Could she really mean it, or was it simply gratitude? He didn't want gratitude.

He didn't deserve gratitude-he hadn't managed to save her baby. He hadn't even avenged the great wrong done her.

He had no right to love.

Yet.

He awoke to busy fingers and the sensation of a soft, luscious body smelling of roses and sweet, aroused woman ... She climbed on top of him and his eyes flew open. And fastened on creamy, silken breasts.

"Are you awake, Harry Morant?" She said to him in an oddly determined voice.

He wrenched his eyes off her breasts and looked into the sweet face. "I'm awake."

She lifted herself over him and slowly took him into her body. "Are you listening to me, Harry Morant?" She said undulating her body in a way that drove him wild.

He groaned at the sensation. She tweaked his nipples and his eyes flew open again.

"I said, are you listening?"

"I'm listening," he managed. "Though it would be a damned sight easier to concentrate if you stopped doing th-aahhh."

"Stop talking and listen. I love you, Harry Morant."

His eyes flew to hers.

"I love you," she said again, deliberately. Her body began to move in a slow rhythm and each time she moved, she said it again: "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Still moving, she bent and planted kisses across his chest, murmuring, "I love you," between each one.

His chest felt like it had a burning rock lodged in it. He couldn't say a word.

"I love you." She wrapped her arms around him, and suddenly heaved to the side. They rolled, still joined, and he was on top. "I love you," she repeated, and his body started to pump, harder and harder, and with each thrust she said it again, her clear sherry eyes never wavering from his. "I love you, Harry. I love you."

The dark, consuming wave of passion took him higher and higher, denial pounding furiously through him, and still he heard it. "I love you."

And as he roared and the world splintered into rapture, he heard them again, the words he could not get enough of, but did not deserve: "I love you, Harry Morant."

Harry had made an appointment to ride in the park with Rafe and Luke before breakfast. He wished he hadn't now. His heart was so full. I love you, Harry Morant.

What did a man say to that? He'd done nothing to deserve it. She probably wanted the words back, but he could not say them.

Yet.

He slid out of bed reluctantly and drew the covers over her small, silken body. He padded from the room and changed quickly into his riding clothes.

Rafe and Luke were waiting in the hall. "Sorry I'm late," Harry said, snatching his hat and coat.

Rafe sniffed and frowned. "Is that roses I smell? In December?"

Luke sniffed and shook his head. "Can't smell anything."

Rafe leaned toward Harry, sniffed again, and arched his brow. "Changed your cologne, dear boy?"

"Nope." Harry shrugged into his coat, still trying to deal with the jumble of confused emotions. One thought stood above them all. Nell loved him.

He felt so unworthy of her gift. But he would earn the right to it, he swore. Somehow.

Rafe gave him a thoughtful look. "I see."

"What time are you leaving for Alverleigh?" Luke asked.

"The general has arranged the cavalcade to leave at ten," Harry said. "Are you sure I can't persuade you two to come with us?"

"Into a den of Renfrews with brotherly love so thick on the ground? Not likely," Luke told him frankly.

"Yes," drawled Rafe. "Spare me the delights of your family reunion, dear boy. I've been to war, remember, and though it had its moments, I've had enough of it for the present."

"You'll come to the wedding," Harry reminded them.

"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world," Rafe said.

"Oh, you're still here," said a voice from the stairs. "I'm so glad I didn't miss you."

Harry turned as Nell came skipping down the stairs. A lump formed in his throat. She was so beautiful. So precious. He strode toward her and managed not to snatch her up and twirl her around. He took her hand and, looking deeply into her glorious eyes, kissed the hollow of her palm.

Her clear amber eyes glowed with love. "I love you, Harry Morant," she whispered.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Yes, my new habit. Isn't it smart?" She twirled. "I have another one being made-wait till you see that."

"I liked what you wore last night better."

She blushed rosily and turned to greet his friends.

"Now I can smell roses," Luke said.

"My bath oil," she confessed. "Isn't it delicious?"

Rafe gave Harry a knowing look. "Delicious."

Harry tried not to smile.

Later in the park, he watched Nell put her horse through its paces. "She's a magnificent horsewoman, don't you think?" he said to Rafe.

"Magnificent," Rafe agreed, adding, "You're a lucky man, Harry Morant. You and Gabe, both."

Harry gave him a quizzical look.

"You've both found the most extraordinary women. I can see it in your eyes-first Gabe and now you. You both have the look of men who love and are loved."

Harry was taken aback by the comment. Rafe was always the cool one; nothing affected him. He never talked about such things as feelings, let alone love.

Neither did Harry. Yet. His eyes returned to where Nell was edging from a decorous canter to a wholly improper gallop. "You'll find out one day," was all he could say.

Rafe shook his head. "Won't happen. My fate is about to be sealed. My brother's picked out the perfect brood mare for me, some ghastly heiress with excellent antecedents."

