She'd never seen a man sit with his boots up on a desk before. Such a pose was something one might expect from a naughty child but not a grown man of forty-four. If that was Deverell's age. No one seemed to know for sure, not even Mr. Chalke. He did have a scattering of silver sprigs about his temple and a few weathered lines scored into his face, but nothing else seemed to fit a man of his purported age. This morning he had shaved, adding to the inappropriately youthful appearance.

When he used his riding crop to scratch down inside one boot, Olivia didn't know where to look. The casual impropriety of the gesture seemed quite unconscious on his part, as if no one had ever troubled him with what was, or was not, the "done thing".

"I've seen you before somewhere, woman," he muttered suddenly.

"Yes."

"Where on earth would I have seen you? I don't usually forget a face."

"Well, it was a long time ago. And to be frank, I don't believe you saw my face. I didn't see yours either."

At once his gaze re-established that playful twinkle. "Now, I am intrigued. What parts of me did you see?"

She felt the urge to laugh, but held it strictly down. "Mostly your big feet. When I was eighteen, I often assisted at my father's office. You tripped over me there one day when you had an appointment with Mr. Chalke."

"I did?"

"You trampled some important papers, stepped over me, and never apologized."

"Ah. How much do you want?" He reached into his desk as if to hand over some bank notes or gold sovereigns there and then.

"What can you mean, sir?"

"I know how women hold bloody grudges. I suppose you've let that fester away for years and now you came here to make me pay. So how much does a lady charge for the inconvenience of being stepped over?"

She couldn't tell whether he was serious, or merely teasing her again.

"I don't do well with apologies," he added. "So I'd take the money, if I was you."

"Sir, I had entirely forgotten the incident until now."

Just after three o'clock in the afternoon, Tuesday, March 12th, in the year 1832.

He wore a long, midnight blue coat, beautifully made; buff colored gloves, grimy at the finger tips; and top boots of very rich looking leather. He had smelled of tobacco, brandy and spice. Of adventure, and daring, and everything forbidden. For those few moments her heart, like an over-wound pocket watch, had stopped...

Olivia bit her lip, turned away and stared out of the nearest window. A pointless exercise since there was nothing to see but that colorless cloud of fog. And, of course, his reflection. She was unable to escape the man. Again, Olivia thought of last night in the kitchen, when he let her mistake him for the handyman Jameson, and she had been struck by the overwhelming strength of his presence. Like the first time they collided with each other, she felt a connection, which was quite ridiculous in light of who he was.

She wished it had been possible to forget their first encounter, but now fate— in the bent and wizened shape of Mr. Chalke— had brought them together a second time. It was a jolly good thing Great Aunt Jane was no longer alive.

"You are a girl with a dark and devious imagination, Olivia Westcott. I cannot think what will become of you."

"I shall marry Mr. True Deverell, shan't I? People say he's not fit for polite society either..."

"I see something through my window amuses you, Mrs. Monday."

She straightened her lips. "Your son returns to school today, sir?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Yes." He sighed gustily. "The brat could do very well there if he only applied himself more to his studies. But he thinks he can do without school. Arrogant chit." "He seems very...confident. I'm sure you and your wife are proud."

Behind her, Deverell exhaled a taut huff. "He's not one of my wife's litter. Damon is the younger of my two sons by a mistress, Emma Gibson. When she died I brought both boys to live with me."

"Oh." Only a man with Deverell's excessive wealth and audacity would launch his illegitimate children into the world without even trying to mask the truth, without shame or apology for not marrying their mother.

She turned away from the window and faced him boldly. "It is a curious name— Damon. I do not think I ever heard it before."

"Greek. Loyal friend to Pythias, for whom he was ready to sacrifice himself."

"You are a student of Greek mythology, Mr. Deverell?"

He smiled at her, head tipped back against the leather chair. "I am a student of life, Mrs. Monday."

"Life?"

"Stories. I love people's stories. Don't you?"

His smile was pleasantly crooked. Olivia could see how some might find it alluring. Even infectious. "I never really considered—"

"For instance, yours, Mrs. Monday." His eyes simmered, like cool winter sunlight on ripples of icy water. "I would wager it's most interesting."

"Why?"

"A young, sensible woman like you, abandoning respectability to put yourself under my roof. What could have driven you here to me? What secrets lurk behind those big, round eyes of yours?"