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  Joy followed him across the silent kitchen, feeling every eye on her as she did so. A minute or so later at the end of a long corridor, Henson opened another set of double doors and announced, "Her Grace, the Duchess of Belmore."

  She took a deep, fortifying breath, raised her chin Watley-high, and walked into the room, where a herd of liveried footmen, Townsend, and Mrs. Watley herself were speaking to the duke. They fell silent and turned toward her, their faces all wearing the same look of disapproval.

  They parted like the Red Sea. Alec stood there, handsome and broad-shouldered, dressed all in black except for a stark white cravat. His presence was so commanding. He was water to her thirsty eyes. Then she made the mistake of looking at his face—and nearly drowned. His expression was hard and disapproving.

  Joy's heart felt as if it were going down for the third time.

  The clock chose that exact moment to chime the quarter hour—so much for her witchcraft—and Alec frowned, glancing at the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel. He gave it a brief look of annoyance.

  "That clock is broken. Have it fixed."

  "Yes, Your Grace." Mrs. Watley plucked the clock off the mantel, tucked it under one lanky arm, and moved toward the doors.

  The duke turned back to Joy. "You're late."

  "I was lost."

  Mrs. Watley passed by, still shaking her head in reproof and Joy thought she heard her mutter something about desecrating Belmore tradition.

  Alec walked toward her. He offered her his stiff arm, but she would have given the world for one wee smile of reassurance.

  "In the future, I will send Henson to show you the way."

  She couldn't even look him in the eye. She was afraid to, so she chewed her lip instead.

  After a tense minute in which she could feel him staring down at her, he added softly, "I suppose, Scottish, that this seems a cavernous old place."

  He had made an excuse for her. She released the breath she'd held in her tight throat, and smiled up at him. She was forgiven.

  Again his features changed into that slightly confused look. It was as if no one had ever smiled at him before and so he didn't know how to react. He turned away, his face once again stern and his eyes anywhere but on her. Look back, she thought, look back so I can chip away at that wall of ice. But he didn't.

  "You will learn your way around in time." He led her toward the table. "A very short time, I hope."

  Another command, to which she could only nod sadly, feeling as if she had missed an opportunity. He pulled out a chair for her at the end of a monstrous rosewood dining table that looked as if it could comfortably seat every single servant at Belmore. She sat and scooted forward, expecting him to take the chair next to her. She could not hide her astonishment when he walked down the full length of the table and sat at the opposite end.

  It was what the Scots called "bellowing distance" away.

  With one wave of his hand—at least she thought it was a wave, although it was hard to tell from this great distance without a spyglass—an army of footmen moved to a long buffet and began to serve the first course. Served on the heaviest, most exquisitely molded silver platters she had ever seen, the dinner went on and on, each cover more elaborate than the last—roast duckling in a silver serving dish with handles shaped like mallards in flight, a leg of lamb in a dish shaped like a sheep's head with silver curved-horn handles, asparagus in lemon sauce with sliced chestnuts on a silver plate with a raised edge of molded spring vegetables. Every exquisite serving piece matched the food that it held.

  Of the seven forks, three knives, and four spoons at her place setting, only one—a small spoon placed in front of the creamy bone china plate with its gold Belmore crest design —did not have its own ducal crest stamped into its handle. It wasn't stamped because the crest design—a pair of falcons—was the handle.

  Joy stared at all the silverware, then looked at her plate. Now, which utensil was she supposed to use? After a few long and indecisive minutes, Henson's gloved hand surreptitiously handed her the first fork on the left.

  "Thank you," she whispered, and then began to eat. As each dish appeared, she managed with only a wee bit of prodding from Henson to move her way from left to right through the utensils.

  An hour into the meal, Joy swallowed a piece of rare roast beef in a port wine sauce. The room was so unnervingly quiet that she was sure her swallow echoed like Gargantua's gulp in the high-beamed rafters of the room. She looked around while she silently chewed another piece of something her nervousness would not allow her to taste. She was uncomfortable and suddenly aware of feeling so, so alone.

