and fresh scones sent up and—”

Aunt Flora stopped her words. “As co-chairwoman of the society, I have duties, responsibilities. As long as you are with me, I shall be fine.”

Dani’s shoulders sagged. How did her aunt always manage to get her way? Then again, Aunt Flora had agreed to accompany her on the difficult journey to America. She would be there for Dani’s wedding and remain until she was settled with her husband in her new home. Surely she could buck up enough to make it through this last fund-raising event before they departed.

And, as Aunt Flora had said, the children would be there. There would be at least a few friendly faces to get her through the afternoon affair.

A knock at the door drew her attention. An instant later, the door swung open and her lady’s maid, Caroline Loon, walked in.

Caro smiled widely. “Lady Wycombe sent for me. Shall I help you pick out something to wear?”

Dani rolled her eyes, thinking that she hadn’t had a chance from the start.

“Well, then I shall leave you to dress,” Aunt Flora said, making her way out the door. “You may join me as soon as you are ready.”

Giving in to her fate, Dani made a resigned nod of her head, and as soon as the door was closed, Caro hurried over to the armoire against the wall. At six-and-twenty, a year older than Dani, Caroline Loon was taller and more slenderly built, a blond woman, attractive in a different sort of way, with an incredibly sweet disposition.

Caro was a gently reared young lady whose parents had died unexpectedly of a fever. Penniless and orphaned, she had arrived at Wycombe Park nearly five years ago, desperate for any sort of employment.

Aunt Flora had immediately hired her as Danielle’s lady’s maid, but over the years, the two of them had become far more than mistress and maid. Caroline Loon, a vicar’s daughter likely destined for spinsterhood, had become her best friend.

Caro opened the door of the armoire. Though most of Dani’s clothes were packed away in heavy leather trunks in preparation for her journey, a modest assortment of gowns hung inside.

“What about the saffron muslin embroidered with roses?” Caro asked, dragging out one of Dani’s favorite gowns.

“I suppose the saffron gown will do well enough.” If she had to go to the blasted tea, she intended to look as good as she possibly could, and wearing the bright yellow muslin always made her feel pretty.

“Sit down and I’ll do up your hair,” Caro instructed. “Lady Wycombe will have my head if you make her late for her tea.”

Danielle sighed. “I swear, between the two of you, I am surprised I ever get to make a decision.”

Caro just laughed. “She loves you. She is determined you return to society. She wants you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy—once I’m on my way to America.” Dani reached over and took hold of Caro’s slim, long-boned hand. “I am only grateful that you have agreed to go with us.”

“I am glad to be going along.” Caro managed a smile. “Perhaps we will both find a new life in the Colonies.”

Dani smiled, as well. “Yes, perhaps we will.” Danielle certainly hoped so. She was tired of her nonexistent life, tired of being hidden away in the country with few friends and only an occasional visit from the children in the orphanage to look forward to. She was eager for the chance to make a new life in America, where no one had ever heard of The Scandal.

In the meantime, she had to find the courage to get through her aunt’s miserable tea.

Rafael slipped a forest-green tailcoat on over his beige piqué waistcoat. His valet, a short, slight, balding man who had been in his service for years, reached up to straighten the knot on his stock.

“There you are, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Petersen.”

“Will there be anything more, sir?”

“Not until my return, which should be sometime late this afternoon.” He didn’t intend to stay at the affair very long, just drop by and pay his respects, and of course leave a sizable bank draft for the orphans. After all, it was his civic duty.

He told himself it had nothing to do with the notion Danielle Duval might also be in attendance, convinced himself that if she were, he would ignore her as he had done before.

He wouldn’t say any of the things he had longed to say five years ago, wouldn’t let her know how badly her betrayal had hurt him. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how devastated he had been, that for weeks after it had happened he had barely been able to function. Instead, he would make clear his disdain for her without a single word.

His coach-and-four waited in front of the house, a lavish three-story structure in Hanover Square that his father had built for his mother, who now lived in a separate, smaller, but no-less-elegant apartment on the east side of the mansion.

A footman pulled open the carriage door. Rafe mounted the steps and settled himself against the red velvet squabs, and the coach rumbled off down the cobbled street. The afternoon tea was being held in the gardens of the Mayfair residence of the Marquess of Denby, whose wife was deeply involved in the charity for London’s widows and orphans.

The mansion, in Breton Street, wasn’t that far away. The carriage rolled up in front and a footman opened the door. Rafe departed the coach and made his way up the front porch steps past two liveried footmen, who ushered him through the entry out to the garden at the rear of the house.

