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Cornwall, England, 1802

T he carriage slowly rolled to a stop in front of an imposing country house. No, her mind was in a muddle; she remembered it was actually a castle—Marlowe Castle. Tiffany Deveraux’s eyes felt so heavy, they refused to obey her command to stay open. She wanted to see her new home, but after the twelve days it had taken to travel from Yorkshire to Cornwall, she was exhausted. Besides, she’d seen it once before, though a long time ago.

“Wake up, Tiffany,” Susan, her late mother’s lady’s maid, said. “We are finally here and your cousins have gathered to welcome you.”

Tiffany did her best to obey, but her tiredness sucked her under and fighting it was like trying to swim in a sodden cloak. She’d had little sleep since her parents’ murder—she still couldn’t comprehend the horror. She’d passed her days completely numb with grief and disbelief, while her nights were spent sobbing at the loss.

The carriage door opened, letting in mild midnight air. How odd, she drowsily thought. In Yorkshire, the air would have had a bite to it, even though it was spring.

There were voices, and she felt, rather than saw, Susan exit the carriage.

A man’s voice carried over the others. Her uncle’s?

Two weeks ago, a highwayman had killed her parents and her life would never be the same. Gone were the mother and father she loved with all her heart. Gone was the happy family filled with devotion and now… now she didn’t know how to get over her loss.

Her uncle, the Earl of Marlowe, was now her guardian. And from today on, she would live with him and his family. She had not seen her cousins since her tenth birthday, five years ago now. She had no idea why the visits between their families had suddenly ceased. She missed seeing Claire, even though they still wrote regularly. As an only child, she’d had her precious books but little else for company over the past few years.

“She’s exhausted, poor dear.” This voice was lovely. Warm and feminine. “Fane, you’ll have to carry her.”

“I would love to, Mother. But I wrenched my shoulder on the hunt this morning when Hero threw me.”

A deep masculine laugh skittered over her skin like a pleasant caress. “I never thought I’d see the day, Fane. A horse threw you.”

“And what man comes to the country to paint?” Fane mocked.

The older male voice she believed to be her uncle’s interjected. “That’s enough you two. Wolf, I know you are our guest, but you’ll have to do the honors. Dayton is still away at school, and my knees won’t make it up the stairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

The carriage tilted under someone’s weight—the man with the smooth voice and goosebump-inducing laugh, presumably. Tiffany wanted to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t cooperate.

“Come now, my belle au bois dormant.”

Why was a Frenchman calling her his sleeping beauty?

Strong arms gently lifted her, one under her knees, the other around her back. She wasn’t exactly tiny, but he carried her as if she were no heavier than a feather filled pillow.

Tiffany snuggled closer to his warm hard chest and clutched the lapels of his jacket.

“Can you reach her pocket? Something’s digging into my ribs.”

She felt a hand rifle in her pocket.

“Her glasses.”

The man’s steady gait lulled her deeper toward sleep, and the sounds of excited voices faded away as he carried her up the stone steps of her new home.

She let her head rest against his shoulder, her thoughts drifting in and out. Odd that she should feel comforted, protected, in a stranger’s arms. The sensations were so delicious that when he laid her down on a soft mattress, she only reluctantly released her grip on his jacket lapels. Soon the heavenly feel of a soft mattress and warmed sheets seeped into her bones. But she felt the absence of his arms. She wanted to see him, this man who’d carried her as if she were the most precious cargo in the world.

She fought the fatigue and finally her eyelids lifted, and all her breath left her body in one long sigh as she took in the beauty of the masculine face staring back at her with an amused expression.

Handsome. Oh, he was so handsome it hurt to look at him.

She reached out her hand and stroked his chiseled cheek. “Are you my prince?” she whispered.

That throaty laugh again. “No, my sleeping beauty. I’m the big bad wolf. Sleep now.”

And, as if swallowed by a swirling mist, he faded away and she could no longer see him.

She drew the scent of him into her lungs and fell asleep, dreaming of the handsome prince who would rescue her from…from the one thing she’d endured all her life. Loneliness.