Page 6 of A Kiss Of Lies

He briefly closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. He’d battled all his life to control the violence deep inside him. Having seen what his father had become through not being able to control his inner demons, Christian strove to conquer his ever-present weakness and the burning need to give in to his temper.

When he was an officer, the war gave him an avenue to release his frustrations. Now, all he used to vent them was alcohol and sex. Both enabled him to keep his ill humor under control. Since being so unfairly stranded in York, he’d used—or, rather, abused—both ferociously. He hardly cared. Until he returned to England and could confront Harriet, he’d use anything to keep the dark rage away. Nothing consumed him more than settling the score with the Duke of Barforte and his lying daughter. Harriet had become an obsession. Why had she lied? Memories of that fateful night were returning. Harriet had not been in his bed, he’d swear on his mother’s grave.

Once back on English soil, Christian was determined to ascertain the truth from Harriet, his accuser. He’d be sailing home as soon as he had an appropriate governess for Lily. Mrs. Cooper looked very promising—very promising indeed.

When he’d failed to escape the Honey Pot on that fateful day, all those months ago, Simon and his father shanghaied him onto a schooner heading for York, Canada, with only the clothes he had on his back and a few coins in his pocket. Obviously they were hoping he’d starve or freeze to death. He could hardly raise credit when he had no proof of his identity. The bank laughed in his face—a scarred ruffian proclaiming to be an earl, with no papers of introduction and no luggage!

If it hadn’t been for Mr. Matthew Pearson, he probably would have starved, or perhaps frozen to death with the first snowfall—just as the Duke had hoped.

Coward! If you had to kill a man, have the honor to do it while looking him in the eye.

“May I ask how the Pearsons died? It will help me when dealing with Lily’s grief.”

Her polite inquiry stabbed at his heart. She was the only interviewee who’d bothered to ask, the only one who showed an ounce of caring. “They were caught in a blizzard while returning from a function. They were trapped for five hours, and by the time the rescuers reached them, all had perished.”

It had been his reluctance to show his face in public that had saved him. He had chosen to stay in town and frequent the local brothel.

“Lily is fortunate that you have taken her in. I’m sorry for the loss of your friends.”

“I had only known the Pearsons for a few months.”

Her glasses slipped down her nose as she frowned. A small, delicate, gloved finger pushed them back up, but not before he’d glimpsed the deep blue of her eyes. “Oh. Because you took Lily in, I assumed that you’d known them.”

“No. I met Mr. Pearson when I arrived in Canada a few months ago. We went into business together.”

The day he’d arrived, Matthew had taken pity on an earl who had no way of proving who he was, and no access to any funds. Matthew took him into his home and allowed Christian to stay until he was able to contact England and access his considerable fortune. The bank was now no longer laughing. In fact, groveling had become their forte.

The two men were the same age, thirty-two, but they were from vastly different backgrounds. Matthew, born and bred in Canada, came from a good family of moderate means. He was contentedly married to Pamela, and they had a gorgeous twelve-year-old daughter, Lily. Matthew and Christian soon became firm friends. And Christian had never envied a man more. From where he sat, Matthew’s life seemed perfect.

There was never any doubt that Christian would take Lily back to England and raise her as if she were his own. He did not believe he’d ever have a legitimate child, and he recognized that Lily would fill the loneliness deep inside him.

So, three days ago, he’d placed an advertisement in the localYork Timesfor a governess to sail back to England with them and to take charge of Lily’s upbringing.

Given the colonial location and his reputation, he’d had the most unsuitable women applying. It seemed no respectable governess wished to work for Devil Scarface. Those who did simply wanted passage to England. That is, until the woman seated on the other side of Matthew’s large maplewood desk applied.

She was the first woman who’d looked him directly in the eye in a long time. He found it disconcerting. The red rawness of the skin on his burnt face had faded over the years, but even so, it—he—was not a congenial sight.

She hardly seemed to notice.

Yet he had noticed her all right—too much. His body reacted to her ethereal beauty like a stallion scenting a mare. A flood of tangled emotions rushed through him. One of them was a current of regret. Ever since he’d been injured at Waterloo, he’d pretended that it didn’t matter to him that his looks were gone. Anger and bitterness had soured his demeanor. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d died there and then. It was only when he saw a woman like Mrs. Cooper, with such grace and beauty, that the pain of all he’d lost swamped him in self-pity.

She sat opposite him, very composed, in a charming if somewhat dated lavender ensemble, the shade flattering her ocean-deep blue eyes. Her hair was pulled back severely under the cap. The only thing that seemed out of place was the golden hint of a tan and a nose covered in delightful freckles, as if she’d been outside for long periods without a hat.

Her vocabulary and demeanor spoke of maturity. As he assessed her, his whole body ached with the most basic human need.

He wanted her. Not just her body, but more . . .

He wanted the dream he’d promised himself on the battlefields of Europe. A beautiful wife and family, a home, some shreds of normality, a few children to justify the future and to give him a tangible reason for having put himself through the horror of war.

He watched her nervously lick her lips. His groin tightened. He imagined the sleek wetness around him . . .

He tried to cross his legs but hit his knee on the underside of the desk. Reality returned.

He’d be lucky if even a governess agreed to be his wife. The allure of his wealth and title meant that a desperate few still approached him. But he refused to marry a woman who’d have him only because of his title, and then lie rigid and cold beneath him in the marriage bed.

This woman unsettled him because she looked at him differently. She looked at him as if he were a kindred soul, as if she understood his pain and wanted to share it.

Good God. She looked at him as if he were whole.

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