been a peeling back of all her layers culminating in this revelation, the core of her, the lonely inner self. Cordelia jumped to her feet, suddenly appalled at what she had done. Her dressing gown was at the top of her trunk. Pale-yellow silk embroidered with flowers, it was masculine in cut, with straight sleeves and a collar. It was one of her favourite pieces of clothing. She tightened the belt, turning to find Iain on his feet, his expression troubled.
‘I’m sorry that was so— We got carried away. I am not usually so...’ He shrugged hopelessly. ‘I’m sorry, I thought it was what you wanted.’
‘I did,’ she said shortly, unwilling, unable to lie. She had never been the type of woman to take pleasure in making a man feel guilty.
‘Then what’s wrong?’
‘I’m tired. I have to leave early.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Cordelia, and don’t think you have to pander to my ego either. If it didn’t work for you—though if it did not, you’re a bloody good actress.’
‘It did.’ Now she was embarrassed. After all that. She would not think of all that. Cordelia began to pick up her clothes.
Iain was already wearing his trousers, pulling on his shirt. ‘Then what is it? And don’t give me the line about being tired.’
Don’t give me the line. His accent was rougher, the Lowland gruffness taking front stage. She couldn’t think what to say. I can’t believe I did that, would give him the wrong impression, though it would certainly help get him out the door, and getting him out the door was what she needed more than anything.
Whatever he read in her face, it made him look grim. Iain picked up his coat and pulled it on, stuffing his stock into the pocket. ‘So you’ve had your bit of rough, and now you want to be alone, is that it?’
‘No! What an appalling thing to say.’
He ignored her, pulling on his shoes.
‘Iain, that’s not it.’
‘Then what?’
Fully dressed, he looked intimidating. There was a wild look in his eye that made her think of some of the Highlanders she had seen. Cordelia ran her hand through her tangled hair, coming up with a ball of fluff and a splinter of floorboard. ‘It was too much,’ she admitted.
‘Are you sorry?’
‘No.’
The answer was out without needing to think. Iain sighed heavily, but he managed a lopsided smile. ‘I’m not sorry either, but my head’s reeling, if you must know. You’re not the only one to find it all a bit much.’
His honesty disarmed her. ‘It has been a very strange day,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘Extraordinary.’
‘Cordelia.’
He touched her temple, just as he had on the docks. This time, she had to fight the impulse to pull away, for she was fairly certain he could read her thoughts.
‘I hope whichever direction you take, it makes you happier,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m not unhappy.’
‘I told you not to lie,’ he said gently. ‘I know you don’t want to hear from me again, but if there should be anything you need me for, here’s where you can find me. You understand, I would not expect you to deal with any consequences alone.’
He handed her a card.
‘Thank you,’ Cordelia said, ‘but I am sure...’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know.’
‘That’s something,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Cordelia.’
He did not touch her. She felt an absurd, contrary desire that he would kiss her. ‘Goodbye.’ She touched his temple, echoing his own gesture. ‘I hope whichever direction you take, it makes you happier too.’
He acknowledged this admission of her own state of mind with a nod. Then he turned and walked through the door. She stood where she was. The outer door opened softly, then closed. She went to the window, pulling the curtains to hide her, and looked out. The lamps were lit around the square. He emerged a few minutes later, through the main hotel entrance. She could not imagine what the night porter must have thought, and did not care. She thought he would stop, look up, even though she was careful not to let him see her, but he did not. He pulled his coat around him, and headed across the square, in the direction of the river, without looking back.
Chapter Three
Cavendish Square, London—spring 1837
Iain’s hands automatically went round the woman to stop the pair of them falling. His body recognised her before his mind caught up, before even he had a glimpse of her face, which was burrowed into his chest. ‘Cordelia.’
Blue-grey eyes, wide with the shock, met his. Her hand went to her mouth, as if to push back the words, and he remembered that same gesture, self-silencing, only the last time it had been a cry of ecstasy she had stifled after he’d warned her about the walls of the hotel being thin. Her legs had been wrapped around his waist. The hair that was now so demurely curled and primped under her bonnet had been streaming in wild disarray over her shoulders on to the floorboards. Now, she was struggling to free herself. He let her go, but blocked the doorway, a firm shake of his head telling her he’d read her thoughts. Not a chance, he told her. She glared at him, but retreated into the room.
‘Mr Hunter. You are a tad early.’
Lord Henry Armstrong held out his hand. Iain took it automatically, his mind racing. ‘Five minutes at most,’ he replied. ‘Am I interrupting?’
It was a rhetorical question, for the atmosphere in the room was tense. The muffled sound of heated words had been audible in the hallway as he handed over his hat and gloves. And now he looked at her properly, Cordelia’s bonnet was askew, her shawl dangling from one arm. Not, it seemed, escaping his arrival, but running from the man who claimed to be her father.
The man who was now bestowing upon him a smile which Iain found peculiarly irritating. Condescending. Patronising. Mendacious. One or all, it aroused all his base instincts, and made him want to punch something.
‘Cordelia,’ said his lordship, ‘this is Mr Iain Hunter.’
It was the mute appeal in her eyes that kept him silent. Lady Cordelia, whom he knew as the widow, Mrs Cordelia Williamson, was obviously eager that her father should remain in ignorance of their previous acquaintance. Her father! Iain bent over the hand she extended and just touched her fingertips. The eyes were indeed the same colour as Lord Armstrong’s, but he could discern no other resemblance.
‘Do sit down, Mr Hunter. And you, Cordelia.’
When he spoke to his daughter, there was a steeliness that made Iain’s hackles rise. ‘I came here to discuss business,’ he said. ‘I don’t see that is any concern of your—your—Lady Cordelia’s.’
Lord Armstrong laughed, a dry little sound like paper rustling. ‘Take a seat, Mr Hunter, and I’ll explain,’ he said, taking his own seat behind the desk.
Iain paid him no heed. Cordelia stood poised for flight, but he was damned if he’d let her go without an explanation. ‘You’ll take the weight off your feet, Mrs—Lady Cordelia,’ he said, pressing her down firmly into one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs, pulling the other closer to her, stretching out a leg casually in front of hers, just to make his message clear. She threw him a look, but he was pretty certain it was because she resented his managing her, rather than any desire to flee.
‘Mr Hunter,’ Lord Armstrong said, addressing his daughter, ‘is hoping to win a contract to build steam ships for Sheikh al-Muhanna.’
‘Celia’s husband!’ From the tone of her voice, this was news to Cordelia. ‘You mean the prince has