Harry gave him a sympathetic look. Rafe's elder brother, Lord Axebridge, and his wife were childless, so it was now Rafe's duty to marry and provide an heir. Lord Axebridge had thrown himself into the task of finding the heir's mother with enthusiasm, bringing his fascination for breeding livestock together with his passion for increasing the family coffers.

"She can't be that bad, surely?"

"Oh, she looks all right, I grant you," Rafe said gloomily. "But she laughs like a braying donkey."

"Can't you get out of it?"

Rafe shook his head. "I've had a year to come up with someone as suitable and failed. There's a house party at Axebridge in the new year. Unless something happens to prevent it-lightning striking me perhaps-the betrothal will be announced at its conclusion. I tell you, Harry, there are times when I want to chuck my duty to the family and flee to the ends of the earth."

"Who will I meet at Alverleigh?" Nell asked Harry. They were traveling in another yellow bounder and Nell was realizing how hard it was to keep busy while sitting in a carriage for hour after hour. At every church they passed, her thoughts turned to Torie . . .

"As far as I'm concerned, the most important person is my brother Gabe. He's the best of good fellows. You'll like Callie, his wife, too-Princess Caroline of Zindaria," he added as an afterthought.

"I've never met a princess."

Harry squeezed her hand. "She'll tell you to call her Callie, like the rest of us do. Then there's the boys, Nicky-Prince Nikolai-and Jim, an orphaned fisher boy they took in as a companion for Nicky. And Tibby, Miss Tibthorpe who used to be Callie's governess. You remember her-she's the one I suspected Ethan was sweet on."

"Oh yes. Who else?"

"My half brother Nash, he's the diplomat. You'll probably like him. He has a way of charming people," Harry said darkly, in a voice that implied "charming people" was akin to robbing them blind.

Nell repressed a smile. It was clear to her that Harry actually liked Nash, but wished he didn't. "And I know about Marcus, the earl," she said. "Why do you dislike him so much?"

"Because he's one of those cold, superior types who hold the rest of the world in contempt," he said without hesitation. "He made life a misery for Gabe and me during the short time we were at the same school. He's a ruthless bastard." He gave a mirthless laugh. "He and his friends hounded us out of that school."

"I thought you were expelled for fighting."

His head snapped around. "How did you know that?"

"Your aunt told me."

He grunted. "It's true enough. It was Marcus we fought. Him and Nash and the rest of their bullyboy snob friends. You'll see what he's like when you meet him. You could pick him out of a crowd-he's got the coldest eyes in the world."

"Then why would he offer to host our wedding?"

Gabe snorted. "My bet is that he was press-ganged into it by our mutual aunt. Once that woman gets an idea in her head she's like a cavalry charge, sweeping all before her."

"Yes," Nell said, smiling. "And you're all too fond of her to object."

He snorted, but he didn't deny it.

She watched the passing scenery and thought about what Harry had told her. It seemed Nash had been more or less forgiven for their schoolboy enmity, but Marcus hadn't. Why?

And if Harry was still so resentful of the earl, then why had Gabe agreed to stay at Alverleigh? The two brothers were very close. She knew enough to know that if Gabe wasn't already at Alverleigh, wild horses wouldn't have dragged Harry there.

Finally they passed through the ornate wrought iron gates and headed up the long, curving drive. Alverleigh House took her breath away. It was huge, four stories high, with a central section and two sweeping wings. Twelve Palladian columns supported the curved front entrance, which was reached by a very grand set of wide marble steps. The raked gravel driveway curved around a magnificent formal garden in the center. In the sweeping lawn to the left of the building stood a large clipped maze. On the right stretched a magnificent informal garden in the style of Capability Brown. Its focal point was a wide lake with an island featuring a picturesque ruin of a Greek temple.

Nell's nervousness grew in the face of all this grandeur. "You didn't tell me it was this big," she said, straightening her clothes and hair.

"I didn't know. I've never been here before," he said, surprising her. "It's Gabe's first visit, too-and he's a legitimate son."

No wonder he was bitter. But there was no time to discuss anything further, for the horses were slowing and servants came running to assist them to alight and take their baggage.

A tall gentleman came hurtling down the steps, three at a time. There was no need for Nell to ask who he was; he was the spitting image of Harry, except his hair was darker.

The two men embraced, thumping and hugging each other joyfully in a violent masculine fashion.

"Uncle Harry," a high little voice shrieked and Nell turned to see two small boys hurtling at breakneck speed down the steps, the smaller of the two making no concession to an ungainly limp that was an uncanny echo of Harry's.

"Nicky!" Harry picked the limping boy up and whirled him around, laughing. "And Jim. How you've both grown." He grabbed the other little boy and slung a boy over each shoulder where they dangled, upside down, shouting in mock indignation and giggling.

He would make a wonderful father, she thought wistfully. She could just imagine him with a little girl . . .

Nell saw she was being observed by an upside-down prince and forced herself to smile. "I know exactly how that feels," she told him.

Laughing, Harry put the boys down and introduced her.