Victoria reared back in panic. “Jason,” she cried feverishly. “Think! I can swim like a fish, remember? My cloak was a trick. I knew someone was chasing me, but I didn’t know it was O’Malley. I thought it was a bandit, so I took off my cloak and threw it over my horse, then I walked to my grandmother’s and—oh, God!” Raking her hands through her hair, she looked around the dimly lit room, trying to think how to reach him, then ran to his desk. She lit the lamp on it, then hurried to the fireplace and lit the first of the pair of lamps on the mantel. She was reaching for the second when hands like steel manacles locked onto her shoulders and brought her spinning around and crashing against his chest. She saw the return of sanity in Jason’s eyes a split second before his mouth captured hers with hungry violence, his hands rushing over her back and hips, pulling her to him as if he were trying to absorb her body into his. A shudder ran through his tall frame as she arched into him, wrapping her arms tightly about his neck.

Long minutes later, Jason abruptly tore his mouth from hers, disengaged her arms from around his neck, and stared down at her. Victoria took a hasty step backward, instantly wary of the ominous wrath sparking to life in his beautiful green eyes. “Now that we’ve dispensed with that,” he said grimly, “I’m going to beat you until you can’t sit down.”

A sound that was part laugh, part alarm burst from Victoria’s throat as his hand shot out. She jumped back, just out of his reach. “No, you’re not,” she said shakily, so happy that he had returned to normal that she couldn’t control her wobbly smile.

“How much would you like to bet I’m not?” he asked softly, advancing step for step as she retreated.

“Not much,” Victoria quavered, scooting behind his desk.

“And when I finish, I’m going to chain you to my side.”

“That you can do,” she croaked, circling his desk.

“And I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.”

“I—I don’t blame you.” Victoria shot a glance at the door, measuring the distance.

“Don’t try it,” he warned.

Victoria saw the dire gleam in his eyes, and ignored his warning. With a mixture of giddy happiness and a strong sense of self-preservation, she snatched open the door, lifted up her skirts, and sprinted down the hall toward the staircase. Jason followed her with long, ground-covering strides, nearly keeping up with her without running.

Laughing helplessly, she raced down the hall and through the marble foyer, past Charles, Captain Farrell, and her great-grandmother, who all rushed out of the salon for a better view.

Victoria ran partway up the staircase, then turned and began walking backward, watching Jason as he came purposefully up each step. “Now, Jason,” she said, unable to control her smile as she held out an imploring hand and tried to look contrite. “Please be reasonable—”

“Keep right on going, my darling—you’re heading in the right direction,” he said, stalking her step for step. “You have the choice of your bedroom or mine—”

Victoria turned and fled up the rest of the staircase and down the hall to her rooms. She was halfway across her suite when Jason flung open the door, closed it behind him, and locked it.

Victoria whirled to face him, her heart hammering with love and apprehension.

“Now then, my sweet—” he said in a low, meaningful voice, watching to see which direction she meant to bolt.

Victoria gazed adoringly at his handsome, pale face, and then she ran—straight toward him, flinging herself against him and wrapping her arms tightly around him. “Don’t!” she cried brokenly.

For a moment Jason was perfectly still, struggling with his rampaging emotions, and then the tension drained out of his rigid body. His hands lifted to Victoria’s waist, slowly encircling her, then tightening with crushing force and hauling her against his full length. “I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, burying his face in her hair. “Oh, God! I love you so!”

At the bottom of the staircase, Captain Farrell, the duchess, and Charles smiled with relief when there was only silence upstairs.

The duchess was the first to speak. “Well, Atherton,” she said sternly, “I daresay you now know how it feels to meddle in young people’s lives and then to bear the consequences of failure, as I have had to bear them all these years.”

“I must go up and talk to Victoria,” he said, his eyes on the empty balcony. “I have to explain that I did what I did because I thought she would be happier with Jason.” He took one step forward, but the duchess’s cane came up in front of him, barring his path.

“Do not even consider barging in on them,” her grace ordered arrogantly. “I am wishful of a great-great-grandson, and unless I mistake the matter, they are even now attempting to provide me with one.” Grandly, she added, “You may, however, offer me a glass of sherry.”

Charles dragged his gaze from the balcony and looked intently at the old woman he had hated for more than two decades. He had suffered for his meddling for only two days; she had been doing so for twenty-two years. Hesitantly, he offered his arm to her. For a long moment the duchess looked at it, knowing it was a peace offering, and then she slowly laid her thin hand upon his sleeve. “Atherton,” she declared as he escorted her toward the drawing room. “Dorothy has taken some maggot in her head about remaining a maiden and becoming a musician. I have decided she shall marry Winston instead, and I have a plan . . .”