The Bride's Necklace. Kat Martin

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      The gold crest on the door gleamed beneath the lamp on the side of the Brant carriage as it rolled up in front of Cord’s town house. It was well after midnight. After his unproductive interview earlier that afternoon with Edward Legg, who’d had little more to add to his tale besides how gallant and courageous Captain Sharpe had been during the ship’s ill-fated battle and how much Legg admired him, Cord’s mood had plunged straight downhill.

      With his pursuit of Claire Temple somehow stalled and not wishing to put himself back in the clutches of his former mistress, he had decided to pay a badly needed visit to Madame Fontaneau’s very exclusive house of pleasure.

      Cord wasn’t sure what had changed his mind, why he found himself detouring, instructing his driver to take him to White’s, his gentlemen’s club, instead. But there he had sat some hours later in a deep leather chair, sipping a glass of brandy, immersed in a game of whist, brooding and losing his money.

      His good friend, Rafael Saunders, duke of Sheffield, had been there, as well, doing his best to cheer him out of his dismal mood, but his friend had miserably failed.

      Instead, Cord had finished his drink, ordered his carriage brought round and returned to his town house. Now, as the coach rolled to a stop in front of the three-story brick building and the footman opened the door, Cord descended the iron stairs and made his way inside the house.

      He tossed his kidskin gloves into the crown of his beaver hat and left them on the table beside the door. He glanced up the staircase, knowing he should try to get some sleep. He had important papers to review at his solicitor’s first thing in the morning and he hadn’t been sleeping very well.

      But instead of going upstairs, he headed down the hall to his study. Earlier, for whatever reason, his mind had veered away from his need for a woman to the work he needed to do, to Ethan and, amazingly, to his two latest employees.

      The latter in itself amazed him. Had it simply been lust for Claire, he might have understood, but the lovely, ethereal girl appealed to him less and less while the older, slightly impertinent sister intrigued him more and more.

      It was ridiculous. And yet as he watched Claire Temple glide through her work like a princess in a fairy tale, the thought continued to nag him that seducing the lovely Claire would be completely unfair. Where women were concerned, Cord was a man of vast experience, while Claire…well, he wasn’t certain the girl completely understood the differences between male and female.

      In truth, seducing her would be like pulling the wings off a beautiful butterfly.

      Out of sorts with women in general and cursing himself for not partaking of some badly needed sexual relief before returning home, Cord eyed the stack of papers still sitting on his desk. He removed his coat and tossed it over a chair, loosened and pulled off his cravat, rolled up his shirtsleeves and prepared to settle in for a couple of hours of work.

      As he crossed the study, his gaze slid over to the chessboard in the corner. He continued a few more paces before he found himself frowning, turning back to where the inlaid board sat between two ornately carved high-backed chairs.

      Cord studied the pieces on the board. He knew exactly where each one rested, had stared at them so many times he could close his eyes and see them in his sleep. Tonight something was different, slightly out of place. Cord stiffened in anger as he realized one of the pieces had been moved.

      He told himself he must be wrong, but seeing the knight that now threatened his bishop, he remembered the game he and Ethan had started, the game they might never finish, and a muscle ticked in his cheek. Certain one of the servants had moved the piece, he stormed out of the study, his temper in high dudgeon, strode down the hall and started toward the stairs leading down to the basement.

      Thoughts of Ethan kept him going, past the below-stairs’ first and second hallways, past the kitchen. Anger still pumped through him as Cord reached the end of the corridor and hammered on Victoria Temple’s door. He didn’t wait for her to answer, just lifted the latch, strode through her small sitting area and on in to her bedchamber.

      The pounding must have awakened her. As the bedroom door slammed back against the wall, he saw her jerk upright in her narrow bed, trying to blink herself awake.

      “Good evening, Mrs. Temple. There is a matter of some importance I wish to discuss.”

      She blinked several more times. “N-now?” She was dressed in a thin white cotton night rail, her usually clear green eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue, her mouth rosy from slumber. A single thick braid of chestnut hair hung over one shoulder while stray wisps curled around her cheeks.

      He had thought her merely attractive. Now he saw she was far more than that. With her finely carved features, full lips and straight, patrician nose, Victoria Temple was a very lovely young woman. If she hadn’t been so overshadowed by the otherworldly beauty of her sister, he would have noticed long ago.

      She shifted on the bed and his blood began to thicken. In the moonlight streaming in through the bedchamber window, he could see the outline of her breasts, the dark shadows of her nipples, the pale arch of her throat beneath the small pink bow on the front of her gown. Desire sank into his loins, pulled low in his belly.

      “My lord?”

      He dragged his gaze back to her face, saw that she was staring up at him as if he had lost his mind, and a fresh bout of anger rippled through him.

      “Yes, Mrs. Temple, we need to discuss this now—this very instant.”

      She seemed to finally awaken. Glancing down, for the first time she realized the state of her undress and that a man stood next to her bed. With a small squeak, she jerked the covers up over her very lovely breasts.

      “Lord Brant—for heaven’s sake! It is the middle of the night. Need I remind you it is highly improper for you to be standing in my bedchamber?”

      Highly improper and extremely arousing. “I am here for a reason, Mrs. Temple. As I said, there is something of importance I wish to discuss.”

      “And that would be…?”