"I didn't even try to run. Jim found out later that Langdon visited the brothel every Wednesday night for a virgin. But his sins weren't as grave as mine. He was the heir apparent, so my offense was much worse."

"He deserved what you did to him."

He gave her a self-mocking grin. "I always thought so. Now you know my sordid past. When the old gent came to Scotland Yard to confront the boy who had murdered his son, he decided I was his grandson."

"Why?"

"My eyes. Silver eyes run in the family."

"I've met Marcus Langdon. His are silver."

"Yes."

"But surely there was more than that."

"The old gent asked questions. 'Do you remember a tall man with dark hair?' 'Oh, yes, sir, yes indeed.' 'Your father?' 'Oh, yes, sir. He held my hand.'" He shook his head. "He made it so easy."

"You didn't have any of those memories."

"Of course not." He began rubbing his brow.

"Is it your head?"

"Yes, I think it's the flowers here. Their scent is so strong."

"Come and put your head on my lap."

He didn't hesitate to move closer, to rest his head on her thigh. She began to ma.s.sage his temples. He moaned low. "Almost makes the head pains worth it to have your tender ministrations."

"I worry about these headaches you're getting."

"I've had them for years, Catherine. They come. They go. They're of no importance. If they were, surely I'd be dead by now."

She smiled down on his rugged face, took a moment to trail her fingers over his nose. "What happened to your nose?"

"I got into a fight. In gaol, they don't segregate children from adults while we're awaiting trial, so we were at the mercy of big bullies and the worst society has to offer. Some individuals in gaol deserve to be, but that's not pleasant picnic conversation. Tell me about your brother."

"Sterling?"

"Have you another?"

Bending down, she kissed the tip of his nose, before returning to rubbing his temples. "I told you. He and Father had a row, but I don't know what it was about."

"How is your father?"

"Not well. He grows paler and thinner every day. He can't speak, can't tell me what he wants. I thought to take him out to the garden for a spell, but his physician doesn't agree."

"I should think if given the choice between spending his final days in bed or in a garden, an Englishman would always choose his garden."

"You think I should disregard the physician's advice?"

"I think you should do what you know in your heart is right."

She brushed her lips over his. "Thank you for that."

He rose up, twisted about, and latched his mouth onto hers, kissing her hungrily, laying her down in the process. He tasted of wine. She thought she'd never again sip on red wine without thinking of him.

She ran her hands up into his thick, curly locks. She thought of him as a child, how unruly his hair must have been as he'd raced over the bleak and rugged moors. She thought she could hear the sea in the distance and a.s.sumed if they walked farther, they'd eventually meet up with the cliffs.

She drew back from his lips. "Are there any portraits of you as a child?"

"No."

Sometimes it was difficult to get information from him, not because he was being obstinate-although he was certainly that-but because when she looked at him she saw the Earl of Claybourne. When he looked in a mirror, he saw an imposter.

"Are there any portraits of the earl's grandson-before you came into his life?"

He gave her an indulgent smile. "You're trying to find something in me that simply doesn't exist."

"So there is one."

"In the room that the old gent referred to as the Countess's Sitting Room."

"Will you show me?"

"Catherine-"

"Please. I'm not trying to prove you're Claybourne. Honestly. But the old gent must have seen something in you, so it's the closest I'll come to seeing you as a lad."

"Why would you-"

She pressed her finger to his lips. "Do I really ask for so much?"

He arched a brow, causing her to smile while rolling her eyes. "All right. I suppose I do."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, her nose, her chin. "But you don't ask for anything I'm not willing to give."

She liked this aspect of him, when he wasn't quite so dark and brooding, when he teased her, when he made her so terribly glad to be with him.

He rolled off her and helped her to her feet. They began packing away their picnic.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees. She glanced toward the distant road, and a sense of foreboding sent a shiver through her. She didn't know if it was the prospect of looking at the true Earl of Claybourne as a child or something more sinister that disturbed her.

Luke had visited this room only once and it had given him a blinding headache then.

The old gent had brought him here, to show him the portrait and to explain how his wife had died in this room, died with grief over the loss of her firstborn son and grandson. The room had carried a heavy flowery scent back then-no doubt the lingering presence of the countess-and Luke had attributed that to causing his headache.

But the room now smelled of furniture oil, and yet still his head began to pound as he watched Catherine trace her fingers over the faces in the portrait without actually touching the canvas. She took a step back. "They look to be very happy."

"The old gent thought they were."

She turned to face him. "Have you ever considered growing a mustache?"

"Like the man in the portrait? No." Nothing he did would make him look like the man in the portrait.

"I can see similarities-"

"Catherine."

