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was a shell of a woman with no hope for redemption. But she had damned well earned the right to shape her life according to rules only she created.
    Love, peace, and refuge.
    Those things could never be hers. So why, as he disappeared through the doorway, did she stretch toward Max like a sun-starved flower?

Chapter Five
    Max slumped in an overstuffed chair in Lady Sophia’s library, causing his newly brushed coat to crumple. The usually comforting scent of must, parchment, and leather failed to ease his fury.
    He felt almost as he had when he’d returned from India—a pitiful, wounded thing. Back then, a master had taught him to use intellect and honor to subdue his rage. But after all this time the beast still existed. Now, hope, desire, and doubt clashed in bloody battle and the newly reanimated beast paced inside his heart, drooling in anticipation of carnage.
    Lavinia thought she could lead him like a puppy: Come. Sit. Stay. Go.
    You could have trusted me , she had said. Had she expected him to tend their love’s flame forever? Sacrifice the rest of his days to her memory?
    He had done just that, of course. He slumped farther into the chair. Not that she had deserved such a sacrifice.
    He could not place the day his affection for the charming young woman from the neighboring estate had deepened to desire. The content of their easy conversation had turned slowly from weather to philosophy, from philosophy to dreams of the future and then, somehow, from dreams of the future to dreams of their future.
    They were the last of their respective lines. The untitled Harrisons, though not wealthy, were respected gentry. Her mother was the granddaughter of the earl of Eweing, though the title had since reverted to the crown. Her father, Mr. Edward Wiggins, was a moneyed brewer of modest origins. All of Thistleton-on-Thames had thought the match lucky for Lavinia.
    All but her father—the one Max had expected would be most pleased by his proposal. Wiggins had held standards unrelated to blood, birth, and position.
    When her father had challenged Max’s ability to support Lavinia in the manner she’d known, insult had seized Max like a fever. Determined to prove her father wrong, he’d taken the opportunity in India.
    His lips tightened. Any reasonable man would have sought to prove his worth under such a challenge.
    Though not, perhaps, in such drastic fashion.
    And how could he have known her marriage had been forced? As if the nuances of London gossip reached India. As if he had not languished those long months in prison. Did she even care about that?
    He cracked his neck. His head hurt. His legs were heavy and his eyes burned.
    Abruptly, he stood. What did such reflections matter, anyway?
    He strode to the nearest window and observed the silent courtyard. All was stillness. Like some godforsaken demon, Lady Sophia’s house only came alive in the dark of night.
    Muffled voices sounded in the entry hall. So she would not come to him alone. He snorted. Perhaps it was best. In his current temper, he was far too likely to speak in rapiers.
    A servant opened the door. The first lady to enter was unfamiliar. Next, the duchess swept into the room. At last, she entered.
    She did not look him in the eye. “You have been introduced to the duchess. Allow me to present Lady Sophia, our hostess.”
    A petite woman, as lushly curved as a mortal Venus, smiled at him. Her cornflower blue eyes were lighter than those of the duchess, but they caused a ripple of unease. She beheld him with the most deeply perceptive gaze he’d ever seen.
    “Welcome,” Lady Sophia said. “Though I wish we had met under less unhappy circumstances, I trust you have made yourself at home.”
    He glanced to Lavinia. She blushed. So they all knew he’d been to her rooms. Again, she placed him at a disadvantage.
    “We…” He cleared his throat. “We have matters we must discuss. Might we begin?”
    As the ladies seated themselves, he pulled a chair