Most of the guests had already arrived, just as he had hoped, and they clustered here and there on the terrace, or walked the gravel paths through the leafy foliage of the garden. A group of children, plainly dressed but clean, their hair neatly combed, played at the base of a stone fountain on the right side of the garden.

The charity organized by Lady Denby was a good one. There weren’t enough orphanages in the city to care for the needy and many homeless children who wound up in infant poorhouses, workhouses, apprenticed as chimney sweeps, or grew up as vagrants and beggars, living hand-to-mouth on the streets.

Most orphans were taken care of by local parishes, often abominable excuses for homes. Foundlings brought into their care rarely lived to reach their first year. Rafe had heard of a parish in Westminster that had received five hundred bastards in a single year—and raised only one of them past five years of age.

But the London Society funded several large orphan homes of a very high caliber.

“Your Grace!” Lady Denby hurried toward him, a big-bosomed woman with glossy black hair cut short and curling around her face. “How good of you to come.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I just stopped by to present you with a bank draft for the orphanage.” He dragged the folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over, all the while scanning the guests to see who might also be there.

“Why, this is quite wonderful, Your Grace—especially since you made such a generous donation at the ball.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He could certainly afford it and he had always liked children. Having a family of his own was the main reason he had recently decided to take a wife. That and the fact his mother and aunt hounded him incessantly about living up to his responsibilities as duke.

He needed an heir, they said. And a spare. He needed a son to carry on the Sheffield title and manage the vast fortune entailed to it so that his family would always be taken care of.

“Tea is being served on the terrace.” Lady Denby took his arm and began to guide him in that direction. “Of course, we have something a bit stronger for the men.”

Smiling, she moved him off toward a table covered with silver trays laden with cakes and cookies of every sort, and tiny finger sandwiches so small it would take a dozen to fill him up. A silver tea service sat in the middle of the linen-draped table, along with a crystal punch bowl.

“Shall I have one of the servants bring you a brandy, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.” It might help him make it through the next half hour, which was all he intended to stay.

The brandy arrived and he sipped it slowly, searching for a friendly face, seeing his mother and Aunt Cornelia in conversation with a group of other women, glancing past them to the round, powdered face of Flora Duval Chamberlain. His gaze lit on the woman to her left, a woman with flame-red hair and the face of a goddess. Rafe’s stomach contracted as if he had suffered a powerful blow.

His expression instantly hardened. He told himself he hadn’t come because of her, but seeing her now, he recognized the lie for what it was. For an instant, Danielle’s eyes met his and widened in shock. Rafe felt a shot of satisfaction as the color drained from her lovely, treacherous face.

He didn’t glance away, certain that she would.

Instead her chin shot up and she gave him a look meant to burn right through him. He clenched his jaw. Long seconds passed and neither of them looked away. Then Danielle rose slowly from her chair, flicked him a last seething glance and walked off toward the rear of the garden.

Fury engulfed him. Where was the humility he had expected? Where was the embarrassment he had been certain he would see in her face?

Instead, she walked the gravel path with her head held high, ignoring him as if he weren’t there, making her way over to where a group of the children played at the back of the garden.

Inwardly shaking, Dani fixed her gaze on the children playing tag near the gazebo, determined not to let her unnerving encounter with Rafael Saunders show in any way. She had taught herself that after The Scandal, how to take rigid control of her emotions. Never let them know the power they held, how badly they could hurt you.

“Miss Dani!” Maida Ann, a little blond girl with pigtails, rushed toward her. “Tag! You’re it!”

Danielle laughed and felt a breath of relief. She had played the game with the children whenever they came for a visit to Wycombe Park. They expected her to play with them now. At the moment, she was glad for the distraction.

“All right. It looks as if you have tagged me. Now…let me see…which of you is going to be next? Robbie? Or maybe you, Peter?” She knew some of the children’s names, not all. None of them had living parents, or if they did, the parents refused to claim them. Dani’s heart went out to them. She was happy that her aunt was a patroness of the charity, which gave her a chance to spend time with the children.

Giggling, Maida Ann darted past her, just out of reach. Dani adored the feisty little five-year-old with the big blue eyes. She loved children, had hoped one day to have a family of her own.

A family with Rafe.

The thought made her angry all over again.

And sad.

It wasn’t going to happen. Not with Rafe or any other man. Not after the accident, the terrible fall she had suffered five years ago. Dani shook her head, pushing the bitter memory away.

