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Emmeline let her shoulders relax against the sun-warmed stone at her back and pulled her straw gardening hat low over her brow to shade her face.

For a few blessed moments she thought she might drift off to sleep, but before long her mind was racing with the same thought that had kept her awake most of the night.

Lord Melrose’s kiss.

Each memory chased the next through her mind, like a dog chasing its tail. She’d asked herself dozens of times what she could have been thinking , letting Lord Melrose kiss her, but only one answer made sense.

She hadn’t been thinking at all, which was not a thing she ever did.

If she had been thinking, the violet ribbon with her father’s scent would still be in her possession. She’d searched in every place she could reasonably expect to find it—the gardens, the library, her bedchamber—but it had vanished.

She dropped her head onto her bent knees with a groan. Oh, wagers were wretched, despicable, horrible things! Even now she could hardly believe she was in London, but the Countess of Fosberry could coax the devil himself into waging a soul he didn’t possess.

Her kiss with Lord Melrose had begun innocently enough—that is, as innocently as any secret, passionate kiss ever did.

It was a case of mistaken identity, nothing more, but if the ton discovered one of the infamous Templeton sisters had been kissing the peerless Lord Melrose in Lady Fosberry’s library, the avalanche of gossip would shake the foundations of London itself.

Emmeline’s expectations for the season had hovered somewhere between mild unpleasantness to catastrophic disaster, and the ton had detected a whiff of blood in the air the instant Juliet entered the ballroom last night.

The gossip had started not even fifteen minutes after she descended the staircase, the whispers as thick and dense as the London fog, with the ton behaving as they always did when a potential scandal was brewing.

Like rabid hounds with an injured fox between their teeth.

God knew there wasn’t a family in England more scandalous than the Templetons, and there was poor Juliet in the midst of it, toying with the ton ’s patience by playing at being a respectable young lady.

Lady Fosberry might scold all she liked about people being unpredictable, but these were all the same people Emmeline remembered from her own nightmarish season, all of them saying the same things about the Templetons in the same tones of thinly veiled delight, as if their mother’s disgrace had only just happened.

There was nothing unpredictable about the ton . At best, they had a lengthy memory for scandal. At worst, they were cruel. One needn’t look any further than her own family for proof of that.

The one pleasure she’d taken in the ball had been the few moments she’d hidden in a curtained alcove on the second floor and peeked down at Juliet as she floated through the cotillion like a graceful bird soaring through the air, her cheeks pink and her borrowed violet skirts whirling around her ankles.

Warmth had flooded Emmeline’s chest at the sight of her sister’s smiling face. Juliet had been born for this chance, born to grace a ballroom. The ugly gossip, the stares and whispers—none of it seemed to touch her.

But now another disastrous scandal was bearing down on them, hurtling directly toward them like a runaway carriage, all because Emmeline hadn’t put a stop to Lord Melrose’s advances as soon as he’d accosted her in the library.

She kicked at a rock next to her toe and sent it skittering over the dirt.

It wasn’t fair. Scandalous things weren’t supposed to happen in libraries.

She’d ended up with far more than a copy of Thomas Whateley’s Observations on Modern Gardening , that much was certain. Instead of advice on garden enclosures, she’d found herself in the arms of the gentleman against whom every other gentleman in London this season would be measured.

Measured, and found wanting.

If she’d been able to come up with a way to extricate herself from his embrace without revealing who she was, she would have done so at once—of course , she would have—but given her history with the ton , even the mere thought of telling him her name had chilled her to the bone.

After that, though…well, there may have been a moment or two when she’d foolishly thought it might be an interesting experiment to kiss a gentleman, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever get another chance to kiss the Nonesuch.

She’d had a notion that kissing couldn’t be as transporting as it was rumored to be, but then he’d stroked her hair and pressed his soft lips behind her ear, and the next thing she knew the most delicious aching heat had unfurled in her belly, and…

She’d gone a bit dizzy after that, but there had been…sensations.

