shoulders, carefully raising her up. She smelled the familiar fragrance of horses and leather combined with a seductive, purely masculine scent that might have been the viscount’s shaving soap. “Steady now, Mrs. Ives,” he said, placing the edge of the glass to her lips.
“You mustn’t trouble yourself, my lord,” Bessie said. “If you’ll allow me. I was her nurse long before I was her maid.”
“Her nurse?”
“Aye, indeed I was. There’s many who say she wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for my nursing.” The glass was taken from St. Clare, and now wielded in Bessie’s capable hand, pressed again to Maggie’s lips. “Just a swallow, Miss Margaret,” she urged, compelling her to drink it. “A sip won’t harm you.”
St. Clare’s arm tightened reflexively around Maggie’s shoulders. “Miss Margaret?”
“Oh, well, as to that…”
Bessie was saved from explaining by Maggie herself who, after swallowing far more than a sip of the proffered brandy, had not only been revived by it, but had also promptly proceeded to choke. “It burns like the devil,” she gasped, opening her eyes and coughing. Thankfully, the aftereffects of the fiery liquid were short-lived. After a brief moment, she composed herself and, blinking several times, looked up at the figure of Bessie hovering over her.
And then she looked past Bessie, to the face of the gentleman cradling her in his arm.
Her pulse raced.
Lord St. Clare was a dangerously handsome man who, at first glance, put Maggie in mind of Byron’s Corsair. He had well-formed features characterized by a strong, chiseled jaw, lean cheeks, and firmly molded lips that were inclined to curl into a sneer. His thick golden hair looked as if it had been tousled by a cold north wind. And his skin appeared to have been bronzed by the sun of some exotic land.
There was a faintly weathered look about him. A hint of world-weariness. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? An officer in His Majesty’s Navy? Or was his appearance merely the result of years spent traipsing about the continent?
He was undoubtedly aristocratic, Maggie could see that quite plainly. His bearing was that of a gentleman who’d had wealth and privilege since birth. Indeed, it was that precise quality of subtle, patrician arrogance that, when combined with the healthy glow of his skin and the lazy, masculine grace of his body, gave him the look of a man who spent all of his time out of doors—riding, driving, and very likely dueling lesser men to the death just for the fun of it.
Good lord, how could she ever have thought this man was Nicholas Seaton?
He couldn’t be, could he? It was impossible. He was too big. Too strong. Too old. Too highborn. Too…everything.
And yet…St. Clare’s eyes were the same unique shade of stormy gray as Nicholas Seaton’s, and they held within their depths that peculiar mix of humor, bitterness, and anguish that Nicholas’s had had all those years ago at Beasley Park.
And he smelled like Nicholas, too. Not the expensive shaving soap—Nicholas had never had anything half so fine—but the fragrance of horses and leather and that other scent that had so uniquely belonged to him.
Maggie met St. Clare’s eyes, unable to contain the swell of longing within her.
How many years had she wasted waiting for Nicholas Seaton to return to Somerset? Too many to count. He’d been her first love. Her only love. She’d long ago resigned herself to the fact that he was dead. He’d have joined the army. He’d have been killed in the Peninsula or at the Battle of Waterloo. He must be dead. For if he were still alive somewhere in the world, he would have found his way back to her.
“The brandy was not to your liking, I see,” St. Clare said. “Shall I send for a glass of wine? A cup of tea? Pray tell me what you require, Mrs. Ives, and I shall endeavor to supply it.”
Maggie struggled to a sitting position. “I thank you, my lord, but I don’t require anything. I’m much better now. Indeed, if you’ll be so kind as to release me…”
St. Clare waited until she was fully upright before removing his supportive arm. He then drew back, taking a seat in a nearby chair. His gaze never left Maggie’s face. “It is Mrs. Ives, is it not?”
Maggie straightened her skirts around her. Her gown, like all her others, hung loosely on her frame. She feared that whatever illusion her fine cloak had provided had now been dispelled. For all she knew,