She fixed her gaze on a boy named Terrance, a red-haired child about eight years old. Terry ran past her, just out of reach, each child rushing forward then darting away, secretly hoping she would direct her attention to him, even if she tagged him and he or she would be it.

She played the game for a while, dancing away, bolting forward and finally tagging young Terry. Waving at the children, she gave them a last warm smile and made her way deeper into the garden.

She didn’t hear the footfalls approaching behind her until it was too late. She knew who it was before she turned. Still, she couldn’t help the gasp of surprise as she stared up into Rafe’s handsome face.

“Good afternoon, Danielle.”

Her heartbeat thundered. Anger made rosy circles appear in her cheeks. She turned away, rudely ignored him, caught the look of shock that appeared on his face, and simply started walking.

But the Duke of Sheffield wasn’t used to being ignored, and she felt the pressure of his fingers as they wrapped around her arm. His grip was firm enough to stop her forward motion and turn her around to face him.

“I said good afternoon. I expect at least a civil reply.”

She clamped down on her temper, told herself not to let him bait her. “Excuse me. I believe my aunt is calling.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. “I think your aunt is otherwise engaged at the moment. Which means you have time to greet an old friend.”

Her fine thread of control stretched to the breaking point and then completely snapped. “You are no friend of mine, Rafe Saunders. You are, in fact, the last man on earth I would think to call a friend.”

Rafe’s jaw hardened. “Is that so? If not a friend, then how, may I ask, should I think of you?”

She lifted her chin, the knot of anger in her stomach almost painful. “You may think of me as the biggest fool you have ever met. A woman foolish enough to trust a man like you. Stupid enough to fall in love with you, Rafael.”

She started walking, but Rafe’s tall figure stepped into the path of her escape. His jaw was set, his intense blue eyes diamond hard.

“I believe it was you, my dear, I found with one of my closest friends. You who invited Oliver Randall into your bed, under my very nose.”

“And it was you who was eager to believe your friend’s lies instead of the truth!”

“You betrayed me, Danielle. Or perhaps you have forgot.”

Dani looked up at him, her eyes snapping with fire. “No, Rafael. It was you who betrayed me. If you had loved me, trusted me, you would have known I was telling you the truth.” She gave him a thin, bitter smile. “On second thought, as I think of it, certainly it is you who are the fool.”

Rafe’s whole body vibrated with anger.

Good, she thought. She hated the bland, uninteresting man he had become, so cool and unaffected. The sort of man she wouldn’t have found the least bit attractive.

“You have the nerve to stand there and claim you are innocent of the affair?”

“I told you that the moment you stepped into my bedchamber. The events of that night have not changed.”

“You were in bed with the man!”

“I didn’t even know he was there—as I told you that night! Now, get out of my way, Rafael.”

Fury burned in his cold blue eyes but she didn’t care. She started walking again and this time Rafe made no move to stop her.

She was surprised he had approached her in the first place. They hadn’t spoken since the night he had walked into her bedchamber five years ago and found Oliver Randall lying naked in her bed.

She had tried then to tell him that Oliver was playing some kind of cruel, terrible joke, that nothing had happened between them, that she had been sleeping until Rafe had walked into the room and startled her awake.

But for reasons she still didn’t understand, Oliver had set out to destroy the love Rafael had felt for her—or at least said he felt—and the man had brutally succeeded.

Rafe hadn’t listened to her that night, nor responded to any of the dozen letters she sent him, begging him to hear her side of the story, pleading with him to believe she was telling him the truth.

As word of the scandal began to leak out, he never once defended her, never once paid the slightest attention to her version of events. Instead, he had abruptly ended their betrothal, confirming what the gossipmongers said.

Telling the world that Danielle Duval was not the innocent she pretended, but a scarlet woman who had conducted herself shamelessly, and with blatant disregard for her intended. She’d been shunned in society, banished to the country. Even her own mother had believed the tale.

Dani’s vision blurred as she made her way through the garden. She rarely thought of Rafael and those awful days back then. But now she was here in London and Rafe was tossing the entire affair back in her face.

She sniffed and fought back the tears she refused to let fall. She wouldn’t cry for Rafe, not again. She had wept more than enough for the man she had loved five years ago and she would never weep for him again.

Three

Rafe stood in the garden, angry and oddly disturbed as he watched Danielle’s elegant figure moving along the gravel path until she disappeared inside the house.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to seek her out. Perhaps it was keeping his silence for all of these years. Whatever it was, instead of the satisfaction he was certain he would feel once he had confronted her, he was more troubled than ever.