The dangerous kind.

Emmeline knew all about dangerous sensations, as did anyone who’d bothered to look into human physiology. What she hadn’t expected was the feelings that accompanied those sensations.

Wretched things, feelings , especially passionate feelings.

Nothing good would come of indulging feelings. Indeed, Emmeline would prefer not to have any at all. It had been uncontrollable passions that had led her mother to run off with her lover, leaving behind her broken husband and the five daughters she’d abandoned.

She’d ruined herself, ruined them all…

Now a few stolen kisses had led to another disastrous debacle, and here were the Templetons right in the middle of it.

Again.

Except this time, she couldn’t blame her mother. This time, it was all Emmeline’s fault. If they were forced to flee London once again, Juliet would lose the wager, and then what would become of them all?

What would become of Phee, who’d suffered such heartache?

Phee, who’d lost everything when their season was torn to shreds, including the gentleman who’d been courting her at the time.

It had been Phee who’d taken care of them since their father’s death, all without uttering a word of complaint—Phee who’d held them together without ever asking for a thing for herself.

No one deserved to have her heart’s desire fulfilled more than Phee.

Then there was Tilly, sweet, innocent Tilly, the only one of them who hadn’t been damaged by the ruinous scandal their mother had brought down upon their heads, the only one of them who looked at the world with hope, rather than suspicion.

What was she to do? How was she meant to fix this?

Her head was so muddled she couldn’t think straight, but even so, she knew there was nothing to be done, aside from making certain no one— no one —ever discovered it had been her , Emmeline Templeton, who’d kissed Lord Melrose in Lady Fosberry’s library.

Whatever else happened, it must remain a secret.

But surely no one had seen her flee the library last night?

Lady Fosberry’s guests had been safely occupied in the ballroom.

The corridor had been deserted, she was certain of it, and even if someone had been lurking about, they wouldn’t have recognized her .

It had been quite dark, and she hadn’t appeared in the ballroom at all that evening.

She was safe, perfectly safe?—

Emmeline’s head popped up at the sound of a carriage coming up the drive. She rose to her feet, brushed the dirt from her skirts, and made her way back to the front of the garden, so she could peek through the gate.

As soon as she saw the crest, she froze—all but her stomach, which dropped down into her half-boots.

Oh, no . It was Lord Melrose.

Her stomach lurched upwards again, crowding into her throat.

Dear God, I’m going to be sick .

Her first instinct was to flee the walled garden and conceal herself in the wilderness on the northern side of the house, but cowardice was what had gotten her into this mess to begin with.

She wasn’t a naughty child fleeing an enraged parent, for pity’s sake, and Lord Melrose wasn’t chasing after her with a birchbark switch in his flawlessly gloved hands.

But he likely does have a walking stick…

Emmeline shoved that distressing thought aside, and tried to reason herself out of her panic. It might not even be Lord Melrose at all. She may have mistaken the crest, or perhaps he’d lent his carriage to a friend, or?—

The carriage door opened. An elegant, dark-haired gentleman leapt down onto the drive, and after him a gentleman with impossibly golden hair, and impossibly broad shoulders.

Lord Cross, and Lord Melrose. There was no mistaking them .

Lord Cross was as solemn and unsmiling as Lady Fosberry had said he was, but Johnathan Parrish, the Earl of Melrose was simply impeccable, with his fair hair, elegant figure and exquisitely tailored clothing. Why, she could see the shine on his boots from here!

He didn’t look pleased. Indeed, he looked rather grim, his fair brows lowered, his mouth turned down at the corners.

Emmeline couldn’t imagine what a man of so many perfections had to be discontented about, or why she was unable to tear her gaze from his face, even when he wore such a sullen expression?—

For pity’s sake, haven’t I caused enough trouble already?

She wrapped her fingers around the wrought iron bars of the gate, her heart crowding into her throat as Watkins, Lady Fosberry’s butler, responded to their summons, and ushered them inside.

