"Heavens, who is that utterly divine man?"

Sophia tried to shake loose of Christine Archer, Viscountess Handley's, hold, but her best friend's tenacious grip tightened. As Christine was staring towards the archway across the room, Sophia didn't question to which "utterly divine man" Christine referred.

"I ... I must go." Sophia pulled her arm free and desperately looked for the nearest exit. Her gaze lit upon the french windows leading to the terrace and she quickly stepped in that direction. But her hopes for a fast escape were thwarted by the seemingly endless wall of revellers standing between her and freedom.

"Sophia, are you all right?" asked Christine. She stepped directly in front of Sophia and her expression immediately turned to one of deep concern. "Darling, you're pale as wax. You look as if you've seen a ghost."

I have. In the form of a man she'd hoped never to see again. A ghost from her past she'd been trying desperately to forget, lest it cost her everything. And right now that past stood terrifyingly close. If the truth were to come out- She ruthlessly cut off the thought and, keeping her back towards the man on the opposite side of the room, she offered Christine what she hoped passed for a sheepish expression. "Too much champagne, I'm afraid," she lied, praying her very observant friend wouldn't recall she'd imbibed nothing stronger than lemonade. "I've the most dreadful headache and simply cannot stand the noise and this crush."

Christine's gaze turned sympathetic. "A good night's sleep is what you need. Although I hate that you're leaving, especially since that luscious stranger just appeared in the doorway. I've no idea who he is, but I intend to find out."

Dread rippled down Sophia's spine. "Your husband would surely object to such fascination in another man."

Christine laughed. "Darling, I'm married not dead. There is no sin in merely looking." Her gaze shifted over Sophia's shoulder and a mischievous grin curved her lips. "Although I'd wager that man knows a great deal about sin." She returned her attention to Sophia. "I'm certain my Henry would object to my fascination if that fascination was purely on my behalf. However, it is you I'm thinking of, Sophia. You need something or someone to lift your spirits." Christine reached out and gently squeezed Sophia's hands. "It's been nearly three years since Robert's death. It's time to stop mourning. Time to live again."

An image of her deceased husband's face, his warm brown eyes sparkling with humour flashed through Sophia's mind, a mental picture that was instantly replaced by one of intense dark blue eyes that seemed to burn a hole through her skin.

"I'm fine," she said, her battle to remain calm rapidly slipping away. "I'll start living again tomorrow after a good night's sleep to rid me of this headache." She slipped her hands from Christine's and with her head down and knees bent to minimize her height, she began weaving her way through the throng towards the french windows.

"I'll hold you to that promise," Christine called after her. "Expect me to call upon you tomorrow afternoon."

Sophia nodded without turning around and focused on fleeing. When she reached the windows, she grasped the curved brass handle and opened the paned glass panel just enough to slip outside. A gust of unseasonably chilly air, heavy with the threat of rain, swirled around her, pebbling her skin, but she barely noticed the discomfort. Heart pounding, she anxiously peered back into the ballroom, her staccato breaths fogging the glass. Dread seized her when she noted Ian no longer stood under the archway leading into the ballroom, but then she spied the back of a dark head standing on the far side of the room, near the punch bowl. The man's height identified him as Ian and Sophia sucked in a quick breath of relief. Thank God. Now she just needed to circle around to the front of the mansion then request her carriage be sent. She cursed the delay that would entail, but intending to ask Christine and Henry to escort her home, she'd dismissed her driver. At least she'd escaped the ballroom undetected. And once ensconced inside her vehicle, with the velvet curtains drawn, she'd be safe.

She turned. And froze at the sight of the snowy cravat mere inches from her nose.

"Going somewhere, Sophia?" Ian's husky voice, rich with the flavour of Scotland, filled the darkness between them.

And with a sinking heart Sophia knew, that with those three simple words, everything she'd tried to escape had found her.

Two.

Ian stared at the woman who, for the past six months he'd moved heaven and earth to find and two words pounded through his head, in perfect time to his thundering heart.

At last.

She looked at him through those huge, golden brown eyes that had grabbed him by the throat the first moment he'd seen her. He'd been taking his customary solitary walk through the cool forest that marked the border between the outskirts of Melrose and the secluded, back acreage of Marlington Hall. As he'd neared the forest's end, where the shade melted into a golden blaze of late summer sunshine, he'd been so engrossed in his thoughts, he didn't notice her until a mere twenty feet separated them.

She'd stood in profile to him, framed in sunlight, amidst an explosion of colourful wildflowers, holding a bouquet of pink roses obviously picked from the abundance surrounding her. He'd halted, surprised at the unexpected sight of her, and irritated at the disruption of his solitude. A visitor to the area, he decided, as the locals all knew and respected Marlington Hall's property boundaries.

