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  The duchess frowned. She decided not to tell India about the evening’s other surprise, the only thing that had kept her from being on everyone’s lips right now. Not that it mattered. The girl probably didn’t even know Devlyn Carlisle, who was at least eight years older than she was.

  Luc Delamere sat down beside his sister, trying to keep the worry from his face. “You must come stay with us in Norfolk. Silver is blending a new fragrance at Lavender Close and I know she would love your company.” He shot his wife a lazy grin. “The truth is, she gets decidedly irritable in this stage of her work and wants nothing to do with me.”

  India squeezed her brother’s hand, noticing how happy he looked. She felt a trace of envy, then forced it away. Luc had endured years of pain and India could not begrudge him one minute of his happiness. “That is very kind, Luc, but I don’t care to intrude. You have those two lovely rascals to keep you occupied. And don’t you plan invitations either, Grandmama. I shall do quite nicely back at Swallow Hill. All I need is exercise and fresh air. I shall pack a portmanteau and leave tonight, taking Froggett with me.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” the Duchess of Cranford said indignantly. “Travel alone at night? I won’t hear of it!”

  “I’m afraid Grandmama is right, India. The roads are far too dangerous.” Luc laughed grimly. “Given my years spent riding those roads, I know the dangers too well. Wait till morning and I’ll ride with you part way. I’d love to go farther, but buying supplies for Silver’s new fragrance will keep us in town for another week at least.”

  “What about you, Ian?” the duchess demanded.

  The broad-shouldered soldier with the deceptively sleepy gray eyes shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot leave London just now. I’ve — affairs of my own that will keep me here for a fortnight.”

  “Another mission for Wellington?” Luc looked thoughtful. “Don’t shoot me that cross look, Ian. I promise I won’t try to worm it out of you.”

  “I wish you would all stop being so wretchedly helpful,” India muttered, shoving away a velvet cushion. “I’ll be fine. All I need is some time away.”

  But it was a lie. India was afraid she’d never be fine again. Her family was kind and concerned, but she could never tell them the truth about what had happened during her months in Belgium. So, as she had always done before, India locked her pain deep and summoned up an entirely false smile.

  The same smile she kept for a world that ceased to hold any interest for her.

  “As for leaving, tomorrow will do fine,” she lied calmly.

  Her loving relatives nodded, and some of the concern left their faces.

  As India accepted a glass of ratafia from Ian, she was already planning the contents of the single portmanteau she would carry when she rode out of London that same night.

  ~ ~ ~

  The moon sailed over the tile roofs and twisting chimneys as India made her way silently downstairs. Clutching a cloak and battered hat beneath one arm, she crept past six generations of haughty Delameres, who stared down from their portraits in patent disapproval of her reckless plan.

  Around her the house was quiet. The guests had all departed, well pleased with the evening’s rich gossip. Once more the Delameres had lived up to their reputation, providing London with delicious scandal.

  It was that knowledge that made India determined to leave London. She was too upset to bear the curious looks that were certain to come. She had stuffed her bag, then tugged on a voluminous and outdated gown, chosen precisely because of its ability to conceal the riding boots and old breeches that she wore beneath.

  She was nearly to the front door when the study door was thrown open. She shrank into the shadows behind a robust statue of Diana that her father had brought back from one of his forays to Greece. She shoved her portmanteau out of sight just as Ian and Luc emerged from the study and walked slowly toward the front staircase.

  “I wish it were so simple,” Ian said. “But there has already been talk. It seems that the man is entirely aloof since his return.”

  “Odd business. He was anything but aloof before Waterloo.” Luc’s face was hard.

  India frowned, wishing her brothers would hurry off so that she could be away.

  “What does Wellington think?”

  Ian smiled faintly. “Who in heaven knows what the Great Man is thinking? He’s utterly unreadable when he wishes to be.”

  “Do you think his story is true?”

  What story? India thought irritably.

