The following morning hadn't brought the clarity of mind I'd hopefully anticipated when finally succumbing to sleep the night before.

Of course, it hadn't.

Nothing had really changed – except, perhaps, that my imaginings of the previous evening seemed more asinine now, when examined in the light of day.

Irritably, I tossed aside the morning paper, in which there seemed to be written nothing of any great relevance. It shouldn't surprise me. I was not to have the luxury of a distraction this morning, I realized, as had been reinforced by the fact that I'd awoken well before dawn, ineffectual at putting my mind to task – any task. All my attempts to return my correspondence, or immerse myself in some or other political treatise, were for naught.

Frustration made my temples throb with the beginnings of a headache. I'd not felt quite this discomposed since I'd lost my mother to consumption, a horrific disease of the lungs, and my father sent me off to Eton at thirteen, that same year. Yet it was not the same. In fact, just comparing my current state of perplexity to the heartache brought on by my mother's passing felt like an insult to her memory. I didn't even know what this was; this madness that had settled over my mind like a laudanum delirium.

Only that it sat in my chest like it belonged there.

With a newfound decisiveness that made my hand fist around the golden flower accents of my fork as if it were a delicate stem to be snapped at will, and not silverware, I gave the shell of my coddled egg several sharp taps, then wiggled it through the crack to lift the top from the egg. I stabbed a piece of ham rasher from my plate and dragged it through the soft yolk before bringing it to my mouth. Chewing with relish, and an undertone of aggression, I considered how best to proceed unmasking the other Ainsworth daughter. Humanely, of course, while in a manner that wouldn't draw too much attention to myself.

There was nothing mystical about the chit. There couldn't be. If life's sharp realities had taught me anything, it was that most such ineffable mysteries had their roots securely affixed to solid ground.

And I'd heard mention of her before, I remembered now, my fork halted halfway to my mouth. At White's, the gentleman's club, some months ago. From Viscount Harris, if memory served. A lecherous lord with a repute for brothels and gambling hells. The reason I'd not put it together any sooner, was simply because he'd not bestowed the lady the courtesy of her name to begin with, but rather a cretin disfigured beyond medical remedy.

At the time I'd deemed his soused ramblings exactly that, the blather of a drunkard. It wouldn't have been the first exaggerated account he'd given while thus deep in his cups; hardly the last. Now I regretted not taking a closer listen as much as not making prior inquiries of my own. Lady Farah's existence was obviously a taboo subject among the peerage, but I might have had a better understanding of the situation by now, had I not spent most of my time at either my estate in the country, or my townhouse in Bath.

My mother was from Bath. Like her, I harboured no great fondness for London.

Regardless, I might renew an old acquaintance, pay the Viscount a visit, however loathsome the thought. That is, right after I combed the aforementioned establishment's betting book for Lady Farah's name and ripped the pages from its spine.

As if in response to the succession of emotion building rapidly inside me, the door to the lavishly decorated dining room swung open, admitting a girl – no, a woman, albeit of the smallest stature I'd ever seen.

My fork rattled against my plate when I dropped it. I lowered my knife to an equally dismal angle, slowly, as if to restore a semblance of decorum, and stared. Truly, my reaction could not be helped. She had to be the most delicate creature I'd ever laid eyes on. Just a tiny thing, barely five feet in height, and her frame so slight the smallest breeze could carry her off.

I leaned forward in my chair, my attention sharp at her approach. Our eyes met over the flat expanse of the dining table and my hands clenched into fists at either side of my plate. Blood rushed in my ears. Heat gathered in my chest. The feather I carried within my breast pocket seemed to burn a path clear through the layered fabric over my heart.

She took a few steps toward my end of the table, paused, and then took another. Each step measured, hesitant. I rose from my chair and once more she halted in her progress across the room. My muscles bunched with tension, hating the distance between us – hating her hesitance to come closer when I wanted nothing more than to pull her up against me, into my lap, onto my thickening cock.

I sucked in a ragged breath and held out my hand, acting out of instinct more than chivalry. "My lady, pray sit. Shall I ask that a plate be prepared for you?" She bit her lip, her gaze averted. Disappointment spread through me and I lowered my hand. "Have you breakfasted already?"