In no mood for company, he was about to withdraw without making his presence known when she reached up and slowly pulled the pins from her hair. Suddenly transfixed, he watched a curtain of glossy sable curls unfurl down her back. After shaking her head, she closed her eyes and raised her face. A slow smile spread across her sun-gilded features, and with a delighted laugh, she spread her arms wide and spun around in circles, her glorious hair and plain brown gown flying around her.

The sight had enchanted him. When was the last time he'd felt such pure joy? He couldn't recall. Couldn't tear his gaze from her. Couldn't remember why he'd wanted to be alone. Then, with her cheeks flushed and lips still curved in a smile framed by a pair of beguiling dimples, she'd stopped and caught sight of him.

His first look into those warm, golden brown eyes had walloped him right in the heart. Heat that had nothing to do with the bright sunshine raced through him and in the space of a single heartbeat, he'd found himself ... something. Smitten? Bewitched? Neither word seemed adequate to describe the struck-by-lightning sensation that had rendered him incapable of doing anything more than staring and drinking her in. All he knew was that catching her in that unguarded, carefree moment had touched a place deep inside him, one that had felt dead for so damn long. And that for the first time in a year he'd felt something other than bleak numbness his constant companion since the accident that had irrevocably changed his life.

She'd raised her hand to shade those Scotch whisky eyes, then moistened her lips, a gesture that riveted his gaze on her lush mouth. For several seconds she stared at him as if she too had been struck, but then her smile faded, and uncertainty, along with a flash of fear flickered in her gaze, rousing him from his stupor. Of course she'd be wary of a stranger in such an isolated spot, and God knows he hadn't wanted to scare her off ...

"Good afternoon," he said, stepping from the shade into the sunlight. "Ye've chosen a braw day to explore the grounds of Marlington Hall."

Distress joined the wariness in her gaze. "Forgive me," she murmured, her accent immediately identifying her as English. "I'm visiting this area ... I just arrived in Melrose this morning, and didn't realize I'd wandered on to private property. If you'll excuse me ..."

She turned to leave and a sense of loss unlike anything Ian had ever experienced gripped him, propelling him forward. "No need to worry," he assured her. "I'm well acquainted with the owner and while some might consider him a bit o' a crabbitt, he'd have no objection to such a bonny lass enjoying a stroll on his land."

She pivoted back to him and her gaze flicked over his scuffed, dusty boots and sturdy nankeen trousers and shirt. Certainly not clothing that would proclaim him lord of manor, but it was his preferred attire on his long, solitary walks.

"Crabbitt?" she repeated in a bewildered tone.

"Aye. What an English lass would call a curmudgeon."

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're employed here?"

A bark of laughter rose in his throat. Bloody hell, that question marked her a stranger like no other could have. He knew he should inform her he'd been teasing and that the reason he was so well acquainted with Marlington Hall's curmudgeon master was because he was himself the curmudgeon. Yet the words stuck in his throat. This stranger knew nothing of him, of his past, of the accident. For the first time in a year someone was looking at him without a trace of calculation or pity.

And not just any someone. No, this someone was a bloody beautiful woman with the most gorgeous eyes and full, kissable lips he'd ever seen. Of course if she remained in Melrose any length of time she'd eventually learn the truth gossip concerning the reclusive Earl of Marlington swirled about the village like thick fog. Yet it was so refreshing for someone to see him simply as himself he couldn't resist delaying the inevitable. After all, what harm could possibly come of such an innocent deception?

"Aye, I work here." Not precisely a lie as his title came with a daunting amount of responsibility. He halted an arm's length from her and discovered that although she wasn't a lass in her first bloom of youth he judged her closer to thirty than twenty, perhaps even a wee bit on the other side of thirty she attracted him like no younger woman, or even one his own age ever had. And those eyes bloody hell, he felt as if he could stare into their soulful, expressive depths for hours. They held hints of secrets and sadness, laughter and happiness, hopes and dreams an intoxicating combination that beckoned him to learn more, to discover everything about her.

Her eyes alone branded her a beauty in his mind, rendering her high cheekbones, creamy complexion, bewitching smile and delicate brows all but superfluous. She was tall, unfashionably so, but then so was he, and he liked that she stood up straight and regal instead of slouching to disguise her height. Even her charmingly undone appearance didn't diminish her elegance. Her gown was plain, but of fine quality, marking her as woman of some means.

"I'm in charge of the grounds." He shot the bouquet she held a pointed look. "I see you found the wild roses."

More colour bloomed in her cheeks. "I adore flowers and roses are my favourite. They were so beautiful I couldn't resist picking a few. However, I would have refrained had I known this was private property."