As she had done that night, Danielle had professed her innocence. He hadn’t believed her then and he didn’t believe her now. He’d read the note, after all, and he had two eyes in his head. Oliver had accepted Danielle’s invitation and he was there in her room, lying naked beside her in bed.

Rafe had called the bastard out, of course. Ollie was supposed to be his friend.

“I won’t meet you, Rafe,” Oliver had said. “I won’t fight you no matter what you do to me. We’ve been friends since we were boys, and there is no denying the fault is mine entirely.”

“Why, Ollie? How could you do it?”

“I love her, Rafael. I’ve always loved her. You know that better than anyone. When she asked me to come to her room, I found it impossible to refuse her invitation.”

Rafael had known for years that his friend was in love with Danielle, had been in love with her since he was a youth in his teens. But Dani had never loved Ollie.

Or so Rafe had thought. He had stupidly believed that Danielle loved him and not Oliver Randall, though Ollie had for years pursued her. After that night, he had come to believe she had accepted Rafe’s offer of marriage simply to become a duchess. It was wealth and power she wanted, not him.

As he walked out of the garden, he reminded himself of all those things, told himself that just as before, nothing Danielle said was the truth.

But he was older now, not insane with jealousy, not blinded by love as he had been in those days, not furious and aching with pain.

And because he was a different man than he had been back then, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. He couldn’t forget the way Danielle had looked at him there in the garden.

Without a shred of remorse, without the slightest hint of embarrassment. She had looked at him with all of the hatred that Rafe had felt for her.

No, Rafael. It was you who betrayed me. If you had loved me…you would have known I was telling you the truth.

The words nagged at him, gnawed at his insides all the way back to Sheffield House. Was it possible? Was there the slightest chance?

First thing the following morning, he sent a note to Jonas McPhee, the Bow Street runner he and his friends had used over the years whenever they needed information. McPhee was discreet and extremely good at his job, and he promptly arrived at Sheffield House at two o’clock that afternoon.

“Good day, Jonas. Thank you for coming.”

“I am happy to assist you, Your Grace, in any way I can.” The runner was short and balding, and wore small, wire-rimmed spectacles. He was an unimpressive man whose muscular shoulders and knotted hands were the only indication of the sort of work he did.

Rafe stepped back from the doorway, allowing McPhee into his study, then turned and led the man over to his desk and indicated that he should take a seat in one of the dark green leather chairs in front.

“I’d like to hire you, Jonas.” Rafe sat down behind his massive rosewood desk. The room was two stories high, with book-lined walls and an elegant molded ceiling. A long mahogany table sat in the middle of the room, lit by green glass lamps that hung down from above, and surrounded by a dozen carved, high-backed chairs. “I’d like you to investigate an incident that happened five years ago.”

“Five years is quite a while, Your Grace.”

“Yes, it is, and I realize it won’t be easy.” He settled back in his chair. “The incident involved a woman named Danielle Duval and a man named Oliver Randall. Miss Duval is the daughter of the late Viscount Drummond, who passed away some years back. Lady Drummond died just last year. Oliver Randall is the third son of the Marquess of Caverly.”

“I’ll need to make some notes, Your Grace.”

Rafe held up a sheet of foolscap. “I have all the information written down for you right here.”

“Excellent.”

Rafe set the paper down on his desk. “At one time, Miss Duval and I were betrothed. That ended five years ago.”

Rafe went on to tell the ugly story of what had happened the evening he found the note Danielle had sent to Oliver. He explained how at midnight he had gone into Danielle’s room and found the two of them together. As the tale unfolded, Rafe did his best to relay the information without revealing any of the emotions he had felt back then.

“Is there any chance you kept the note?” Jonas asked.

Rafe had anticipated the question. “Oddly enough, I did, though I can’t begin to tell you why.” Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he moved the pistol he kept there aside and pulled out a small metal box, then fished out a key he kept on a ring in another drawer to open it. The note inside was yellowed and faded, the creases where it had been folded wearing thin. Still, it had the power to make a knot form in his stomach.

He handed the note to McPhee. “As I said, I have no idea why I kept it. Perhaps as a reminder never to be so ridiculously trusting again.”

McPhee took the note from his hand and Rafe handed him the list he had made of places and names, people somehow involved in The Scandal, however remotely.

“This may take some time,” McPhee said.

Rafe stood up from his chair. “I’ve waited five years. I don’t suppose a few more weeks will matter.” And yet he was strangely anxious to know what McPhee would find. Perhaps he merely wanted the affair resolved, as it never really had been.