  Fifteen footmen stood along the walls when they weren't catering to her or Alec. Townsend, Henson, and the duke were there, too, and yet she felt isolated in this strange new place. Nothing was familiar. Everything was beautiful, but it seemed cold and stiff because there was no enjoyment of it, no laughter, no music, nothing but the occasional clink of a serving spoon against a priceless piece of silver or the thin tinkle of a knife or fork on fragile china.

  But she could enjoy the newness, the beauty, the excitement of this night. Her fanciful mind took over, and warm pleasure spread through her. Her eyes captured the bright gleam on a lovely crystal glass that shimmered in the light of a thousand candles. It was like drinking water from the stars. A huge silver candelabrum with two dozen golden tapers sat in the center of the table, and the light from the flames fairly danced on the crystal and silver tableware. Other candles glowed throughout the room, in sconces, chandeliers, and more candelabra, and the two mirrored walls that ran the length of the room caught the light a hundredfold and gave it depth and glow that made one forget that it was night and that the room had no windows.

  Joy stared at the candelabrum on the table. If she moved it just a bit to the right she would be able to see Alec. With a quick glance at the servants lined up near the buffet, their eyes straight ahead like statues, she saw the coast was clear. She raised her napkin, pretending to pat her lips, but instead used it to cover her hand. With one snap and one point of her fingers, the candelabrum slid toward the edge of the table.

  She hid her smile behind the fine linen napkin. Now she could see Alec instead of the candles. He raised a forkful of something to his mouth, but before he reached it he looked up, and his eyes locked with hers. There was something akin to magic whenever their eyes met. Even across a distance she could feel the spark deep inside her, almost as if she had swallowed a star.

  The frightening and thrilling sensation seemed to glow within her. It grew stronger and stronger and was somehow so compelling that she could not have even used magic to break the spell, nor would she have wanted to. It was more powerful than witchcraft, more pulling than the sea tide, and held more warmth than the heat of the summer sun.

  His lips closed over the fork and he slid it from his mouth, chewing slowly. His eyes were still on her, and she had the distinct feeling that the intensity he exuded had nothing to do with the quality of the food or his enjoyment of it. This was more than mere sustenance. His gaze moved to her mouth.

  Slowly she lifted the water goblet, needing to feel the wet coolness of its contents. She sipped, never breaking eye contact. The water soothed her throat. Her lips parted, and her eyes locked on his mouth, the same mouth that had kissed her so intimately, had made her forget everything but the feel and taste of him.

  Her breath and heartbeat sped up as if she had run for hours along the beach on Mull. He lowered his fork and lifted his wine goblet, then sipped at it as he had sipped at her mouth and neck. Time seemed to stop and become nothing but memories—his kiss, his taste, the fluttering of his breath in her hair.

  An instant later the butler, Townsend, blocked her view by reaching across the table to move the candelabrum back into its proper place. Jarred into the present, she frowned at his back and waited until he had served her the next course. Then, while he served Alec, she twiddled her fingers again, grinning with happy satisfaction as the candles slid back to the edge of the table. Her magic was going well tonight.

  Townsend turned around, his shoulders back, his eyes staring straight ahead. He took a few steps and paused, his attention suddenly back on the candelabrum. With a frown and an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he set the serving dish down and moved the candles back into her line of vision.

  She started to twiddle again, but saw four footmen were removing dishes from the table. Figuring that patience was a virtue, she waited and waited and finally tried to catch a peek at her husband by bending down just a tad and leaning way over on the left arm of her chair. If she stretched her neck just so, she could see his dark hand on a fine crystal wine goblet . . . .

  "Syllabub?"

  She about jumped from her chair at the sound of Henson's voice. Flustered, she stared at her plate, waiting for Henson to point out which utensil.

  "Syllabub?"

  "God bless you," she whispered.

  His throat cleared loudly.