  Ian shrugged, red wool stretching across the hard muscles earned in skirmishes throughout Portugal and Spain. “I wish I knew. It’s been chaos over there, Luc. Even now plots are boiling. Spies are everywhere. Lately, I’ve come to believe that where the French are concerned, no news is bad news.”

  “Surely with Napoleon’s defeat all that has changed.”

  Ian laughed grimly. “Has it? Tell that to the people who believe the Corsican has been treated shamefully since his surrender. Tell that to Princess Charlotte, who has herself taken a great interest in Napoleon’s welfare.”

  Luc frowned. “I had no idea. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Ian clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Even if there were, I wouldn’t ask it of you. You’ve had too much trouble of your own to be embroiled in any more. If there’s a way of finding the truth, Wellington will manage it. The grim memories of Waterloo still eat at him, I assure you. I’m afraid they also eat at India.”

  Behind the statue, India stiffened, straining to hear her brother.

  Ian looked down at the fine Persian carpet. “She misses him far more than she’ll ever admit. She loved him, Luc. As I told you, I saw the two of them together once in Brussels. I was carrying dispatches and in a terrible hurry, or I would have stopped. But it made no difference. She and Thornwood might have been a million miles away, for all they noticed me or anyone else.”

  India’s fingers locked at her waist. Ian knew. He had seen them together.

  She fought a wave of dizziness.

  “I don’t want her to hear this as gossip, Luc. That would be too cruel. See that she gets out of London and back to Swallow Hill. Meanwhile, I’ll go over to Belgrave Square and find out what in hell Thorne’s doing.”

  Thorne? Back in London?

  India bit back a gasp. He was here? The man she loved had not died amid the chaos of Waterloo? Could it be that he was even now less than ten blocks away, ensconced in his elegant town house in Belgrave Square?

  A roaring filled India’s ears, nearly drowning out the rest of her brothers’ words.

  “When do you mean to tell her?”

  Ian frowned. “Not yet. I want to find out what Thorne’s up to first. I won’t stand for India being hurt anymore. If it’s over for Thorne, we’ll have to find a way to break it to her gently. But if there’s something more involved and Thorne is in some kind of trouble, I want India well out of it, or she could become a target, too. Not that the little hellion would care about that. She always seems to thrive on danger and trouble.”

  At that moment India slipped. Her foot struck Diana’s marble knee.

  The two men turned. Frowning, Ian strode toward the shadowed alcove where India lay crouched, her heart hammering. Suddenly the duchess’s voice rang out over the stairwell. “Ian? Luc?”

  Luc caught his brother’s arm. “You don’t mean to tell the duchess, do you? There will be hell to pay if you do, for Gran will want to know every detail. In fact, I’m astounded she hasn’t already ferreted the truth out of India. Had it happened here in London, she would know everything by now. But if India doesn’t care to speak of it, I think we should keep her secret as long as we can.”

  Ian nodded. “Agreed. Although if India continues to go about so gloomy and pale, I don’t guarantee to keep the promise for long. Do you think we should write to Father and ask him to bring Mother home?”

  “Not just yet,” Luc said thoughtfully. “Let’s give it a little more time. But I
understand exactly how you feel, Ian. It rips at my heart to see her so little like her old self. I’ve half a mind to go strangle some answers out of Thornwood myself.”

  “Leave it to me.” Ian’s voice fell as they moved off, for the Duchess of Cranford had come out into the hall and was glaring at them.

  Hidden in the shadows, India watched them go. Her fingers were locked on the cold marble of the statue.

  Thorne was alive? If so, why had he not contacted her? Was he ill? Or had all his vows been forgotten so soon?

  India knew she would have no rest until she heard the answers from his own lips.

  ~ ~ ~

  The streets were quiet. Fog drifted past darkened windows as India pulled up the hood of her velvet cloak and hurried through the darkness. Only a few bored coachmen dozed in their hackneys, while a pair of drunken exquisites stumbled over the cobblestones.

  India barely noticed, struggling with a storm of emotions.