My eyes roved her face, absorbing her features, committing them to memory. Her eyes, when she would let me meet them, were a perfect blend of grey and blue. The colour of the sky right before the heavens opened and flooded the land in its downpour. Her eyebrows were delicately shaped, her nose dainty. And her lips... Hell and damnation. Her lips. They were plump, red cherries drawn in a perfect cupid's bow. Ripe for the picking.

Primitive instinct mastered me now. I barely resisted the urge to adjust the bulge stiffening to the point of pain within my breeches. Moisture wept from the head and a shudder rolled down my spine at the unexpected spurt of release. Too small to bring any noticeable relief, but rather the opposite. The iron will I'd honed on the battleground had near deserted me in this moment. It took every ounce of my control not to reveal my body's interminable reaction as arousal leaked down my thigh.

Not to tip this magnificent stranger over the edge of the dining table, flip up her skirts, and slam home between her soft, creamy thighs.

Would they be as pale as the rest of her? Her sex pink and glistening? Puffed and weepy to be fed my cock?

A sharp pain shot through my loins and I swallowed a groan. What the deuce was wrong with me? This snowy-haired angel would not be won with my long-supressed depravity. No, she seemed to be weary enough of me already and that did not sit well with me. I wanted to know this woman, for her to be comfortable with me, to seek both security and pleasure in my arms. I wanted her trust. Wanted it more than my own pleasure – needed it.

I would have her for my own.

Mine. Mine only.

"I've not eaten," she said, her voice soft and lilting. Her eyes flitted over the sideboard, slim fingers clenching within the folds of her peach skirts. She lifted her chin and peered at me with wide, uncertain eyes. "A slice of toast, perhaps?"

I bit my tongue before it could demand she have a more sustainable meal. If I wanted to know this woman – and by God, I did – I had better know her name before putting her nose out of joint. I took a deep breath, willing my erection into submission, and offered a low bow before lifting her from her curtsy. "Very well. Toast it shall be. But before we see to the matter of our empty stomachs, my lady, might you honour me with your name? I'm quite sure I've not had the pleasure. It would not have been an introduction easily forgotten, should you wonder."

A blush painted her cheeks. "Farah," came her soft reply. "Farah Ainsworth."

I barely managed my surprise, saying, as if the name held no great revelation, "Happy to make your acquaintance, my lady. Please, join me." Then, with and outward calm I did not feel, I seated Lady Farah where a place had hurriedly been set for her to my left. But inwardly, I was in turmoil of the most perilous kind.

This was Henry's other daughter? The supposedly disfigured sister? The cretin? What the hell was wrong with this family?

Did he consider himself so much a peer of the realm that he made his own daughter out to be a social leper? What grounds could a father have for committing such an atrocity against his own flesh and blood? His eldest?

None able to be shown as justifiable, I'm sure.

This was her house, yet she seemed more a stranger to it than I.

I wiped my mouth and discarded the napkin beside my full plate, thinking that simply sipping my coffee would be a lesser test of my control. It wasn't. My grip on the porcelain was hard, unyielding. I had no sense whatsoever of the Ainsworth's atrocious actions toward their eldest daughter, and could only guess as to their reasoning, but surely none could vindicate their behaviour? I could neither understand, nor condone it. Their treatment of her was simply appalling and I could not in good conscious allow it to continue.

Something about the fair lady had gotten under my skin. There wasn't yet a name by which to call it, and I found I was in no great hurry to examine it further, but the feelings she'd awoken in my chest were honest, though not entirely pure. Not with the force the desire to have her had slammed into me the moment I'd laid eyes on her.

No, my intentions were good, if not altogether honourable.

"Are you quite alright, Your Grace?"

"Ah, yes. Yes, of course." My gaze drifted down from where it had been transfixed to her lips, suddenly engrossed by the pale curve of her neck when she swallowed. I watched her throat move and my arousal roared to life anew. I batted away the image of her sweet mouth wrapped around my throbbing shaft and swallowing around my girth that rose the mind and purposely loosened my grip around my cup, forcing a smile. "Quite alright."

