Whirlwind Affair

any size crowd. Indeed, his pulse quickened at the very thought of seeing this lovely creature in person. As he knew Elizabeth had hoped.

Tucking the sketch back in his pocket, he recalled the comment Elizabeth had made just before he'd departed Bradford Hall yesterday. Perhaps you'll like my friend, she'd suggested-a phrase he'd heard from the female members of his family more times than he could count. Ever since he had casually mentioned last year that he'd like to settle down and start a family, his sister, sisters-in-law, and his mother were only too eager to toss eligible females his way. At first he hadn't objected to their efforts, since his own search for a wife wasn't yielding any results. And he couldn't deny that he'd met an amazing number of charming ladies, some of whom he'd liked quite well, and several with whom he'd discreetly shared far more than a waltz.

However, as time wore on and he hadn't chosen a bride, the introductions had grown awkward, and his family, most especially Caroline, had grown impatient with him. 'What on earth is wrong with you?' his sister now demanded every time he didn't fall madly in love with the latest woman she'd brought his way. 'She's beautiful, charming, amenable, docile, wealthy, and for reasons I cannot explain, she adores you. What the devil are you looking for?'

He didn't know, but he did know he hadn't yet found 'the one.' The one who made him feel that certain something- that elusive spark he saw every time Austin and Elizabeth exchanged a glance. Every time Caroline and her husband Miles were in the same room. Each time his brother William smiled at his wife Claudine. He'd seen it every day growing up, between his parents, until the day his father died. He couldn't name it, couldn't explain it.

But by damn, he wanted it.

Wanted the happiness and completeness his siblings enjoyed. Wanted to bounce his own child upon his knee. Wanted a wife to share his life with and to make love to every night.

Now all he had to do was find her.

But that was proving bloody well difficult. Damn it all, it seemed he'd met every unmarried woman in the entire country. Still, perhaps his luck was about to change. Elizabeth thought he might like the lovely Mrs. Brown. In fact, he recalled her exact words-/ have a feeling you '11 find the happiness you seek in London -and Elizabeth 's 'feelings' had an uncanny way of coming true. Indeed, the way her intuition, or perception, or visions, or whatever one chose to call it, had led to his brother William's incredible rescue, was legendary in his family-and a closely guarded secret. They'd opted not to tell anyone else so as not to expose Elizabeth to the inevitable curiosity and skepticism her unusual talents would provoke.

Had her words been in reference to Mrs. Brown? Or had she meant he would find some relief, some peace, from the heaviness that lay upon his heart? A series of images flashed through his mind, and he braced himself as if to receive a blow. The fire roaring out of control. The panicked shouts of men, the terrified screams of the horses. Then Nate's face…

He squeezed his eyes shut until the disturbing image faded. He'd never discussed that night or Nate's death with Elizabeth, but she did have that unnerving way of knowing things…

When he'd asked her to translate her cryptic comment, she'd merely graced him with one of those indecipherable female smiles that claim / know something you don't know. Well, he would know-whatever it was-soon enough. The passengers were making their way off the ship.

He craned his neck, scanning each person's face as they approached. A pair of young men. Definitely not. A middle-aged gentleman followed by a weary-looking couple each holding the hand of a small child. Robert smiled at the children and received gap-toothed grins in response. Returning his attention to the passengers, he clicked off mental 'no's' as a clergyman, a portly gentleman, and a gaggle of chatting matrons passed by. Where was Mrs. Brown? It seemed almost everyone had disembarked.

His gaze flicked over a woman swathed head to toe in mourning black, and another mental 'no' quickly formed in his brain. Although Elizabeth had told him Mrs. Brown was a widow, her husband had died years ago. She'd no longer wear mourning clothes.

Still, there was something about the woman's face that brought his gaze back to her. Those wide-spaced eyes, and that intriguing dimple in the center of her chin… and the way she was looking at him, as if she recognized him.

Confusion assailed him, and he lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. This couldn't be the right woman. Where was the bright smile? The radiating joy? The sense of laughter and mischief? Sadness and seriousness surrounded this woman like a dark cloud. He gazed beyond her, but the only passenger behind her was a plump matron struggling down the gangway with a trio of small, yapping white dogs.

He returned his attention to the woman in black. She walked toward him swiftly, her eyes scanning his face. He caught a brief glimpse of an errant brown curl that escaped her black bonnet. Recognition slapped him, and although he realized she was indeed Mrs. Brown, his mind struggled to equate this woman with the sketch Elizabeth had given him. They were precisely alike… yet nothing alike at all.

'You must be Lord Robert Jamison,' she said, stopping several feet away from him. 'I recognize you from the sketch Elizabeth gave me.'

I wish I could say the same. Surely she did not still mourn her husband? Yet that must be the case as Elizabeth had not mentioned that Mrs. Brown had suffered a more recent loss. Sympathy for her washed over him. Obviously she'd adored her husband, as his death had tragically depleted her. Her eyes, the color of fine, aged brandy, appeared haunted and anxious in her pale face. How sad that mourning had taken such a toll on her. How unfair that a man she so clearly loved had been stolen from her, taking all her laughter and joy with him. She looked tiny and frightened in her stark clothing, as if her state of grieving had literally swallowed her whole. He shoved aside the disappointment and pity he hoped didn't show on his face, then offered her his most charming smile and a formal bow.

'I am indeed he. And you must be Mrs. Brown.'

'Yes.' Not even a ghost of a smile touched her lips. Her expression grew even more grave as her gaze darted about their surroundings. He watched her, feeling uncharacteristically short of words. He racked his brain for something to say, but she surprised him into further silence by stepping closer to him. So close, in fact, that the tips of her shoes touched his boots and her black skirt brushed his breeches. So close that her scent drifted over him, a tantalizing combination of sea air and-he inhaled deeply-some sort of flower. Before he could identify the delicate, elusive fragrance, she rested her gloved hand on his sleeve and rose up on her toes, leaning toward him.

Egad, she meant to kiss him! Was this how things were done in America? The only other American he'd ever met was Elizabeth, and he couldn't deny she possessed a forthright, friendly manner, although not quite this forthright. Still, he didn't want to hurt Mrs. Brown's feelings by rebuffing her very un-British greeting.

Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over her mouth. And everything in him stilled. For the space of several heartbeats, he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything save stare down into her shocked eyes while two impossible words pounded through his brain.

At last.

A frown yanked his brows downward, and he stepped back from her as if she'd turned into a pillar of fire. At last? Bloody hell, he'd gone mad. The next stop for him was Bedlam.

Two bright crimson spots stained her cheeks. 'What on earth are you doing?' she asked in a voice that trembled with unmistakable outrage.

Now he'd done it. Whatever she'd been about, clearly she hadn't intended for him to kiss her. And he wished to hell he hadn't. His mouth still tingled with the hint of her taste, and he barely resisted the almost overwhelming urge to lick his lips. Or lean down and lick hers.

Undeniably unsettled, his gaze roamed her face, taking in her becoming blush, the dark lashes surrounding her golden-brown eyes, the pert nose painted by a smattering of pale freckles, the dimple gracing her chin, and then her mouth… such a lovely, plump mouth. Moist, deliciously pink, the bottom lip lusciously full, and the top lip, impossibly, even fuller.

Good God, what sort of cad was he to entertain even the hint of a lustful thought toward her? The woman was in mourning. Not that he'd had a lustful thought. Certainly not. That inexplicable tingle he'd felt had merely been… surprise. Yes, that's all it was. She'd surprised him. And that jolt he'd felt? Nothing more than embarrassment. Yes, he'd simply made an ass of himself. Not the first time, and unfortunately, most