A snippet of his favourite Christopher Marlowe poem drifted into his mind And I will make thee beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch her. "Ye should never have to refrain from taking what your heart desires."

"You should if it belongs to another."

"Not if it is freely given, and as I am the keeper of the roses, you are welcome to pick as many as you like."

"Thank you, Mr ...?"

To prolong the inevitable, he offered his middle name rather than his surname. "Broderick. But you may call me Ian all my friends do."

Amusement glinted in her eyes. "We've hardly been acquainted long enough to be considered friends, Mr Broderick."

"Perhaps, but the fact that ye picked my roses makes us instant friends. 'Tis a law here in Melrose."

She hoisted a brow. "Indeed?"

"Aye. In fact, there's another law that once you pick a man's roses, you're obliged to stroll through the rest of the gardens with him."

She pinned him with a stern stare, one rendered far less threatening by the twitching of her lips. "I know a Banbury tale when I hear one, Mr Broderick."

"Ian. And I'm certain you do, but 'tis the truth I speak. Lord Marlington himself declared it a law."

"For what reason?"

"Why, so the other flowers wouldn't be jealous of the roses, of course. Ye wouldn't want the other blooms to suffer from neglect, would you, Miss ...?"

He swore something flickered in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be certain. "Mallory. Sophia Mallory."

Sophia Mallory. Her name echoed through his mind like a siren's call, and he suddenly knew precisely how Ulysses had felt inexorably drawn, unable to resist. "'Tis a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Mallory."

"Thank you, although it's Mrs Mallory."

Disappointment crushed him. Of course she would be married, would belong to someone else. While Ian had done many things he wasn't necessarily proud of, and he'd told her to always take what your heart desired, he wasn't a man to pursue another man's wife no matter how much he might want her. Still, he couldn't rescind his invitation at this point. "Your husband is welcome to join us"

"I'm afraid that's impossible. He passed away several years ago."

Ian's conscience kicked him at the wave of relief washing through him. Damn it, he shouldn't feel such joy that any man was dead. Especially as his own loss had left him gutted until he'd seen Sophia laughing and spinning in his meadow. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and lightly grasped her hand. Their palms met and warmth spread through him. "I'm sorry. I suffered a similar such loss and wouldn't wish it upon anyone."

She stilled and for several seconds he thought she meant to pull away, wouldn't have blamed her for doing so. But instead she gently squeezed his hand. "My sympathies for your loss."

He would have thanked her, but bloody hell, the sensation of her skin against his robbed him of his ability to speak. Instead he brushed his thumb over the silky smooth back of her hand and simply nodded.

Her gaze locked on his and something that looked like heat kindled in her eyes, giving him hope that she felt this ... whatever it was grabbing him by the throat. Had his very life depended upon it, he couldn't have looked away. And he sure as hell hadn't wanted to release her when she gently withdrew her hand. Indeed it required a Herculean effort not to snatch her hand back and press it against his chest, so she could feel his heart pounding, could know how deeply she affected him.

"You're certain the earl wouldn't object to you showing his private gardens to a stranger?"

He had to swallow twice to locate his voice. "He'd insist upon it unhappy flowers wilt and if there's one thing that makes the earl even more crabbity than usual, 'tis wilted posies. He'd issue you the invitation himself were he in residence. Indeed, he'll have my head if his blooms are withered when he returns." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "I can only hope ye'll obey the law and save me from his wrath."

Again she hesitated and Ian forced himself to remain quiet, to not give in to the unprecedented and uncharacteristic urge to drop to his knees and beg her join him. To spend the day with him. The day? He nearly laughed. More like a fortnight. A month. A decade. He wasn't certain what had come over him, but whatever it was, there was no denying this fierce, overwhelming desire to spend more time with her.

"Very well, Mr Broderick. I shall save you this once."

As they walked along he pointed out different plants and regaled her with humourous stories of life in Melrose, loving the sound of her laughter, enjoying her tales of England, every moment strengthening his attraction to her. When they paused by a trellis draped with fragrant roses, he paused and looked into her intoxicating eyes. "These are Marlington Hall's finest roses. Would you like to gather some, Mrs Mallory?

She studied him and he tried his damnedest keep his expression blank to hide the want burning inside him, but wasn't certain he succeeded, wasn't certain it was even possible to do so. Wariness flickered in her eyes, followed by curiosity, and then ... then there was no mistaking the flare of desire that kindled in her gaze, a heat that stole his breath. Stole his heart.

"Are you trying to tempt me with your roses ... Ian?"

Bloody hell, the mere sound of his name on her lips drove every intelligent thought from his head. He searched his empty mind for something witty, for a clever rejoinder, but the blatant truth simply spilled out. "Yes. Are you tempted, Sophia?"

