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She had not meant to do it. Oh, she had meant to have him, for the opportunity to know what it was to be loved by him was irresistible, but she had not intended to allow herself to fall in love.

But he had been so very earnest, and so very sincere and honest, and he had wanted her when no one had ever wanted her before.

That this man, this exquisite, extraordinary man, had seen her and found her not only worthy of his regard, but desired her too, it had been more than her poor foolish heart was capable of withstanding.

For the first time since she had arrived at Goshen Court, she finally understood how Tilly’s mother had felt.

She had loved him, Regina was certain of that, and because she had loved him, she had sought to protect him by keeping the knowledge of his child from him.

Poor, ill-fated Jenny had known he would marry her, because he was good and decent, but she knew too that if he did, he would make himself a laughingstock.

He would have brought far more shame upon his family by being honourable than by having an illegitimate daughter.

And so she had hidden the truth from him, only sending their daughter to him when she knew he was the child’s only hope.

With a bitter sense of irony, Regina had to admit she might have done the same thing, and prayed the earl had been as careful as he had appeared to be.

A child in such circumstances would destroy them both.

Whilst she was no opera dancer, and quite as well bred as the earl himself, there would still be a scandal, and when he discovered how thoroughly she had misled him, he would never trust her again. She could not let that happen.

With a sigh, Regina forced herself to get up, shivering as she washed at the basin in the frigid bedroom.

She dressed as quickly as she always did, refusing to allow herself to spend a moment longer on her appearance.

Vanity would do her no good at all. With a muttered curse, she realised she had left her spectacles in his study.

Well, it was of no matter. She would retrieve them when she was certain he was not there.

It wasn’t as if she actually needed them.

Though it was cowardly of her, she prayed he would not appear at breakfast that morning.

If she had a little more time, she might be better prepared for the ordeal.

Maybe if he gave her a day or two, or a week, or perhaps a decade, perhaps then seeing him and knowing she could never call him her own would not hurt quite so desperately.

Pip muttered as his valet crept into the room.

He did not want to wake up, but to linger in thoughts of last night.

Though it had been wonderful, the most extraordinary night of passion he had ever experienced in his entire life, he did not feel sated.

Not in the least. Instead, his body seethed with frustration, the need to have her again so intense he felt he’d go mad with wanting.

It was not just to slake his lust, either.

He desperately wished to speak with her, to discuss the day ahead, to have her scold him for something and show that she cared about him by hearing her impatient tone as she nagged him into eating a proper breakfast.

Hell, he was doomed.

“Peterson, stop tiptoeing about the room, damn you. You’re about as light-footed as a blasted elephant,” he muttered, sitting up in bed.

“Yes, my lord, I beg your pardon,” Peterson said apologetically. “Shall I draw the curtains?”

“You may as well. This day is beginning, whether or not I want it to,” Pip grumbled, knowing he ought not to take his bad mood out on his valet.

It wasn’t Peterson’s fault the only woman who had stirred his interest and his passion to such heights was his daughter’s bloody governess.

Contrary, that was what he was. Tell him he couldn’t have it, and damn it, didn’t he just want it all the more?

There he was, assuming he was a sophisticated man of the world, only to discover he was no better than a spoilt boy.

Yet he knew that wasn’t true, though the idea that she was off limits was undoubtedly making the situation worse.

He just needed a moment to gather his thoughts, to figure out what it was he really wanted.

Then perhaps he could make sense of the situation.

“Shall I bring you coffee?” Peterson asked, correctly interpreting his master’s mood as less than sunny.

Pip returned a terse nod as Peterson stooped to pick up his clothes from where he had tossed them last night. He had sent his valet to bed, not wanting him to see any signs of what he’d been up to that might cause the fellow to speculate.

“Oh, did you cut yourself, my lord?”

“Huh?” Pip, far from at his best, turned to look at his valet in confusion.

The man was holding up yesterday’s shirt, to show a small smear of blood at the cuff.

Pip frowned, his gaze falling to another, slightly darker stain along the bottom edge.

Bewildered, he tried to figure out if he had done anything to cause himself to bleed.

Suddenly, his stomach dropped as if he’d been pitched off a cliff, and a sensation akin to being doused in iced water swiftly followed.

No.

No, no, no . It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

“My lord? Are you all right? You look unwell.”

“What?” Pip glanced up, torn from his thoughts to see his valet watching him curiously.

Damn, he could not have the fellow wondering and figuring out what had really happened.

His mind in a whirl, he struggled for a viable explanation.

“Oh, no. I beg your pardon. Just a bit of a headache, and yes, it was a paper cut. Stung like the devil and bled like a stuck pig, but nothing to speak of.”

“Oh, very good, sir,” Peterson said in relief, his face clearing. “I’ll fetch your coffee.”

“Yes, hot water too. I’ve slept too late and must get on. Quick smart, there’s a good fellow,” he ordered, suddenly having yet another reason he desperately wanted to see Mrs Harris.

“Yes, my lord,” Peterson said in surprise, unused to being hurried. Still, he dashed off, Pip’s bloodied shirt bundled up with his other dirty linens.

Pip drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to remember the details of last night without getting hot under the collar.

It was remarkably difficult, but he did his best to remember how it had felt, how Mrs Harris had reacted when he’d…

he’d… Oh, God. The cry he had assumed had been one of fiery passion, the one that had made her body tense and her hands clutch at him, that had not been an expression of lust, but the reaction of an innocent as some clumsy oaf took what had never been his to have.

His breathing sped up, the realisation so overwhelming he could not sit still.

He got to his feet, paced to the window and stared out, seeing nothing but Mrs Harris, her hair spilling out all around her, her lovely face flushed, her eyes wary as she wondered if he would dismiss her now he’d had his fill.

