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the crags of a mountaintop. Lightning flashed above the rain-slicked slate roof, bringing the sharp gables and multiple chimneys into fine relief against the rolling sky.
    Her palm flattened against the icy window. The Gothic-styled house was almost as wide as it was high. It dominated the land, lording like a great hulking beast. Large bow windows gleamed like pale jewels in a crown, but showed nothing of light or life within. Only a small lonely little light over the front portico guided the way home.
    The coach shuddered to a halt, and the steady drum of the rain upon the roof abated. Lord Archer stepped swiftly from the cab and promptly took hold of her elbow. She bit the inside of her cheek and stood straight as she climbed the cold marble steps. I shall not cry .
    Wind howled across the portico, and the brass lantern hanging high above swayed. Behind them, the four blacks stood placidly, rain dripping from their shaggy manes, steam escaping in bursts from their nostrils as they waited for the outrider to take down Miranda’s traveling valise.
    A not-so-gentle squeeze upon Miranda’s arm made her turn around. No, she could not run to the safety of the coach. Enormous black double doors loomed high before opening to reveal the figure of an elderly man outlined in pale lamplight. More gloom.
    They walked through the doors and into… light. And warmth. A large hall opened up before them, the sight making her falter. Easily the width and breadth of her old home, the hallway was filled, not with cobwebs and dank wood as she had imagined, but light and beauty. White-and-black marble floors laid out in a checkerboard design shined beneath her heels. The woodwork was painted crisp white, and the walls covered in black lacquer. Such a color ought to have made it very dark but the walls gleamed like jet under the light of crystal sconces and an elegant chandelier of cut crystal and golden filigree. Russian, she thought, looking up at it; nothing that beautifully crafted could be anything but.
    Lord Archer watched her appraisal. “You were expecting something different?”
    “I… yes,” she admitted. “The house appeared so foreboding when we came up the drive.”
    “We arrived during a storm.” A sudden moan of wind from the other side of the doors punctuated his statement. “Very few houses appear hospitable in such conditions, especially if they are unfamiliar.”
    “That is true.”
    “But you still expected something different,” he said, studying her as though she were a specimen under a microscope.
    How he knew the truth, she could not comprehend. Long before the storm, her wild imaginings had pictured dark corridors, gloomy rooms, and dusty halls laced with cobwebs.
    His penetrating stare did not abate. “My home is my haven. Should I not make it comfortable?”
    “Of course.” Desperately, she looked to the elderly gentleman who stood as straight as a mainmast not two feet away. He’d taken Lord Archer’s coat and hat when they entered, and had done so with such quiet efficiency Miranda doubted Lord Archer had truly noticed him.
    Lord Archer caught the direction of her gaze and stiffened. “Hullo, Gilroy. Didn’t see you there. You have everything prepared?”
    “Good evening, my lord. Yes, my lord.”
    Around a network of wrinkles, Gilroy’s kind eyes gleamed deep brown. Miranda nodded in greeting as Lord Archer took the mantle from her shoulders. “This is Lady Archer.” He handed Gilroy the mantle.
    “Gilroy is our butler, majordomo, what have you,” he said to her as though the idea of titles irritated him a little.
    “I am honored, my lady.” The man gave a short bow. “On behalf of the staff, we shall endeavor to serve you well.”
    “I am confident you will,” she said, reaching for the same quiet dignity. The idea that she had a staff was almost enough to send her running to the carriage. Only Lord Archer would assuredly haul her back.
    Lord Archer took her elbow once more and they