For an answer she held out her hand ...

He'd wrapped his fingers around hers, a gesture that marked the start of the most incredible, happiest, bloody amazing six weeks of his life. Sophia became his friend. His lover. The axis upon which his world revolved. They'd stayed at the small secluded hunting lodge on his property, a place he'd never shared with anyone. She assumed it was the groundskeeper cottage, and he didn't disabuse her of the notion. She didn't speak of her past, didn't ask about his. Instead they focused solely on each other and the moment. He wanted to tell her the truth, but the time never seemed right, even less so the longer they spent together. But one night, when her time in Scotland was nearing its end, after making love with a passion unlike anything he'd ever known, he watched her sleep and could no longer rationalize his deception. After vowing to tell her the truth the next morning, he'd gone to sleep. And woken up alone. She left behind only a brief note and a man who was determined to find her. Little had he known how difficult that quest would prove. Because as he soon learned, she'd been equally dishonest with him about who she was.

Looking at her now, the darkness cloaking them, Ian fought to align his conflicting emotions. His profound relief that he'd finally found her. His anger at the way she'd left him. The enervating hurt that she could leave him. It didn't help assuage his pain that rather than being pleased by his presence, she looked distressed and desperate to flee.

To ensure that she didn't, he grasped her upper arm, then pulled her away from the arc of light spilling from the windows, behind topiary potted in an enormous stone urn.

"What are you doing here, Ian?" She tried to pull free of his hold, but he didn't let go.

"I'm here to see you, Sophia. Or should I say Lady Winterbourne?" Before she could reply, he continued, "Nay, not Lady Winterbourne that's far too formal after the intimacies we shared. Do you recall those intimacies, Sophia? Those times when I was so deep inside your body you said it felt as though I touched your heart?"

She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him, and all the hurt and anger, frustration and confusion that had consumed him since that morning he'd woken up alone rushed to the surface and he stepped closer, forcing her back until her shoulders touched the rough stone.

"Look at me, damn it." She complied with obvious reluctance, then regarded him with a dispassionate expression he'd never seen from her before. "Yes, I remember," she said, her voice matching that blank look in her eyes. "You know who I am, my title. That I wasn't honest with you. You're obviously angry"

"Yes, I bloody well am angry, but not because you're a countess." By God, it was all he could do not to shake her. "I don't give a damn if you're a scullery maid or a royal princess."

A frown puckered her brow. "Then why are you here?"

"Why am I here?" An incredulous sound escaped him. "Surely it can't surprise you that I'd come after you, especially after you left with no explanation"

"I wrote you a note."

"Aye. And a bloody inadequate note it was."

"It said everything that needed to be said."

"Indeed?" He reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew the missive she'd left, and held it up to her. He didn't need to look at the words they felt etched in blood on his heart. "'Dear Ian, please forgive my abrupt departure, but it is for the best. I'll always treasure our time together and wish you every happiness.'" He crumbled the paper in his fist and leaned forwards until mere inches separated their faces. "I want to know how you could possibly think those words were in any way adequate after what we'd shared. Or why you leaving was 'for the best'."

Instead of appearing in any way cowed, she lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. "I've no intention of answering any of your questions until you answer mine, the first of which is how did you gain entrance to this soiree?"

Reluctant admiration at her courage in the face of his ire washed through him and he leaned back. "I sent Lord Benningfield a note informing him I'd be arriving in London this evening and requested an invitation, which he kindly provided."

She frowned. "Why would he do that?"

"Why wouldn't he? He'd hardly turn away the Earl of Marlington."

"I agree. But surely he'd turn away his groundskeeper ..." Her words trailed off and realization dawned in her eyes. "Dear God. You're not ... you can't be"

"Ah, but I am the crabbitty curmudgeon himself." He offered her a formal bow. "Lord Marlington, at your service."

Three.

Feeling as if the flagstones shifted beneath her feet, Sophia stared in disbelief at the man she'd unsuccessfully tried to forget for the last six months. The man she'd had to force herself to leave. "The Earl's name is William Ferguson," she whispered, shaking her head.

"Aye. And I am he William Ian Broderick Ferguson."

Her gaze drifted over his perfectly tailored formal attire garments that clearly cost a fortune, and suddenly things about him that had seemed incongruous with a groundskeeper clicked into place. His love of literature and poetry. His regal bearing. His expertise at riding. The ease with which he conversed on any subject. Why hadn't she seen the clues? No doubt because she was keeping her own secrets and therefore hadn't wanted to too closely examine any discrepancies in his behaviour lest they lead to questions about hers. The fact that she'd been so utterly besotted with him clearly hadn't helped her thought processes. Even as she realized he now spoke the truth, part of her still couldn't quite believe it.