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“W hat is it you want?” Hannah asked. Her voice held uncertainty, as if she were afraid he might do exactly as she asked and kidnap her from her own wedding.

Michael’s response was a slow smile, letting her imagine all the things he might do , if they were alone. He couldn’t deny his own attraction to her. “Many things.”

Hannah’s expression appeared shocked, as if he’d physically touched her. “N-no, I couldn’t. I could pay you, but this is an arrangement, nothing more.”

Her face had gone pale, and Michael pulled back, putting distance between them. “Don’t you recognize teasing when you hear it, sweet?”

She looked bewildered but shook her head. “Don’t make fun of me, please. This is about Belgrave. I simply can’t marry him.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple. Already my mother has decided it would be the best future for me.” Hannah rubbed at her temples absently. “I don’t know what I can do to convince her otherwise.”

It was clear that Lady Hannah was accustomed to obedience and following every rule. But the answer was far easier, if she could find her courage. “It’s very simple. Tell them the answer is no.”

She was already shaking her head, making excuses to herself. “I can’t. My mother won’t listen to a thing I say.”

“You’ve never disobeyed them, have you?”

“No.” She seemed lost, so vulnerable that he half-wished there was someone who could take care of her.

Not him. There was no hope of that. She was better off, far away from a man like himself.

“No one can force you to marry. Not even your father.” He adjusted her shawl so it fully covered her shoulders. “Hold your ground and endure what you must.”

Visions flooded his mind, of the battle at Balaclava where his men had obeyed that same command. They’d tried valiantly to stand firm before the enemy. A hailstorm of enemy bullets had rained down upon them, men dying by the hundreds.

Michael wondered if he was essentially asking her to do the same. Would she stand up to her father? Or would the marquess strike her down? Perhaps it was the wrong course of action.

“I don’t think I can,” Hannah confessed. She tugged at a finger of her glove, worrying the fabric. “Papa can make my life a misery. And I’ll be ruined if I don’t marry.”

Though she was undoubtedly right, he could not allow himself to think about her future. They were worlds apart from one another. She would have to live with whatever choices she made.

“Then I suppose it’s time to make your own fortune,” he remarked. “If you’re already ruined, then you’ve nothing left to lose. Do as you please.”

Hannah stared at him, as though she hadn’t the faintest idea of how a ruined woman should behave. “I don’t know. I’ve always...done what I should.”

She took a step toward the house, away from him. He suddenly understood that she’d asked him to rescue her, not because of her parents, but because the need to obey was so deeply ingrained in her. If he stole her from the wedding, she could lay the blame at his feet, not hers.

She’s not your concern , his brain reminded him. Let her make her own choices. Tell her no.

But he didn’t. Though he shouldn’t interfere, neither would he let her marry a man like Belgrave. He let out a breath, and said, “Send word to me if anything changes. Your brothers know where I can be found.”

“Will you be all right?” she asked in a small voice. “What if my father—?”

“He can do nothing to me,” Michael interrupted. Within a week or two, there would be hundreds of miles between them. He’d be back with the Army, fighting the enemy and obeying orders until he met his own end. Men like him weren’t good for much else.

The troubled expression on her face hadn’t dimmed. Instead, a bright flush warmed her cheeks. “Thank you for agreeing to help me.” Hannah reached up to her neck and unfastened the diamond necklace. “I want you to have this.”

“Keep it.” He closed her fingers back over the glittering stones. An innocent like her could never conceive of the consequences, if he were to accept. Her father would accuse him of stealing, no matter that it had been a gift.

“If you’re planning to keep watch over me, then you’ll need a reason to return.” She placed it back in his palm.

He hadn’t considered it in that light. “You’re right.” The necklace did give him a legitimate reason to return, and so he hid the jewelry within his pocket.

“Return in a day or two,” she ordered. “And I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your assistance, whether or not it’s needed.”

He wouldn’t accept any compensation from her, though his funds were running out. “A reward isn’t necessary.”

“It is.”

In her green eyes, Michael saw the loss of innocence, the devastating blow to her future. Yet beneath the pain, there was determination.

She crossed her arms, as if gathering her courage. “I won’t let my father destroy my future.” Her expression shifted into a stubborn set. “And I won’t let him destroy yours, either.”

The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black. Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.

Mrs. Turner was lost again. He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers. At last, he reached her side.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, tipping his hat.

No recognition dawned in her silver-gray eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.

Damn. It wasn’t going to be one of her better days. Mrs. Turner had been his neighbor and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.

He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November. At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds. He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.

And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over. There were times when she only remembered things from the past.

Today she didn’t recognize him at all.

Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory. “You’re Mrs. Turner, aren’t you?” he commented, keeping up with her pace. “Of Number Eight, Newton Street?”

She stopped walking, fear rising on her face. “I don’t know you.”

“No, no, you probably don’t remember me,” he said quickly. “But I’m a friend of Henry’s.”

The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Henry sent me to fetch you home,” he said gently. “Will you let me walk with you? I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you. Perhaps some marmalade and bread.”

The mention of her favorite foods made her lower lip tremble. Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them. “I’m lost, aren’t I?”

He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction. “No, Mrs. Turner. I won’t let that happen.”

As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength. They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax. Whether or not she recognized her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.

Michael helped her inside and saw that she was out of coal. “I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.” Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair to wait while he went out to fetch more coal.

After he returned to her dwelling with the bucket of coal, he soon had a fire burning.

Mrs. Turner huddled close to it, still wearing her bright red bonnet.

He’d given it to her this Christmas, both from her love of the outrageous color, and because it made it easier to locate her within a crowd of people.

“Why, Michael,” she said suddenly, her mouth curving in a warm smile. “I didn’t realize you’d come to visit. Make a pot of tea for us, won’t you?”

He exhaled, glad to see that she was starting to remember him. When he brought out the kettle, he saw that she had hardly any water remaining. There was enough to make a pot of tea, though, and he put the kettle on to boil.

“You’re looking devilishly handsome, I must say.” She beamed. “Where did you get those clothes?”

He didn’t tell her that she’d loaned them to him last night from her son’s clothing. Bringing up the memory of Henry’s death would only make her cry again.

“A good friend let me borrow them,” was all he said. When her tea was ready, he brought her the cup, lacing it heavily with whisky.

She drank heartily, smacking her lips. “Ah, now you’re a fine lad, Michael. Tell me about the ball last night. Did you meet any young ladies to marry?”

“I might have.” The vision of Lady Hannah’s lovely face came to mind. “But they tossed me out on my ear.”

She gave a loud laugh. “Oh, they did no such thing, you wretch.” She drained the mug, and he refilled it with more tea.

“I’m certain you made all the women swoon.

Now, tell me what they were wearing.” She wrapped the blanket around herself before she moved the rocking chair closer to the fire and sat.

While he answered her questions about the marquess and his vague memory of the women’s gowns, he tried to locate food for her. Scouring her cupboards, he found only a stale loaf of bread. Beside it, he saw a candle, a glove, and all of the spoons.

He searched everywhere for marmalade, finally locating it among her undergarments in a drawer. He was afraid to look any further, for fear of what else he might find. Ever since she’d begun having the forgetful spells, he’d found all manner of disorganization in her home.

He cut her a thick slice of bread and slathered it with marmalade. God only knew when she’d eaten last.

Mrs. Turner bit into it, sighing happily. “Now, then. Who else did you meet at the ball, Michael?” She lifted her tea up and took another hearty swallow.

“A foreign gentleman was there,” he added. “Someone from Lohenberg.”