My Only Love

A Time for Roses

A rose just might be
taken for dead

when covered with leaves
and winter's snow,

but when it's again a
time for roses

that rose will spring
forth and grow.

Hurt can be hidden so no
one can see

when covered with fear
or with hate,

but love can erase all
that is hidden

 if you let it before
it's too late.

Don't let the anger of
your tortured soul

blind you to what could
be;

a love that's as fresh
as a rain-drenched rose

this love can happen
between you and me.

I may not be the one you
had chosen

and you're not the one I
would claim,

 but sometimes life
deals us a hand

 and we play it to stay
in the game.

So what may now seem
hidden or dead

like the roses waiting
for spring,

if given the chance love
can bloom too

when it's time for roses
again.

—Joyce Jackson

Then be not coy, but use
your time,

And while ye may, go
marry;

For having lost but once
your prime,

You may forever tarry.

—Robert Herrick

CHAPTER ONE

The
situation was preposterous. Miles Warwick was having trouble believing that
even his half-brother Damien, Earl Warwick, Baron of Middleham, could be so
devious as to arrange such a meeting.

The courier had arrived at Braithwaite Hall at
half past noon with an invitation that read:

"Sir:
Would be pleased to receive you at Devonswick at three o'clock in the afternoon
of November 6, (Today) or at your earliest convenience. Respectfully, E.
Devonshire."

At the time Miles had believed the
"E." stood for Emily, Lord Devonshire's petite, blond, beautiful but
ill-tempered daughter, the woman Miles had dallied with a few years ago, just
before she and her older sister, some spinster (he could only vaguely recall)
had up and moved to the Continent. Rumors had occasionally drifted back to England of the golden-haired Emily's being courted by this or that count, duke, or baron.
Well, she was certainly pretty enough, but Miles had pitied the man who
actually fell in love with the lovely little viper. Later there had been the
noise abroad of the older girl's breach of respectability. Tongues had wagged
for quite some time over—what was her name?—birthing a babe out of wedlock.

Shocking, to say the least.

Even more shocking was the fact that she had
kept the child, rather than farming it out. Then again, Society had hardly
been surprised, not after the wild and sordid chronicles that had drifted
across the Channel of the elder Devonshire daughter dancing with Gypsies in Romania, and wandering the squalid night markets of Singapore without a chaperon. There had even
been whispers of her submitting herself to the tortures of an Asian tattooist.

Imagine a woman with a tattoo!

Scandalous.

But Miles had always listened to the rumors with
half an ear. First he barely knew the older daughter, and secondly he, himself,
was usually the subject of such calumnies. As a young man he'd come to loathe
the smug and self-satisfied expression the gossipmongers pasted on their
self-serving faces as they spread their often erroneous rumors—always spoken
with their voices lowered an octave because it added a sense of drama to the
story. By the age of eight he'd heard his and his mother's names bandied about
enough that he'd often feel physically ill before entering a room full of
strangers.

In fact he felt a bit sick at the moment. At
three o'clock Miles had stepped into Devonswick's warm, well-lit gallery and
made the unpleasant discovery that "E. Devonshire" hadn't meant Emily
Devonshire at all. Her father Everett had offered the invitation, the wily son
of a dog. Lord Devonshire had promptly invited him into a study gleaming with
soaring mahogany walls and twelfth-century tapestries of knights in armor and
fair damsels in distress. Undoubtedly, they were worth a fortune, as were the
other antiques scattered throughout the room. Briefly, Miles had calculated
what the treasures would be worth to his "friends" who dealt in
disposing of misbegotten merchandise—then reminded himself that those misspent
days were behind him. This trip to visit "Emily" would have been his
first backward slip in months. He'd tried his best the last two years to
straighten out his life—to put his rather sordid past behind him. Admittedly,
he would never be considered a paragon. Respectability was an extreme load to
manage; exceptionally weighty when he so obviously wasn't accustomed to it.
But he was doing his best. Trouble was, time was running out. And he needed
money desperately. Perhaps that was why he'd responded to the idiotic
invitation to come to Devonswick in the first place. In the back of his mind
he'd considered, for an infinitesimal moment, that Emily Devonshire had changed
her waspish ways and wished to win him again. He'd even considered that this
time he wouldn't play so hard to get. The girl's dowry was no doubt worth a
small fortune and would go a hell of a long way to satisfy his creditors ...

If only that were the case.

Miles regarded Lord Devonshire, who sat in a
chair by the hearth. The old codger had made him an offer he would be stupid to
reject, considering his dire financial straits.

But take a whore for a wife just so he could get
his hands on her dowry? Good God. To what level had he sunk?

"As I was saying ..." Devonshire cleared his throat and relaxed against the back of his chair. His liver-spotted
fingers drummed the chair arm with impatience. "It's no secret that
Olivia's reputation has suffered."

That, Miles thought, was putting it mildly.

"But the gal is not without her strong
points. Since my wife died and my own health has deteriorated to such a
deplorable state, Olivia has more than adequately taken over the running of
Devonswick Hall. Aside from her rather lengthy sojourn to the Continent, she's
skillfully managed the books—she truly has a sharp mind for business. Yes,
indeed. Mind you, such an attribute would not normally be nodded at in my
circle, but considering her other shortcomings .. ." He pursed his lips in
contemplation. "How shall I say this?"