Emmeline had expected Lord Melrose would be handsome—every lady in England knew that —but the reality of Lord Melrose was even more impressive than she’d imagined he would be, than she’d imagined any man ever could be.

He was everything rumor claimed he was, only more so.

His legs were longer, his figure more muscular, his hair as bright as a golden guinea under the sun.

It seemed impossible she could have been kissing him mere hours earlier.

Emmeline released her grip on the gate, retreated to the other end of the garden and pressed her back against the stone fence.

She wasn’t hiding , not really. It might feel as if she was, but she only wanted a bit of shade, and anyway, it wasn’t necessary for her to hover beside the gate, where anyone could see her, particularly as there was every chance Lady Fosberry wouldn’t call her in, after all.

If she wasn’t called, then she needn’t go.

No, she’d remain right where she was until they?—

“Emmeline? Emmeline, are you here?” Juliet appeared on the pathway, a frown creasing her forehead when she saw Emmeline. “Oh, there you are. Didn’t you hear me call? Lady Fosberry wants you to come to the drawing room.”

Emmeline took an involuntary step backwards, but her back collided with the unyielding stone wall behind her.

There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run?—

“Emmeline? What’s wrong? You look as if you’re going to be ill.”

“I…er, nothing, only I’m not fit for a call.” Emmeline gestured to her dirt-soiled pinafore and the dark strands of hair straggling from the sides of her battered straw bonnet. “I can’t possibly?—”

“I’m sorry, dearest, but Lady Fosberry says you must come at once.”

Emmeline gulped, but there was nothing for it but to follow Juliet from the garden into the house. All too soon, her horrified gaze landed on the open door to the drawing room, her stomach twisting into a mass of writhing knots as deep, male voices reached them in the hallway.

“Ah, here are the young ladies.” Lady Fosberry waved them into the room with a bright smile. “You must allow me to introduce my friends. This is Miss Emmeline Templeton, and her sister, Miss Juliet Templeton.”

The blood rushed from Emmeline’s head as both gentlemen rose politely to their feet. Would Lord Melrose recognize her as the lady he’d kissed? If so, what would he do when he saw her? What would he say?

Even more to the point, what would she say?

“How do you do?” Lord Cross offered them each a somber bow, his curious gaze lingering on Juliet’s face.

“Miss Templeton, and Miss Juliet,” Lord Melrose murmured.

Those blue, blue eyes that had coaxed a thousand yearning sighs from the lips of every young lady in London passed over Emmeline’s face. He took in her features one by one—chin, mouth, nose, cheekbones—until at last his gaze found hers.

A shiver darted up Emmeline’s spine, very like the one she’d felt when he’d kissed her neck last night.

Every one of her nerves pulled tight, her heart crawling from her chest to lodge in her throat, but before she had a chance to think, or say a single word in reply to his greeting, his gaze passed over her without a flicker of recognition.

Emmeline stood in the middle of the drawing room, dumbfounded, as Lord Melrose turned away from her to exchange pleasantries with Lady Fosberry.

He’d just looked right at her, and then in the next breath, right through her, without having the least inkling she was the lady he’d held in his arms last night.

Of all the things Emmeline had imagined might happen, of all the things she’d thought Lord Melrose might do or say when he saw her again, it had never occurred to her he’d fail to recognize her.

She’d never been the sort of lady who craved a gentleman’s attention—or anyone’s attention, really—but she’d never felt so thoroughly overlooked in her life.

But then what had she expected would happen? That he’d recognize her the moment he entered? That he’d whisper to her in the same soft, mesmerizing voice as he had last night? That he’d snatch her into his arms, or fall to his knees and declare his undying love for her?

What nonsense! Why, it was far better he hadn’t recognized her.

Still, Emmeline took her seat without a word, numb with shock, and for a single, painful instant, she wished Lady Fosberry’s settee would open up beneath her, and swallow her whole.