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neared the end of his fourth decade, and there was no place on earth more perverse than the Nymph and the Satyr.
    â€œYour Grace?”
    â€œWho is it?” he growled as his palm skimmed his wife’s rounded rump.
    â€œHe refused to give his name, Your Grace. He said to tell you that the time has come to pay up.”
    Lennox lost his grip on his wife. All thoughts of nymphs and pixies rousing him to a sexual peak flew out of his head. Bloody hell, he did not wish for Salisbury to say another word. Thankfully, the butler correctly interpreted his hard stare.
    â€œProbably Arawn,” he murmured as he patted hiswife’s thigh. “Always a prankster, that Arawn. He’ll be wanting to take Prue on a ride or some such thing.”
    â€œI shall leave you alone then, as you hammer out the details of Arawn’s courtship of Prudence,” his dutiful wife replied, slipping from his lap and straightening her hooped skirts. “By the by, do inform Lord Arawn that it will not ingratiate him at all to me if I hear of any of my girls being talked of in such a fashion. Paying up refers to commodities, Your Grace. Our daughters are not things to be traded.”
    â€œOf course, of course,” he said, ushering her along with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” And he wouldn’t. By God, he loved his daughters, and only wanted the best for them.
    Lennox’s gaze followed his wife out of the room before fixing on his butler. Damn it, he knew it wasn’t Arawn come to pay a call. He had an idea who the intruder was, and needed a second or two to formulate his plan. His girls, he thought, thinking of them upstairs giggling and laughing as they pored over the boxes of new clothes and petticoats, stockings and ribbons. He must protect them at all costs.
    Clearing his throat, he asked, “What manner of man is he, Salisbury?”
    The butler frowned. “Rather odd, Your Grace. I’ve never seen him before. He’s tall, fair…a most regal, yet intimidating fellow.”
    Lennox felt his throat dry up, from relief or apprehension he knew not. “Send him in,” he commanded, “and allow no one to disturb us.”
    As if by magic, the stranger appeared behind the butler, startling the retainer. But Salisbury recovered with aplomb. “His Grace will see you now.”
    The man breezed in and slammed the library door shut. For long seconds, his penetrating violet eyes stared him down, and Lennox refused to give in to the urge to loosen his jabot.
    â€œGeorge Jasper Buckman, the fifth Duke of Lennox?” the stranger inquired as he took the tapestry chair in front of the wide desk.
    â€œYes,” Lennox replied as sweat began to bead on his forehead.
    â€œQueen Aine has sent me.”
    He felt his face drain of blood. The man smiled, then reached for the goblet of brandy that Lennox had just poured. Raising the crystal to his lips, he took a sip, his eyes scrutinizing his discomfort.
    â€œQueen Aine?” Lennox asked vaguely.
    â€œYou received a gift from my mother, did you not?”
    â€œDid I?” he asked, feigning boredom. “I’m afraid I don’t recall being introduced to a Queen Aine.”
    The man sat forward, his strange eyes darkening. “She found you weeping over the cradle of a deformed, lame little wretch. Your heir, I believe.”
    Robert. His son. His heir. Aye, he had sired a twisted little thing. Lame, broken. He had wandered into the nursery one night, the night of his son’s first birthday and wept as he watched him sleep. The queen had appeared then. The lovely faery queen. She had offered him his greatest wish, a whole son. An heir that could take hisrightful place as duke once he departed this world. And she had asked for nothing but a tithe to be paid later on.
    It had been twenty-five years since that visit. He had never seen or heard from her again. He had produced the four