  What had happened to Dev? Was he ill or suffering from deep wounds? Even if so, why hadn’t he sent her a message? But she had no answers to explain it. She strode over the cobblestones, oblivious to the admiring looks and murmured comments directed at her by an occasional link boy or footman.

  Dev had described his town house to her, and India knew its location perfectly. She marched up the steps under the watchful eyes of a pair of stone lions, her heart pounding.

  Just as she lifted the brass knocker, a frowning butler with silver-gray hair threw open the door. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Lord Thornwood.”

  “He is, er, occupied.” Steady brown eyes took in India’s dusty skirts. “You would do best to send a note around to his lordship tomorrow. Now I bid you good—”

  “I must see him.” India brushed past the man into the broad foyer. Rows of keen-eyed Carlisles smiled down lazily from gilt-framed portraits. At the end of the hall a silver candelabrum burned outside a half-opened door. “There is no need to announce me.”

  “Really, miss, I must protest. This is not at all the thing. Who are you to push in here unannounced, demanding to see Lord Thornwood?”

  “Who am I?” Something dark and wounded filled India’s eyes. “I am his wife.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The butler’s face paled. “Wife?” he repeated.

  “Wife.” India’s fingers locked. “Please, where is he?”

  “Right through there, miss — er, my lady.” In his surprise, the butler nearly stumbled over an ornate Hepplewhite end table near the door. “But you can’t—”

  “Chilton, is that you?” A husky voice echoed from beyond the half-opened door. “Where is that port I asked you to fetch?”

  It was a voice India knew well.

  A voice she had thought never to hear again.

  She swayed a little, one hand pressed to the wall. So it was true. The man she had seen in the ballroom had been no illusion. Up until that moment, India had thought it might be a mistake.

  “Are you all right?” the butler asked anxiously.

  India took an unsteady breath and nodded, her head filled with a thousand questions. How would he have changed after all these months apart?

  “Chilton, are you there?” Again the low, familiar voice rang out. India shivered, remembering the first time she had heard that voice in the middle of a crowded and muddy Belgian street. The tall officer had caught her bonnet, blown off in a stiff spring wind.

  His look had been frankly admiring. “I find myself in a cruel dilemma, faced with two crimes. I am not sure which is the greater,” he had added huskily.

  A smile had tugged at India’s lips. “Indeed?” she had asked softly. “And what crimes might they be?”

  He had not spoken for a moment, his eyes narrowed. For the barest instant his fingers had brushed hers, and India had felt the touch churn all the way to the soft soles of her kidskin boots, mired deep in the mud of the Brussels street.

  With slow grace he had bowed, proffering the charming straw bonnet with the tiny decoration of wild strawberries. “The first crime would be for such a lovely lady to lose this fetching bonnet.” His gaze had risen, burning over her face. “But for me to return it would be even worse.”

  “And why is that?” India had felt unsteady, aware of the heat of his gaze, tasting the raw power radiated by this stranger.

  “Because then you would use it to hide the most remarkable pair of eyes I have ever seen.” His voice had darkened. “And surely the most beautiful mouth.”

  Even now India felt a knot form in her throat at the memory. Had they been merely words? Had Thorne’s gallantry been only as lasting as their time together?

  India’s hands clenched. She refused to believe it.

  His emotion had been as real as her own. There must be some other explanation for his absence.

  But now everything would be wonderful. He was back, and all her pain would be past.

  At that moment the study door swung open. A broad-shouldered figure stood silhouetted in the light from the room beyond. “Chilton, have you been at the port again?” The man took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. “Who is this woman, Chilton?” he demanded.

  The cold, flat question brought India to a dead halt. She looked up at the sculpted jaw and lean face of the man in the doorway.

  At Devlyn Carlisle, the man whose death had tormented her for months.

  The man she had married on the eve of the encounter at Waterloo.

  India moved forward slowly, her heart pounding. “Dev, is it truly you?”

  He froze, his mouth thinning to a hard line. “I beg your pardon.”

