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focused on the solicitor. This cottage might provide an opportunity to dig out of poverty.
    “ I would like to sell it, if possible.”
    “ We can try,” Mr. Henry said without enthusiasm. “I believe, however, you will have an easier time letting it if you are in need of quick funds. Perhaps it could fetch a hundred pounds a year.”
    Not nearly enough.
    “ I suspect the taxes are past due, as well,” he added.
    Maddie closed her eyes for a long moment to fight off a crushing sense of defeat. Damn it, she needed help, not another burden.
    “ Did my husband leave anything else? Anything at all?”
    He grimaced an apology. “I fear not, my lady.”
    Maddie rose. “Please, make whatever arrangements you can to let the cottage and notify me. Use any proceeds to pay the taxes.”
    Upon his agreement, she left.
    Exhaustion claimed her body; despair seized her heart. As Maddie found her horse outside, she held back her tears. She must find a way to fend off Brock’s proposal. Neither Fleet nor marriage were viable options. But dread and anxiety taunted her with the knowledge that her chances of evading Brock Taylor and his unthinkable ultimatum were dwindling by the hour.

CHAPTER THREE

    When Maddie arrived home, she found a pleasant surprise from an unpleasant source.
    Spread out across her bed was a gown, a beautiful confection of pale, creamy green. Unlike anything she had ever possessed, it was made of a thick moiré, dazzling her with its subtle hues and shimmers as the light caressed the fabric. Tiny ivory flowers had been embroidered with painstaking care on the bodice, as well as the epaulettes layered over the large puffed sleeves.
    Maddie lifted the garment against her in delight and fingered the edge of the off-the-shoulder bodice, touched the embroidered belt. When had she last held something so fine? Superior craftsmanship showed in every stitch. An eye for cuts and colors was evident in the design. A lilt of excitement lifted her grim mood.
    The dress made her giddy. How had it come to be on her bed? As soon as the thought drifted through Maddie’s mind, she realized Brock Taylor must have sent it.
    She dropped it as if she’d been burned.
    Then she noticed he’d sent over a boned chemise made with a soft, thin silk, trimmed in expensive Swiss lace. A ribbon tied beneath her bosom. The brief cut of the garments and sheer appearance made her gasp. What the devil was he up to?
    On her coverlet, she glimpsed an ivory-colored card bearing the name of an expensive London modiste . She lifted the heavy vellum between her fingers. Dread beating like a drum in her stomach, she turned the card over.
    Se souvenir de moi souvent.
    “ Remember me often,” she translated with a whisper.
    Brock had signed it, adding how beautiful she would look at the theater on his arm, in this dress. Frowning, she wondered when he had learned French.
    Humiliation washed over her in a sick, cold wave. An unmarried woman of little means accepting such garments from a single man made her feel every bit like his mistress.
    Damning him, Maddie tossed away the card. Then she espied a pair of drop earrings on her secretary in stunning, flawless pearls. A matching necklace sat nearby. With a gasp, she fingered the smooth surface of the pale orbs. When had she last seen anything so pretty—or high-priced?
    The cad had known she had nothing suitable to wear to the theater and had provided it. That he had remembered her preferences and given her a spectacular dress in one of her favorite colors sent a reluctant flutter of excitement through her.
    Brock refused to forgive her debts, but bought her costly clothing and matching jewelry? Did he plot something more than buying a well-born wife to improve his social status? Discerning that would take time.
    Maddie wanted to throw this dress back in his face, tell him she refused to be either his charity case or accept lavish gifts, as a woman who gave her body to a protector for money would