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Married: The Virgin Widow
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His Compromised Countess
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Sylvie stirred in her sleep when the door of her bedroom closed with faint finality. She made an effort to snuggle deeper into her lover's warm embrace, only to find him gone.

Gone! She pried her eyes open, trying to push aside the muddled fog of sleep and ignore the queasy feeling deep in her stomach.

It had all happened as she remembered, hadn't it? The kiss, the vows, the midnight bliss of lovemaking — they weren't just some romantic dream conjured up by the atmosphere of Lord Daventry's masked ball and the quantity of champagne she'd consumed? She might have been tempted to think so, but for the mild ache of her surrendered virginity and the memory of what potent delight she had found in her lover's arms. That had been beyond the powers of her imagination.

When she glanced about the room, hoping for some tangible sign, Sylvie spied her lover's black mask lying on the floor with her silver one. She climbed out of bed and picked it up, turning it over and over in her hands.

Why had he stolen away so early, without so much as a kiss of parting?

A little shiver went through her when she imagined them rediscovering the pleasures of the night all over again at sunrise. How much might it add to the experience, to be able to feast her eyes on the firm, masculine beauty of his naked body? To see the flicker of carnal admiration for her in his gaze, muting into the soft glow of devotion. She could picture it all.

Another shiver followed the first, though far less pleasant. Had she made vows of eternal love with the right man? Had the lover she'd welcomed into her bed been the one she'd intended?

In the enchantment of last night, she had been so certain. In the cool, rational light of morning, Sylvie feared she might have made a disastrous mistake. Neither could she trust his feelings for her. If he cared as much as he'd made her believe, surely he would not have departed this morning with neither word nor kiss nor any assurance of his identity.

What a harsh jest Fate might have played on her — teaching her the truth of her feelings only to place her in a situation where she might have to wed a man she could not love. She wanted to burrow under the bedclothes and weep her heart out.

But she did not.

She was a woman now, Sylvie reminded herself. Not a flighty girl who would let starlight fancies blind her to the ripe golden promise of every day. A woman must be willing to strive for what she wanted in life, make firm choices, then live with the consequences and make all she could out of them. Which meant, she must undertake the most difficult task she had ever set herself.

She must talk honestly and intimately with Auberon Westborne and compel him to answer her in kind.

* * *

West's courage almost deserted him when he spied Sylvie marching toward him through the orangery of Helmhurst. She had a determined look on her face and in her hand she clutched the black mask he'd worn the previous night. The mask behind which he had hidden to deceive and seduce her.

The moment he'd feared for so long had come at last. In fact, it would be worse than he had feared, for not only would he lose any hope of Sylvie's love, he would also lose her respect and her friendship. He had not treasured those two precious gifts highly enough.

"West?" Sylvie's face looked pale and there were dusky shadows beneath her eyes. West had never seen her so resolute nor so achingly beautiful.

"Do you know anything about this?" She held out the mask. "I must have the truth now, mind. For the sake of a very long and dear acquaintance."

A dear acquaintance against which he had so despicably transgressed.

West reached for her hand as he sank to his knees. "I would beg your forgiveness, but I fear that would be asking the impossible. I admit I wore that mask last night, and Allingham's costume as well. I'd overheard the two of you talking in the garden the night before and planning to meet."

He did not tell her that Lord Daventry had provided him with the costume. The blame was his for putting it to the use he had.

Before Sylvie could berate him, he rushed on, desperate to make a clean breast of it. "I was a rank scoundrel to deceive you and compromise you as I did last night. My only feeble excuse is that I have loved you so long and, lately, with so little hope."

"Honor will compel us to wed." West kept his eyes cast down, shrinking from the contempt he was sure to see in Sylvie's eyes. He knew what he must do to make amends, though it would condemn him to a lifetime of fresh heartbreak. "I swear I will make no demands on you once we are married and I will allow you every freedom you would enjoy as a single woman."

If that meant the humiliation of watching her flaunt her love affairs under his nose or even letting the children of her lovers bear his name, it was no more than he deserved.

"Auberon Westborne!" Sylvie cried.

She pulled at his hand. Thinking she wished to be released from his touch, West let her go.

To his amazement, Sylvie grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. "Do you truly believe I would have taken you into my bed last night if I had not known all along it was you?"

"Known?" West shook his head.

This could not be a summer night's dream, for it was morning. A morning suddenly sparkling with golden hope and promise.

"Of course, known!" Sylvie hurled herself into his arms. "How could you think I would accept such a sudden proposal unless I had known my suitor for a very long time, and grown to love him without ever realizing it?"

"You did? You do?" His heart was too full to say more just then, so he let his lips speak for him…without words.

When at last they drew apart, Sylvie looked deep into his eyes, and West saw the love he had long despaired of finding.

"I will forgive your error in thinking I could give myself to a man I'd just met." She dealt his nose a teasing bat with her forefinger. "If you can forgive my youthful folly in believing I could never fall in love with a man I've known all my life. A man I mean to know a good deal better in the years to come," she added, offering him her lips in earnest of her heart. "A man I mean to love forever."

"Know better," West agreed, savoring a world turned topsy-turvy in the most delightful way. "Love forever."

Deep, long and sweet they kissed, then, discovering a magic that needed no champagne, no rose gardens and no starlight to weave its potent spell around their hearts.

The End



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