  India moved into the candlelight, her eyes misted with tears of joy. Slowly she put back her velvet hood, light spinning auburn sparks over her hair. “You’re alive. You’ve come back to me at last.” She reached out and caught his wrist.

  But the man in the doorway only frowned down at her. His mouth hardened and he slowly pulled away. “I am afraid there has been some mistake.”

  India searched the lean face, the gray, cool eyes, seeing now the changes she had not noticed before. “It has been very hard for you, hasn’t it? You look older, harder. I suppose I do, too.” She laughed raggedly. “But none of that matters now. You’re back, and I have so much to tell you.” For a moment regret darkened her eyes. “But there will be time enough for questions and explanations. For now, let me simply touch you and convince myself you’re really alive.”

  Her hands reached out, settling on the hard muscles at his shoulders. She felt him flinch at even that light touch.

  “Dev?”

  He muttered a curse, staring at the pale fingers spread against the dark wool. “My name is Thornwood.”

  “Not to me.”

  “We are — closely acquainted?” the man before her asked roughly.

  “You are my husband and the man I love,” India said with quiet dignity. “Don’t you know me?”

  Thornwood pulled his arm from beneath her hand and frowned at the butler, who was watching them with avid curiosity. “That will be all, Chilton,” he said curtly. “Leave us now.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “What’s wrong, Dev? What cruel game are you playing?”

  “It is no game.”

  India still expected him to throw out his arms and pull her against him, his eyes gleaming as they had in Brussels.

  She had expected it, but he made no move toward her, and the pain of the discovery was like a sword cut to her heart. How could he stare at her so coldly with no hint of memory or emotion in his eyes?

  “I’m afraid there has been a grave misunderstanding, Miss—”

  “Lady India Delamere. In truth, Lady Thornwood. As if you didn’t know.”

  “Have you come like the others, all agog to snag a bit of gossip about the newly returned earl?” Thornwood’s voice was harsh with cynicism.

  “Not for gossip. I have come to see the man I love. The man I thought loved me. The man I married in Brus
sels just before Waterloo.” India’s voice trembled. “Yet I begin to wonder if you can possibly be the same man.”

  “My dear woman, a dozen females have already been to see me tonight. Each one claimed a prior and very intimate acquaintance.” Thorne’s voice was chill. “You must excuse my skepticism, even though you are the first to claim marriage.”

  India swayed, her thoughts in turmoil as she studied the familiar features which now seemed to belong to a cold, hostile stranger. “But it’s true.”

  “Is it? And where is this ceremony supposed to have taken place?”

  India’s hands tensed. “Don’t joke. Not about this, Dev. It’s not like you.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know anything about me, madame. Perhaps I am not who you think I am.”

  “How can you speak to me so? I have waited so long. Any moment I thought you’d come striding through the smoke and chaos, jaunty as ever. But no matter how I kept waiting and hoping, you never came back.” Her voice caught and a small, broken sound tore from her throat.

  Thornwood cursed harshly. “I think you had better come inside and sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you,” she said huskily.

  A vein hammered at the Earl of Thornwood’s forehead. “There is something I must … explain.”

  India brushed at her eyes, tears glinting in the candlelight. “Explain? What do you mean?”

  “Not here,” the man with her husband’s face said grimly. For a moment there was infinite sadness in his voice. “In the study. I find that I require a drink.” He bowed tightly. “After you, madame.”

  India moved inside, her body tense. Pain dulled her fine eyes as she dimly registered the rows of shelves covered with well-worn books from floor to ceiling. Here and there were scattered exquisite wooden models of Spanish galleons, Chinese junks, and sleek English square-riggers. Newspapers spilled across one corner of a vast mahogany desk, alongside visiting cards, correspondence, maps, and vellum invitations.

  Something tore at India’s heart. She remembered laughing at Devlyn’s description of the ordered chaos of his study. It was like him somehow, at least like the man he had been, reckless and exuberant and endlessly clever about anything he put his mind to.