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herself to an unwilling husband.
    Don’t let an attack of missish nerves turn you from your destiny. There is nothing here to return to, should you turn aside an opportunity in Devon.
    Nothing but Cici, who had been like a mother to her for so many years, and her poor, dear father. They’d sacrificed what little they had left to give her this one chance at a match. She couldn’t disappoint them. And if she became a duchess, she could find a way to see them again.
    If her husband allowed.
    ‘What’s to become of me?’ she whispered more to herself than to Polly.

    The night passed slowly, and the storm continued to pound against the windows. The room was damp and the pitiful fire laid in the grate did nothing to relieve it. Polly gave up trying, after several attempts, to find a chambermaid to air and change the bedding or to do something to improve the draw of the chimney. She returned with instructions from his Grace that, for the sake of propriety, Miranda was to remain in her room with the door locked until morning, when someone would come to fetch her to the chapel for her wedding. She carefully locked the door behind Polly, trying to imagine what dangers lay without that she must guard against. Surely, now that the damage was done, her honour was no longer at risk. Did wild dogs roam the corridor at night, that she needed to bar the door?
    The only danger she feared was not likely to enter through the main door of her room. She glared across at the connecting door that led to the rooms of her future husband. If he wished to enter, he had easy access to her.
    And the way to rescue or escape, should she need it, was blocked. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She tiptoed across the room and laid her hand against the wood panel of the connecting door, leaning her head close to listen for noises from the other side. There was a muffled oath, a rustling, and nothing more. Yet.
    She shook her head. She was being ridiculous. If he wanted her, there was no rush. She would legally belong to him in twenty-four hours. It was highly unlikely that he was planning to storm into her room tonight and take her.
    She laid her hand on the doorknob. It would be locked, of course. She was being foolish. Her future husband had revealed nothing that indicated a desire for her now, or at any time in the future. He’d seemed more put out than lecherous at the thought of imminent matrimony and the accompanying sexual relations.
    The doorknob turned in her hand and she opened it a crack before shutting it swiftly and turning to lean against it.
    All right. The idea was not so outlandish after all. The door to the hall was locked against intruders and the way wasclear for a visit from the man who would be her lord and master. She was helpless to prevent it.
    And she was acting like she’d wasted her life on Minerva novels, or living some bad play with a lothario duke and a fainting virgin. If he’d been planning seduction, he’d had ample opportunity. If there were any real danger, she could call upon St John for help.
    But, just in case, she edged the delicate gold-legged chair from the vanity under the doorknob of the connecting room. Remembering the duke, the width of his shoulders, and the boundless depths of his temper, she slid the vanity table to join the chair in blocking the doorway. Then she climbed back in the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin and stared sleeplessly up towards the canopy.

    Marcus woke with a start, feeling the cold sweat rolling from his body and listening to the pounding of his heart, which slowed only slightly now that he was awake and recognised his surroundings.
    Almost ten years without nightmares, since he’d stayed so far away from the place that had been their source. He’d been convinced that they would return as soon as he passed over the threshold. He’d lain awake, waiting for them on the first night and the second. And there had been nothing.
    He’d thought, after his mother’s