Pursued For The Viscount's Vengeance. Sarah Mallory

she put down her fork and pushed her plate away, her appetite quite gone. She was worldly enough to know she would be ruined if she became Gil’s mistress and would he even want her, once he knew how damaged she was? Her hand crept to her shoulder. He might turn away in disgust.

      Even more foolish, then, to imagine he might want to marry you, Deborah Meltham.

      Foolish indeed, she replied to the voice in her head. And there was no question of marriage. She had already made up her mind that she could not, would not contemplate marriage as long as Ran needed her. She hoped that as her brother matured he would settle down, perhaps even take a wife, a woman who would love him and care for him. Then Deborah would be free to make a life for herself, but there were no signs of that happening in the immediate future. Or ever. She pushed the dismal thought firmly aside. Ran was only two-and-twenty, plenty of time for him to fall in love.

      But you are already four-and-twenty. Your chances of finding a husband are diminishing with each year that passes.

      ‘Then so be it,’ she told that bothersome voice in her head. ‘I shall remain a spinster and I shall not repine for what I have missed. I shall have my honour and my self-respect, despite the temptation.’

      Temptation. That idea immediately brought her thoughts back to Gil.

      Gil. An unusual epithet. She must ask him how it came about, when they next met. A tiny flicker of hope warmed her. They would meet again and she would enjoy his company, for as long as she could before he moved on, as he was sure to do, since she could offer him nothing more than friendship.

      * * *

      Over the following weeks, she saw Gil almost every day. If the weather was not good enough for them to ride out together, they met at some party or the assembly rooms. They behaved with the strictest propriety, even in the odd moments when they were alone together. Gil was the perfect gentleman, as if that kiss had never happened, but Deb could not forget it, and neither, if she were truthful, did she regret it.

      Her brother was surprisingly cordial towards their new acquaintance, even inviting him to join them for dinner, where Ran proceeded to drink heavily. Deborah’s spirits fell when he ordered Speke to bring another bottle.

      ‘Not on my account,’ murmured Gil.

      He spoke cheerfully, no censure in his tone, for which Deborah was grateful, but her brother merely waved his hand.

      ‘Well, that is up to you,’ he said dismissively. ‘I want another glass of that claret. M’father filled his cellars with some damn fine wines, but they’re nearly all gone now. I could send to Duke Street, see if there’s some left there.’

      ‘You forget, Randolph, we brought the remaining bottles to Fallbridge earlier this year,’ Deborah reminded him, blushing faintly for her brother.

      ‘Now the war is over it should be easier to obtain more French wines,’ observed Gil.

      ‘Yes, we might take a trip to the Continent ourselves,’ she said. ‘What do you say, Brother, would that not be entertaining?’

      But Ran was not listening, he was waving his glass at Speke who had returned with a fresh bottle of claret.

      Deborah glanced apologetically at Gil, but he merely smiled.

      ‘Perhaps I should go—’ he began, but that brought Randolph’s attention back to him immediately.

      ‘No, no, you can’t leave yet. You must stay and take a glass of brandy with me.’ He flapped one hand. ‘Time for you to withdraw, Deb, leave the men to talk.’

      She looked despairingly at Randolph, but Gil had already risen and was standing behind her, ready to hold her chair.