Perhaps he was thinking of the future, of his upcoming marriage. Perhaps he merely wanted the past dead and buried—once and for all.

With Caro’s help, Danielle packed the last of her belongings into her traveling bags, taking special care with the garments she would need on board the ship during the two-month voyage to America.

Dani couldn’t wait to leave.

“It looks as if we are done,” Caro said, always cheerful. “Are you ready to go?”

“More than ready. How about you?”

Caro laughed, a joyous sound. “I have been packed and ready for days.”

“What about Aunt Flora? Is she completely packed?”

Dani’s robust aunt bustled into the room just then, strands of silver hair, loose from its pins, floating around her pudgy face. “I am ready to leave whenever you are, my dears.”

Like Dani, Aunt Flora considered Caroline Loon almost a member of the family. At one time, Danielle had suggested Caro no longer needed to work as her lady’s maid, but could continue instead as Dani’s companion.

Caro had been mortified. “I don’t want your charity, Danielle. I never have. I am happy to work for whatever I receive. Besides, you and Lady Wycombe have always been extremely kind and generous to me.”

Dani had never brought up the subject again. Caro was happy to earn her way and Dani was happy for their friendship.

“Well, then, if all of us are ready,” Aunt Flora said, “I will send down for the carriage.” Which would take them to the dock, then head back to Wycombe Park. Lady Wycombe would eventually be returning to England, but Dani and Caro would be staying in America, making their home with Dani’s future husband, Richard Clemens.

“Oh, this is all so exciting!” Flora bustled off to make the final arrangements and Dani looked over at Caro, who also looked excited.

“Well, I guess we’re on our way,” Dani said.

Caro grinned. “Just think—soon you will be a married woman.”

Danielle just nodded. She couldn’t help thinking of the last man she was supposed to wed and his terrible betrayal.

Richard is different, she told herself.

And Dani prayed that she was right.

The ship prepared to set sail with the tide the following morning, a big, square-rigged passenger ship, the Wyndham, with the most modern accommodations available. The captain had personally greeted the women and promised he would look out for their well-being during the journey, since they were traveling without the protection of a man.

Dani tried to imagine a man who had ever protected her from anything. Certainly not her father, who had died when she was so young. Not her cousin, Nathaniel, who had made lecherous advances when she was only twelve years old.

Definitely not Rafael, the man who was to be her husband, the man she had loved with all her heart.

She wondered about Richard Clemens, but thought that it really didn’t matter. She had learned to take care of herself and she would continue to do so, even after they were wed.

Danielle stood between Aunt Flora and Caro at the rail, looking out over the water as the ship prepared to sail. A late May wind chilled the air and whipped Dani’s pelisse around her shoulders.

“I can scarcely believe it,” Caro said as they watched the London dock disappear in the distance. “We are truly on our way to America!”

“What an adventure we are going to have!” Aunt Flora said brightly.

Though Dani was nearly as excited as they, she wished she could be more certain she was doing the right thing. She barely knew Richard Clemens. And after Rafael, she was far more wary of men. Still, Richard was giving her the chance at happiness she had given up ever having.

She leaned over and hugged each of the women, her dearest friends in all the world. “I am just so glad the two of you are coming with me.”

But she knew the women wouldn’t have it any other way. They were family. The only real family she’d ever had.

Now a new family awaited her in America. Richard and his son and daughter, children she wouldn’t have if she had never met him. She tried to remember his face, got an image of a man with thick blond hair and brown eyes. An attractive man, intelligent and generous.

They had met at Wycombe Park. Richard was in the textile manufacturing business and had come to England hoping to increase his accounts. He was a guest of Squire Donner, one of Aunt Flora’s friends who lived nearby. The squire and his wife, Prudence, along with their houseguest, Mr. Clemens, had been invited to dinner at Wycombe Park.

That night, after an evening of cards and pleasant conversation, along with an hour of Dani and Prudence entertaining on the pianoforte, Richard had asked if he might call on her again. Dani had surprised herself by saying yes.

In the days that followed, they hadn’t spent a great deal of time together, yet they seemed to get on very well. And even after she had told him about The Scandal, Richard had wanted to marry her.

Unlike Rafael, he had actually believed her when she told him she was innocent of any wrongdoing in the affair.

Standing on the deck of the Wyndham, Dani felt the wind in her face as her gaze moved farther out to sea. She was lucky. So very lucky. God had given her a second chance at happiness and she intended to grab hold of it and hang on with both hands.