Miles narrowed his eyes and did his best to
recall Olivia Devonshire without success. Their paths had crossed so briefly
those years before.

"My daughter is rather plain, I think. Not
ugly," Devonshire hurried to add. "Just... unremarkable. In short, a
man such as yourself would find my oldest daughter a more than suitable
wife."

"Suitable except for—"

"Her mistake."

Olivia Devonshire's "mistake" let
loose with a tantrum somewhere in the distance. Lord Devonshire's wrinkled face
became masklike.

Miles uncrossed his long legs and stood. The
heat of the dark room was stifling; his head pounded. Hothouse flowers adorned
several tables in the room, and their too heady scent, mingling with the image
of Lord Devonshire's transparent skin, caused an unwelcome churning in Miles's
stomach. He considered shoving open the window to breathe some rain-fresh air.
But that would be bad form. And besides, when a gambler was dealt an iffy hand,
and there was his life and livelihood at stake, he didn't fold too quickly.

Sliding
his hands into his pockets, Miles focused on his reflection in the windowpanes,
watched his mouth take on that sardonic twist for which the Warwicks were so
famous. He may not have inherited money or land from his father, the
distinguished Earl Warwick, the pretentious son of a bitch, but he had become
heir to Joseph's looks and temperament.

Without turning to face his host, Miles asked,
"And tell me, Your Lordship, what exactly did you mean by 'a man such as
yourself?"

The chair creaked. Miles watched Lord
Devonshire's image in the glass as the old man moved up behind him.

"Miles .. ." Devonshire smiled, aware
that calling him that showed a certain disrespect. "You're a man without
a title. Indeed, you're a man without a heritage. If you wish me to be blunt, I
could point out that you are the illegitimate castoff of Earl Warwick and his
Parisian mistress. You had nothing of your own until your half-brother Damien
handed over the Warwick ancestral home to you, due strictly, I might add, to
the fact that he and his family will soon be relocating to America. You have
nothing to offer any young woman of breeding, yet you saunter over here
assuming you could once again court my dear, sweet, innocent Emily."

Miles returned Devonshire's reflected gaze with
a cold, unreadable smile and lifted eyebrow. He thought of telling the old toad
that "courting" wasn't exactly what he had in mind, and that dear,
sweet Emily was anything but innocent.

"Everyone knows that Braithwaite Hall is a
crumbling mess. They also know that you're struggling to revive those old
played-out mines your brother had given up as a lost cause. Not to mention your
gambling debts in London and Paris. Talk is you have a rather indelicate
addiction to hazard, and that you've been known to frequent Hells in the
Quadrant whenever the opportunity arises. Your markers at Crockford's have
mounted, and word is that your credit has been cut off completely. You can no
longer pay wages and three of your servants quit you only last week."

Miles slowly turned to face Devonshire. The old
man's mouth curved in a smile. "If you marry my daughter the dowry will be
large enough to see you out of debt and to tide you over for some years to
come. If you spend it wisely, of course."

"May I ask why you're in such a hurry to
get rid of the young woman?"

Devonshire shrugged. "Convenience. You see,
my youngest daughter, Emily, has attracted the eye of the Marquess of
Clanricarde. We both know men such as he will not tolerate much in the way of
scandal. Would it not be a shame if Olivia's mistake somehow altered
Clanricarde's opinion of Emily?"

"So by my marrying Olivia, you will manage
to closet the skeleton, so to speak."

"Precisely. And besides, the gal needs a
husband. You're living proof of what can happen to a child who grows up
fatherless."

Miles mentally struggled with the overwhelming
need to drive his fist into Devonshire's pallid, sweating face. T had a
father," he reminded his host, "or I wouldn't be standing here now.
Perhaps you simply meant a legitimate father, in which case I can hardly argue
the point."

Devonshire moved away and dropped once again
into his chair. "You should know that Olivia is headstrong and
temperamental. Regardless of her error in judgment, she continues to be proud
and stubborn to a fault. She might have made me a decent son had she been
fortunate enough to be born a man." He picked up a silver bell from the
desk and shook it. Immediately, a maidservant appeared at the door, her stiff
black uniform adorned by a plain white apron. "Where is Olivia?" he
asked.

"She's taking her afternoon stroll, sir.
She should be back at any moment."

Devonshire sent her away with a wave of his
hand. "Never mind. There will be time enough for all that later. Best to
get on to the business at hand."

Miles moved around the desk. "I really
don't feel that we have anything to discuss," he said.

Devonshire regarded him without speaking.

"I'm not in the least interested in your
proposition, my lord. I need money, but not so desperately as to marry some
woman I don't even know and take on the responsibility of raising her
illegitimate child." He walked toward the door.

"Consider it," Devonshire said.

'There's nothing to consider." Miles paused
and glanced back. "Once a whore always a whore." His voice sounded
revealingly caustic.

"And once a bastard, always a bastard,
eh?" Devonshire's eyes narrowed. "No matter whose name the bastard
takes on, it won't change the fact that he was born out of wedlock."

Miles offered Devonshire an abrupt nod and quit
the room. Best to leave before things got any uglier.