He felt sick. His stomach twisted as he understood how grossly he’d miscalculated. Yet, how could he have known, how could he have guessed? She was and always had been Mrs Harris. She had spoken of her husband, Captain Harris, drowned at sea. She had lied to him!

The knowledge ought to have made him furious.

It did make him furious, but his reaction was more complex than that and it took him several minutes more to sort through the churning morass of emotion that threatened to swamp him.

She had never been married. He was her first lover, her only lover.

The knowledge sang through him, something oddly primitive and possessive at the idea, and with that came the swift realisation that, as a gentleman, he had a duty of honour. He must marry her.

Pip sat down with such haste he almost missed the chair and had to right himself at the last moment.

Marry her. The words rang in his ears—like a death knell, he told himself darkly, except…

no. Not like a death knell at all, not like an ending, but…

. He could have her, he realised with a start that sent him surging to his feet again.

Suddenly his heart was careening about in his chest once more, thundering as if he’d been running from the devil for the past hour, but it wasn’t panic or horror or regret, it was excitement.

The woman he thought he could not have, could never have, he could have her.

Had he not told her himself, that if he could find a woman he could converse with easily on all manner of subjects, who shared his interests, his love of Goshen Court and Tilly, he would marry her in a heartbeat?

Well, hadn’t he done exactly that? He must marry her to satisfy honour, and whilst the realisation was something of a shock, he discovered he didn’t mind one bit.

Tilly wouldn’t mind either. Mind , he thought wildly, a bark of laughter torn from him at the idea.

Tilly would be beside herself with delight.

Good God. Mrs Harris was perfect in every way.

The woman he had been searching for so despondently had been living under his very roof!

Suddenly, it didn’t matter why she had lied about herself, her name, her husband.

He could imagine why, in any case. To be a Mrs afforded her more respect and perhaps made her less of a target to lascivious men than to be thought an innocent maid.

Especially one living under the roof of a bachelor with an illegitimate daughter to care for.

His heart contracted as he realised that once again, her lie had been designed to protect herself from him , for she had been afraid of him.

Never again, he vowed. Never again would she feel afraid, or alone, or be treated with anything but respect.

He would see to that.

He experienced a momentary qualm when he realised he must explain the matter to his father and was forced to sit down again to recover from the horror of the idea.

It did not last, however, as he realised how much Lord Montagu liked and respected Mrs Harris—or whoever she was.

Ironically, his father might be one of the few people who did not disapprove.

He must see her at once, he determined. Somehow, he must get her alone, get her to confess all, and then get the dreadful woman to admit she wanted to marry him, too.

Surely she did? She loved Tilly, had admitted that Goshen Court felt like home, and whilst she might not love him, he thought he could bring her around, given time.

He was not a fool, after all. He knew he was handsome and well made, knew that with his looks, his title and wealth, he was the biggest prize on the marriage mart.

With a sinking feeling, he realised none of that would cut much ice with his prickly governess.

But loving Tilly, loving his home as her own, that might just give him enough leverage to persuade her.

Suddenly impatient, Pip rushed to the door and snatched it open, bellowing for Peterson to move his bloody arse.

“Shouldn’t we have asked Papa if he wanted to come?” Tilly asked, giving Regina a slightly reproachful look.

“How can you buy the things you need to make his Christmas present if he’s with you?” Regina asked reasonably.

Tilly sighed. “I suppose so, but I like it when we all go out together.”

“Next time,” Regina promised, though the idea of being in the confines of a carriage for any amount of time with the earl made her palms sweat and her heart clench with regret.

You are a coward, Regina Harris, or Genevieve Hamilton, or whoever you are , she scolded herself.

It was quite unacceptable for a mere governess to demand the carriage be readied to take them into Monmouth to go shopping.

She knew that, because the coachman had told her so in no uncertain terms. Determined to be out of the house for as long as possible, Regina had stood her ground, informing the disapproving fellow in her iciest manner that Lord Ashburton had asked her to take his daughter shopping, but if he wished to rouse the earl from his bed to discover the truth for himself, he was at liberty to do so.

Naturally, the man had not been keen to disturb his lordship, and so muttering about “On your head be it,” he’d hitched up the horses and they’d left a full quarter of an hour before the clock had struck eight.

Though she felt certain Lord Ashburton would not disapprove of her actions—indeed, he’d probably be relieved not to have to face her over breakfast—she did feel a little guilty.

Perhaps she ought to have left him a note.

But no, that was foolish. Leaving notes was the kind of things lovers did, or husbands and wives.

“Where are your spectacles?” Tilly asked, giving her a curious look. “I’ve always liked your spectacles, but I must say, you look very pretty without them, you know.”

Regina’s hand went to her face, touching the place they usually sat.

She felt oddly naked without them. Perhaps she ought to have risked sneaking into the study to retrieve them, but the idea of facing the scene of last night’s astonishing events had been too unnerving.

She could not convince herself it had only been a vivid dream when confronted with the reality of where it had taken place.

“I mislaid them,” she said vaguely.

Eager to keep Tilly’s mind occupied, she asked the child to recite the poem she had learned and sat back to listen.

The recital was excellent, but Regina found her mind wandering back to the previous night.

It was beyond foolish, but she wondered if he was thinking of her too, and still wishing they could be together, or had the morning brought clarity, regret, and a return to good sense.

Was he shuddering at his own foolishness now, filled with self-loathing and guilt?

She hoped not, though her own guilt sat uneasily in her stomach.

For had she not tricked him? He had shared himself with her last night in the most intimate of ways, and she had not been honest with him.

He had thought her an experienced woman, Mrs Harris, a fictitious creature who did not exist. Yet if he had known the truth, it would never have happened, for he was far too honourable.

She would not regret it, she told herself.

No matter what happened in the future, no matter where that night led her, she would never regret it.