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lieutenant would inherit everything—the title, the great wealth, the broad fertile acres, and one of the most notable estates in England? He smiled cynically. Or that the duke would die within eighteen months of his marriage to the lovely Maryanne?
    Upon her stepson’s inheritance of the title and all the vast wealth of the Halliwells, Maryanne had been politely removed from Halliwell House and banished to the far less magnificent Dower House. Fortunately, she had a generous settlement and spent most of her time in London, living in the imposing town house the old duke had bestowed upon her when they had married. Not yet twenty-one, at the height of her beauty and charm, possessed now of her own respectable fortune, she was once again, not surprisingly, surrounded by a court of eager admirers and suitors.
    But I ain’t among them! Nicolas thought sourly as he tossed off the last of his wine. Thinking of the lonely, bitter nights he had spent upon his return to Portugal three years ago, drowning his sorrows in far too many nights of hard drinking and taking foolhardy risks with his life in battle as he tried to forget a particular pair of china blue eyes, he knew he wasn’t about to walk down that path again! Especially since he suspected that the dowager duchess of Halliwell wouldn’t have wasted a second glance on him if he had returned to England as Lieutenant Nicolas Talmage instead of the earl of Sherbourne!
    Regrettably, even knowing that money and a title meant more to Maryanne than an honest love, Nicolas still found her undeniably alluring. Too alluring, he admitted grimly. His dreams of late had been filled with her, and the seductive notion that he could have her this time, in his arms and in his bed, that his reluctant search for a bride to provide the necessary heirs for the Sherbourne title would be over, had begun to occur with disturbing regularity. By marrying her, he could have everything he wanted, the beautiful woman who had haunted his dreams for far too long and the wife he needed to bear his sons.
    His handsome mouth twisted. If only he could pretend her marriage hadn’t happened or at least forget the reasons she had married one of the most notorious old rakes in England. The fact that she had lain in the arms of another man didn’t bother him—there was much to be said for an experienced woman—but it rankled him to know that if he married her, it would be his title and fortune that had persuaded her to accept him. He might need to get married, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be snared by a seductive, fortune-hunting little witch!
    He scowled. And he was not running away from Lady Halliwell!
    Before he could continue the fruitless argument with himself, there was a tap on the door to his bedchamber. Upon his command to enter, the door swung open to reveal the plump form of his London butler, Buffington. His bald pate gleaming in the glow from the candelabra that lit the room, his blue eyes full of discreet curiosity, Buffington bowed and proffered a silver salver.
    â€œA gentleman caller, Your Lordship. I, ahem, took the liberty of ordering refreshments for him and showed him into the library.”
    Mystified by who would be calling at this time of night and who could warrant such obsequious behavior from a man freely stigmatized by Lovejoy as a “stiff-rumped old maggot,” Nicolas set down his goblet and took up the small white card that lay in the center of the salver. One of his thick black brows arched as he read the name on the card. Roxbury? Now why in the deuce was that sly old rascal calling on him?
    A thoughtful expression on his handsome face, Nicolas glanced across at Lovejoy, who had ceased his packing when Buffington had entered the room and was watching him expectantly. They had been together a long time—since Nicolas had joined the army and Lovejoy had come along with him as his batman—and there were few people Nicolas