She levelled me with a cautionary look, but didn't contradict me.

Clever little bird.

I straightened in my chair and waved the footman away after he'd set down the tray containing both the lady's tea and toast. "Permit me." Passing her the plate of buttered toast, I pulled the cup and saucer to me. "How do you take your tea?"

"Two sugars, please. No milk."

I poured to her specifications and passed it to her with only the smallest rattle. It pleased me that I had managed the task without mishap. An admirable accomplishment considering I hadn't much practise of it.

"Forgive my forwardness, my lady, but I'm a little nonplussed I'd only gained your acquaintance this day. I don't recall your presence at either the evening meal or the card party last night."

"I was otherwise indisposed, I'm afraid." Her lips thinned briefly at my mention of the soirée before she forced them into a pleasant curve once more. "Did I miss much?"

"Heavens, no. It was quite awful, I assure you, but one of many necessary evils to alleviate the boredom of the ton. You escaped a most dreadful fate."

She laughed at my dramatics. A sound I wished to capture so I could listen to it over and over again. "I'm sure it wasn't all that. If it were, what use was there to attend and torture oneself so?"

I shook my head as I watched her nibble on her toast. "What use, indeed. I suppose it is just another thing to endure about our flawed society."

"You are a cynical man, Your Grace. Do you always speak so freely of your dislike for your peers?"

I grinned at being so blatantly called out on the shortcomings of my character, and by a woman no less. How remarkably refreshing.

"Only when it cannot be helped," I said with a wink. To be rewarded with a pretty blush that made my body twitch with arousal.

"Which is most of the time, I suspect."

The accurate observation brought a roar of laughter from me. "Not by design," I assured once I was capable of drawing breath into my lungs again. "I find I'm rather more forthright about my opinion when provoked."

"So most of the time then, Your Grace?" she asked with an impish smile before lifting her cup to her lips and taking a delicate sip.

"I'll concede the point, my lady." My gaze remained riveted on her face as I lifted my coffee in salute. "But what of you? Does your distaste of society match my own?"

"Something of the sort," she replied softly, setting cup to saucer. "It is rather marred by prejudice, is it not?"

I realized too late I'd put my foot in it.

Of course, her disfavour would exceed my own. She'd been subject to people's ridicule her entire life, it seemed, and here I was making a mockery of it. That had not been my intention. Not in the slightest. I enjoyed our comfortable banter – enjoyed it a bit too much, perhaps. I'd not thought to ruin it by my insensitive bearing.

The desire for answers waged inside me, but I wasn't such a wretch I would demand them. Not by interrogating a lady who had suffered much already. I couldn't bring myself to it. However much I wanted to ask why Lady Farah had been shunned from society in such a vicious manner, I decided to make light of the situation, rather than attempt to satisfy my curiosity. I wasn't yet ready for our conversation to reach its end and I had a feeling questions of the kind would have her disappear in the same mysterious manner in which she'd arrived.

For the moment, I would simply take what pleasure I could from her company and seek my explanations elsewhere.

"That it is." I paused. "Shall we partner and avoid their attacks of bigotry and partiality together? I'd much rather your company, than the marriage mart mamas and pompous windbags of the ton."

A blush stole across her cheeks; the twinkle in her eyes returned.

"That is kind of you to say, my lord." The corner of her mouth turned up and this time she held my gaze. "But I would loath to steal you from your social obligations."

"There is no danger of that then, as the only obligations I favour, are to me and mine."

She brightened and I felt a warm pulse from the feather I carried in my breast pocket, as if it, too, shared her reaction. "If that is an invitation –"

"It is," I hastily broke in, daunted by the possibility of her refusal.

"Then I would be honoured, Your Grace."

"Excellent," I said. "Might we launch our newfound partnership with a turnabout the gardens?"

After a brief pause, she accepted. "I would like that."

I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and stood from the table to offer her my arm. And as the heat emanating from her fingertips seared through my sleeve, I wondered how I would bear parting from her after our morning stroll.

Though lush and plentiful, the garden was not that of any estate, and it would be no time at all before we returned.

If only there were some way to prolong it.