  "Syllabub, Your Grace?" He held out for her inspection a tiered glass dish with individual fruit- and cream-topped puddings.

  "Oh. Aye."

  He set a stemmed glass of pudding on the small plate in front of her, then handed her the spoon with the crest for a handle.

  "Thank you," she whispered, and ate two bites before the coast was clear. She tried to look as if she held the stem of the pudding glass in her right hand, but she twiddled her fingers instead.

  The candles slid smoothly to the table edge, and she had a perfect view once again. But it took Townsend only about a minute to move the thing back.

  She twiddled again before he had taken a step. He turned back, shook his white head and put the candelabrum back. She waited until his back was turned, then moved it again.
He spun around and moved it back, pulling a bit on the linen tablecloth as if he thought it was slipping.

  Time to outsmart him, she decided and waited, anticipation building, until Townsend was by the buffet, supervising the removal of the courses. Every so often he'd look over his shoulder. Finally, his suspicion waned and he was busy with his duties.

  Biting back a gleeful smile, she twiddled her fingers, excitedly anticipating her view.

  The candelabrum moved with the speed of a lightning bolt—right off the edge of the table.

  Her hands went to her mouth to catch her gasp. It was truly amazing how flammable that Aubusson carpet was. It was also amazing how quickly smoke could fill a huge room with a thirty-foot ceiling, how fast fifteen footmen could douse a fire, and how quickly Alec could move. He was by her side before she could rise from her chair, and he pulled her to the doors while the footmen poured pails of water on the smoldering rug.

  Despite all the smoke, the fire was out in a matter of minutes, and both of them stood in the doorway silent. She watched the smoke settle around the table like English fog. Now, staring at the black holes in the thick red carpet, she felt horribly guilty. She wondered what Alec was feeling. First she had violated Belmore tradition by arriving late, and then she'd destroyed a Belmore carpet. One tentative glance at his hard-angled face and it was obvious he felt little.

  I'm sorry, she told him silently. I didn't mean to damage anything or to anger you.

  He turned that emotionless face to look down at her. "You had best go on up to your room. Henson will show you the way. I shall be up shortly."

  Her gaze lingered on his dark eyes, searching for something to dream of. She caught a flash of want, a need.

  What is it?

  He reached out and traced her mouth with a finger. This and more.

  Her mouth went dry, and she quickly turned and left, her hands clammy, the skin beneath her breasts suddenly damp. He had given her a look that told her exactly what he wanted. Joy quietly followed

  Henson up the stairs, wondering what Alec would say when he found out what he had actually gotten.

  ***

  What Alec was getting was a shave.

  He sat in the shaving chair in his bath while Roberts, his valet, wiped the soap from his face. The clock in his bedchamber chimed the hour. A few minutes later the clock in the sitting room chimed the half hour. After that the clock in the dressing room chimed a quarter hour. Alec picked up his pocket watch and saw it read three-quarters past the hour.

  "What the hell time is it?"

  Roberts checked his own watch. "Eleven-forty, Your Grace."

  "Have someone reset all the clocks."

  The valet nodded and held up a floor-length green velvet robe piped in gold with the ducal crest embroidered in gold on the chest pocket. Alec slid into it, tied the belt, and left the dressing room, heading for the pipe tray and rosewood tobacco jar that sat on the deep green marble mantel in the sitting room. Alec packed his pipe, lit it, and stood near the fire, watching it burn as he smoked.

  He was tense. The muscles in his shoulders and back were tight. He walked over to a walnut liquor cabinet and poured a brandy, then he sat down with his pipe and brandy before the fire. He could hear the Bramah in his bride's room, over and over.

  After the fifth time he turned and stared at their common wall, frowning. Then he remembered that every time he'd looked at her during dinner she'd had the water goblet to her mouth, a mouth he found in his thoughts more often than he liked and a face that had played havoc with his digestion and had not left his mind for more than a few minutes that entire day. He couldn't remember ever having any woman remain on his mind once he'd left her presence, but she did.