"I know you don't think you're Claybourne, but there are similarities. The hair, the eyes...even the chin I think."

He shook his head.

"How old were you-was he-when this portrait was done?"

"Six. It was completed just before they were killed."

"Why would someone kill them?" she demanded to know.

Luke had no answer for that. "Robbery most likely."

"But the boy, what happened to him?"

Luke shook his head. "Sold. Put on a ship. Perhaps he died elsewhere. There's no way of knowing."

"It just seems so very odd. And it also seems that quite possibly you could be-"

"Catherine, as you say, they were happy. Why would I not remember that? Why would I have no memory of him or her? You were young when your mother died. Have you no memory of her?"

Sighing, she looked down at the floor. "I remember her. Vaguely." She lifted her gaze back to his. "I see your point, I suppose."

"Good." He plowed his hands through his hair, pressing on his scalp, trying to relieve the pain that had begun without giving away that it was there. "I need to see to some matters."

"Am I free to roam the house?"

"You're free to do anything you want, although I advise you against leaving. Avendale could show up at anytime."

"I won't leave these walls."

He took a step nearer and stroked his thumb over her lips. He wanted to carry her to his bedchamber, he wanted to spend every moment that remained to them here making love to her. But the truth was that he was no longer certain how to define their relationship.

She'd asked for a night in his arms. Had it been enough for her? It certainly hadn't been for him, but it was wrong of him to pursue more when he couldn't give her forever. It was wrong when Frannie- He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. "I'll see you at dinner."

Then he strode from the room, praying that Avendale would make his appearance soon, before Luke went mad with wanting Catherine again.

The rain began near dusk, the wind whipping off the moors, the thunder rumbling.

In the library, Luke stood at the window, his hip against the windowsill, gazing out on the darkness, the land occasionally illuminated by the flashes of lightning.

Catherine sat in a nearby chair, a book in her lap. She'd read the same pa.s.sage three times now and still hadn't a clear understanding of what Jane Austen was trying to say. It wasn't a complicated point. She simply couldn't concentrate.

"I've been pondering something you told me once," Claybourne said quietly.

Catherine welcomed the opportunity for conversation and closed the book. "And what was that?"

Claybourne was studying something beyond the window. "You said that the first Earl of Claybourne had earned the right to pa.s.s the estates and t.i.tle on to his heirs."

"I have a vague recollection-"

He turned from the window. "When we return to London, I'm going to appear before the House of Lords and denounce my claim to Claybourne."

Slowly coming to her feet, Catherine felt as though all the air had been forced from her lungs. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm weary of living a lie. Because a time existed when I didn't fully appreciate what I'd been handed-I saw only my life not the legacy behind the t.i.tle. All of this truly belongs to Marcus Langdon, and I shall see that he comes to have it."

She saw so many problems and difficulties with his plan that she hardly knew where to begin.

"They'll hang you."

"I doubt it. The witness to my crime died several years ago. What evidence do they have? Besides, I can well afford to pay the sharpest legal mind in all of England to defend me if it comes to that."

"But Marcus Langdon-he isn't you."

He chuckled low. "Yes, that's quite the point."

She took a step nearer. "No, I mean, I truly can't see him as the Earl of Claybourne. You seem so well suited to the role."

"That, too, is the point, Catherine. It's been a role that I've played. I've been playacting all these years."

But she knew his reasons encompa.s.sed more than he'd revealed. His being the Earl of Claybourne was preventing him from obtaining the one thing he truly wanted: Frannie.

She took a step nearer, felt the tears sting her eyes. Reaching out she touched his cheek. "You are a remarkable man, Lucian Langdon. Frannie is incredibly lucky to have your affections."

"I'm not doing this for Frannie. I'm doing it because of you. When I see my reflection in your eyes, I don't want to see it tainted by deception and as long as I'm the Earl of Claybourne, I'm not a man worthy of any woman."

"I know of no man more worthy." Stretching up on her toes, she kissed him, unable to believe how deeply she loved him. She wanted to do more than kiss him. She wanted to show him that he'd managed to claim not only her body, but her heart and soul.

She wondered how much time remained to them before the devil would appear. She drew back from the kiss. "When do you think he'll come?"

She saw regret in his eyes, knew he understood what she was asking, what she wanted. "It could be any time now."

"How long will we wait before we decide he's not coming?"

"He'll come."

"How can you be so certain?"

He gave her an indulgent smile, which might have p.r.i.c.ked her temper before she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't mocking her curiosity, but rather he was amused by her interest, perhaps even a bit impressed that she'd care. "I've played cards with him for a number of years. I know how the man thinks."