"You are not naive, Meggie. You must know that Melissa's birth isn't high enough to tempt a man like Lord Lancaster, nor is her dowry an incentive to overlook her birth. Even though her mother is the daughter of a baron, her father is in trade. In short, there is nothing to induce Thomas Malcombe to tie himself forever to the Winters family."

She was shaking her head, back and forth. "I am convinced that Thomas wouldn't behave dishonorably, Papa. Truly, he is all that is kind and honest and-"

"Thomas Malcombe paid Melissa's parents for the care of the child. Her father, although he was reluctant to do so, told me this. I have no reason to disbelieve Mr. Winters, Meggie. His pain over this was palpable. He tried his best to convince Thomas Malcombe to marry his daughter, but he wouldn't do it."

He watched her face pale, the light of battle fade from her eyes. He hated it, but now it was done.

"Oh dear," Meggie whispered, "Oh dear."

"I believe," her father said, lightly touching her fingertips to her smooth check, "that now is an appropriate time for you to say blessed hell."

Meggie just shook her head, pulled off her bonnet, and dashed her fingers through her hair, shining more blond than brown beneath the morning sun. There had been Jeremy, and she'd been sure her heart would never recover from that stomping. Then, thankfully, she'd seen Jeremy as a fatuous, self-aggrandizing clod, so superior to womankind, who would likely make Charlotte's life miserable, something she probably richly deserved, unless she was a doormat and she'd met the ideal mate for her.

And then Thomas had come along, and she'd realized that here was indeed a man she could admire, a man who admired her, who didn't denigrate her, who teased her and made her happy. The soul-eating melancholia that had pulled her down for nearly a year had vanished. She'd felt so very blessed for nearly a week. Six full days, no black clouds in the vicinity. And now this. She was cursed.

"Mary Rose and I would like you to visit Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin in Scotland."

She turned on him, bitterness overflowing. "Won't everyone think I'm pregnant?"

He hated the hurt in her, knew that rage would come, and he wished with all his heart that it didn't have to be like this. "I'm sorry, Meggie, but there are men in this world who are simply not worthy. I am so very sorry that you had to meet one of them, trust one of them."

Meggie felt pounded, felt the words hollowing her out, leaving her empty with only the bowing pain to fill her. She said as she slowly rose and shook out her skirts, "You know I must speak to Thomas, Papa. I must hear this from him."

"Yes, Meggie, I know you must."

"I will know the truth when I hear him speak."

"I hope that you will."

Meggie had turned away when he felt a sudden shaft of alarm, and called after her, "Do not go to a private spot with him, Meggie. I wish you wouldn't go to Bowden Close without a chaperone, but I know that you feel you must. So be mindful. Do you promise me?"

"Yes," Meggie said. "I promise." She wasn't about to tell him that she'd visited Thomas at his home alone before. She walked away, her head down, deep in thought. She wasn't aware that her father was watching her, pain in his eyes for the pain he'd had to give her.

Tysen rose from the bench, stared down at Sir Vincent's tombstone, and wondered what Sir Vincent D'Egle, that medieval warrior, would have done to Thomas Malcombe if Meggie had been his daughter. Probably lop off his head.

All Meggie could think about as she strode to Bowden Close was that she'd been wrong about him, that Thomas had fathered a child, that he'd professed to care for her when just a couple of months before he'd been intimate with another girl and fathered a child. That, Meggie knew, meant intimacy and that meant they'd caressed and kissed each other. Meggie stopped short. She touched her fingertips to the velvet of a blooming rose that climbed the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. She knew in that moment that there was an explanation that would absolve him. She wanted that explanation and she wanted it pure and clean and straightforward, with no questions, no doubts, left behind.

Bowden Close

THOMAS WAS SMILING even before Meggie slipped into his library. It wasn't at all proper that she came in through that old garden gate, but they would soon be married. Soon he would no longer have to concern himself with the vicar's daughter bending society's rules. It wouldn't matter. That thought pleased him mightily.

Her hair was mussed, as if she'd been fretting about something and had yanked on it, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, so expressive, bright and vivid, so filled with what she felt-oh God, something was wrong. It was like a punch to the gut.

He was around his desk in an instant, his hands around her arms but a moment later, and he was actually shaking her. "What the devil is wrong? What happened? Did someone hurt you?"

She looked up at him and said, without preamble, "My father told me about Melissa Winters."

A dark eyebrow went up, making him look like a satyr, emphasizing the arrogant tilt of his head, the go-to-the-devil look. His hands dropped away, his voice was suddenly colder than the Channel waters in February. "Your father, my dear, shouldn't meddle."

Meggie sent her fist as hard as she could into his belly. He'd had an instant to tighten his stomach muscles before her fist landed hard and his breath whooshed out. At least the punch didn't bowl him over. He grabbed her wrist before she could hit him again.

"That hurt," he said.

Meggie tried to pull away, but he held her wrist tightly. She was panting even as she shouted at him, "I'm glad it hurt. Let me go and I'll do it again!"

He grabbed her other wrist and shook her. "Dammit, Meggie, what the devil is wrong with you?"

"Thomas Malcombe, don't you dare pretend that you're bored by all this, that you're indifferent to it, that you have no idea what I'm talking about, what I'm enraged about. Lower that supercilious eyebrow. Listen to me, Thomas, my father is the vicar. It is my father's duty to meddle, particularly since you wish to be his son-in-law. He wants to protect me."

"All right, now it's my turn to be angry. No, don't try to get away from me. I'm going to hold you awhile longer, there's still too much blood in your eyes. Now, your damned father should not have sullied your ears with this. It has nothing at all to do with you, Meggie, nothing at all. Melissa was a mistake, a very bad one, admittedly, but your father should not have told you about it."

"The mistake, as you so indifferently call it, has cost Melissa dearly. Now there will be a child to live with the consequences of that mistake."

He released her, walked over to the sideboard, and poured himself some brandy. She'd seen his indifferent act, then seen the anger gushing out, and now he was the controlled gentleman again. She watched him sip the brandy before he turned back to her. "I am sorry for it," he said, all calm and smooth, "but it happened and I couldn't prevent it from happening. If I'd known, I would have stopped it, but I didn't know."

All his male beauty disappeared in that instant, all his charm with it. Jeremy was an insufferable moron, but Thomas was worse by far. He was treacherous. She was appalled both at herself for her lack of wisdom, and at him, for his indifference, his utter lack of remorse for what he'd done. Her own anger, her outrage at what he'd done, was fast drowning out her pain at his betrayal. "You couldn't prevent it from happening? If you had known what? Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not in the least mad. Won't you sit down, Meggie?" His hand was shaking. He hated that. Even as he waved her toward a chair, he moved quickly behind his desk.