  He'd had a devil of a time concentrating all evening and was sure his estate manager thought he had lost his mind. In fact, he wondered if he had. He had never behaved rashly. He'd never done anything without forethought and purpose, until today. He took a long drink of the brandy.

  He did not believe one word of that idiotic drivel Seymour spouted about predestination, but he still found the day's events unsettling. He had rationalized that marrying the girl was the easiest, least bothersome way to acquire a wife. After all, he had spent long months playing to the whims of society and courting Juliet, so she could lead him a merry dance and then run off with a soldier. But Scottish hadn't been given time to bolt. His hand tightened around the brandy glass.

  Try as he might, he could barely call Juliet to mind. He kept seeing Scottish at the inn with all that long wavy brown hair. It had nearly swept the floor when she'd sat at the mirror. Of all the women he had known—and he'd had his share of mistresses, that being an expected part of a gentleman's life—he had never had a woman with hair that could literally be wrapped around them. In bed.

  He took another drink and stared into the fire, which suddenly held the image of a pert little face with emerald green eyes, white skin, and full lips. . . .

  "Does Your Grace need anything?"

  "A mole."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Your Grace?"

  Alec looked at Roberts, then shook some sense into his usually rational head. "No. That will be all."

  The bedchamber door closed with a click and at that same moment his wife's Bramah again echoed through the walls. His wife. He stared at the wall, then dismissed her actions to wedding night nerves and the fact that she was part Scot. But she was also English—prime English. The Locksleys were one of the oldest and finest families in England, equal in stature to the Spencers. In fact, their title, like that of the Belmores, dated back to the twelfth century.

  He set the pipe down, thinking about her family name. He told himself he had done suitably. He polished off the brandy and remembered her hair. He told himself he had done splendidly. He stood up and thought about her mouth. And he did not tell himself anything. He headed for the connecting door.

  ***

  "I'm a witch."

  No, that wasn't right. Joy locked her hands behind her back and paced the circumference of the small rug near the fireplace, pausing every so often to step over Beezle, who was asleep by the fire.

  A pensive moment later she stopped, waving a hand in the air as if she were tossing off a line from Robert Burns. "I have a little secret."

  Frowning, she shook her head. That wasn't right either.

  More than likely her husband would think being a witch was a little bit bigger than a little secret. Drumming her fingers on the mantel, she stared into the tall mirror above it as if it could give her the answer. After a second or two she tightened the belt on her rose silk dressing gown with a determined tug and stepped back, placing her hands on her hips. She cocked her head and said to the mirror, "Alec, there's something you need to know about me."

  She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Too foreboding.

  She spun around and paced some more, thoughtful and ending each stride with a dramatic turn. Finally she stopped in front of a wing chair. Perhaps she should be direct: "Alec, did you know that on a good day I can turn you into a toad?"

  She sank down into the chair with a defeated sigh, muttering, "That would only work if he had a sense of humor."

  Propping her chin on her hand, she hung over the arm of the chair and stared at Beezle. He snored just as the clock chimed two o'clock. She glanced up, thinking it should only have been about midnight. The delicate brass clock hands began to spin like weathercocks in a gale.

  "Oh, stop it!" she said, her voice deep with disgust. The mainspring shot through the clock face with a dissonant clunk.

  The fire suddenly flared up, the flames dancing as if bellowed. A door clicked shut. She turned.

  Alec stood across the room.

  She rose from the chair, but neither of them said a word. The fire crackled and snapped in the background.

  Beezle wheezed.

  Joy's heart pounded.

  Alec's jaw tightened.

  The clock clunked.

  His gaze left hers, suddenly frowning. "What the devil is happening to all of the clocks in the house?" He crossed the room in three long strides and stood before the fireplace, glaring at the broken clock.

  Joy moved back so the wing chair was between them. She gripped the wings tightly and said, "That's what I wish to talk to you about."