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Finalist, Romantic Times, Best Historical Love and Laughter Award, 1997

"Ms. Guhrke has brought together an irresistible force and an immovable object, and the results are fireworks, chuckles, and satisfied readers. Grab a copy of this fun-filled book with its heartwarming cast ." Romantic Times.

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Cairo, 1882 EXCERPT: PROLOGUE AND CHAPTER ONE

Trevor St. James believed in life's simple pleasures. French cognac, a Turkish cigar, silk sheets, and a passionate woman. Tonight, he had enjoyed them all. He leaned back against the headboard and took a sip of the cognac, his gaze slowly perusing the softly rounded form of the sleeping woman who lay beside him. He paused to appreciate the luscious dent in the small of her back before his gaze continued downward. Lucci really does have excellent taste, he thought, admiring the enticing curve of her buttocks.

She stirred slightly in sleep, reminding Trevor that it was not wise to linger here, and he set thedrink aside. He'd come for a purpose beyond a romp in the sheets, and he couldn't accomplish it if Isabella awakened.

He rose from the bed and moved across the room, gathering the clothes that had been tossed aside several hours before. In the dim light of the lamp, he dressed without making a sound, then began to search the room, keeping one eye on the woman as he silently opened the drawers of her dressing table.

In the third drawer, he found her jewel case. The mahogany case was locked, but that obstacle posed little problem and he soon opened it. Within, he found a treasure of diamonds and pearls, the evidence of Lucci's passion for his young wife, but diamonds and pearls did not interest Trevor. What he sought was far more valuable. More important, it was his, and Trevor never relinquished what belonged to him.

He had removed three trays of jewels from the case before he found the object of his search, and he smiled with satisfaction as he removed the ancient necklace of gold and lapis that Lucci had stolen from him. The British Museum would definitely get their money's worth for this piece.

He pulled from his pocket the paste replica he had brought with him and laid it carefully inside the case, then put back the other trays of jewels, careful to return them in the proper order. After relocking the case, he set it back in the drawer exactly where he had found it.

As he closed the drawer, it made a faint, grating sound. He glanced at Isabella, but she did not awaken. Picking up his jacket from the floor, Trevor tucked his prize securely into the inside breast pocket, then laid the jacket across a chair and walked back over to the bed. He leaned down to kiss that lovely dent in her back, knowing he had to leave and feeling a hint of regret at the prospect. He trailed kisses along her spine and heard a soft murmur of sleepy pleasure from the depths of the pillows.

Isabella turned her head and rose up on her elbows, shaking the dark curtain of hair from her eyes as she looked at him. "So soon?" she asked, her voice still husky with sleep.

He reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her lovely face. "I must go. My ship leaves at dawn."

"Hours away," she whispered, pressing a kiss into his palm.

"Lucci could take it into his head to change his plans, and I don't want him to find me here."

"He won't change his plans. He has gone to Alexandria on business."

Trevor already knew that. But he also knew that Lucci was foolishly besotted by his beautiful wife and might miss her enough to return unexpectedly. Trevor intended to be far away from Cairo when that happened. He shook his head. "It's too risky. I don't wish to die at the hands of your jealous husband."

Her lips curved into a pout. "You would not be willing to die for me?"

Trevor smiled and caressed her cheek. "No, my sweet. I would not."

"Bastard." The word was soft on her lips, an endearment rather than an epithet.

He laughed as she rolled onto her back and held out her arms. "Stay. Even if he did come and he found you here, Lucci would never be able to defeat you in a fight. He's too fat."

"Somehow, that does not ease my mind." Trevor caught her wrists and pulled her arms wide to place a kiss between her breasts. "And I am his most hated rival."

He released her and sat up, then reached above her head for his cravat, which was draped carelessly over the headboard. He gave her a cynical smile. "But then, I suspect the fact that Lucci and I are rivals in business heightens the pleasure for you, doesn't it, my sweet?"

She stretched like a cat and yawned. "Yes," she confessed and smiled at him. "I've wanted you for the longest time, Trevor. When I saw you at the opera tonight, I knew this was the perfect opportunity."

Trevor had known it too. Isabella thought tonight's pleasures had been her idea, but he'd been planning this ever since Lucci had stolen the necklace from him, knowing perfectly well that his prize would end up in her hands. Lucci always gave the jewels to his wife. He really was a fool. That necklace would bring several thousand pounds on the open market.

She sighed, watching him as he rose from the bed and walked to the mirror that hung above her dressing table. "I wish we had more time together," she said so wistfully that he almost believed she meant it. "I don't see why you must go to England anyway."

"I don't have a choice. I am an earl now. That carries certain unavoidable responsibilities."

"Such as?"

He bent slightly at the knees to see his reflection in the mirror and began to tie his cravat. "According to my mother, they include stepping into my late brother's shoes, marrying a well-bred girl from a respectable--and hopefully, wealthy--family, and producing an heir to carry on after me."

"You?" She laughed merrily. "Is that why you're going? To chain yourself to a lifetime of foxhunting and playing the country squire? How dreadfully conventional. A man like you isn't made for a life like that. I don't believe it."

Trevor paused in the act of buttoning his waistcoat and thought suddenly of home, of the green fields and rose-covered cottages of Ashton Park, of roast beef and trifle, of chestnut trees and roaring fires and thick feather mattresses, all the things he'd left behind ten years ago. An unexpected pang of longing hit him, and he made a sudden realization.

"Actually," he said and resumed buttoning his waistcoat, "I'm rather looking forward to it."

"You're not serious!" She sat up in bed and frowned at him. "Have you fallen in love with some whey-faced English girl on holiday?" she demanded. "Is that what this is all about?"

He pulled on his jacket and met her eyes in the mirror. "What does love have to do with getting married?"

She laughed and fell back against the pillows. "I see that we are very much alike. I, too, married out of necessity." She sighed, gazing at him with longing. "I will miss you, mia caro. But when you grow tired of your English wife and your country house and your dismal English rain, perhaps you will return and we will enjoy each other again."

He thought of the necklace and didn't think that a very likely possibility. Nor did he care. Both of them had gotten what they wanted, and that was the end of it. He started for the door.

"Take good care, Trevor," she called.

"I always do." He paused in the doorway and looked at her. "You should take care as well. Lucci might find out about this little rendezvous of ours."

She seemed unperturbed by that possibility. "If he does, he will be furious, but he'll forgive me, and he'll believe whatever explanations I give him. He always does. He loves me, you see."

"For now."

His skeptical reply and cynical smile shook her complacent vanity for a moment, and she looked at him with uncertainty. "Don't you believe in love?"

Trevor laughed. "After tonight, darling, how can you ask me that?"

"I am talking about the emotion, not the act."

"They are both the same." He saw her frown, her expression one of pique and wounded feminine pride. "What were you expecting? That I would now be as besotted with you as your husband is? Don't pout, my sweet. I know it is not my love you seek, and I am not like Lucci, to be manipulated and made the fool."

Her uncertainty evaporated, and she gave him a smile of complete assurance.

"There is something very appealing about having a husband who is so much in love with me that he falls all over himself to please me and cannot help making a fool of himself in the process. I find Lucci's feelings for me quite gratifying."

"Only because of the power over him those feelings give you."

She studied him for a moment, not quite certain if he was insulting her, then she laughed. "You are absolutely right."

Trevor studied her beautiful, arrogant face, the face of a woman supremely confident of her ability to entice and beguile, and he knew she was probably right. Lucci would forgive her--this time. Even if he discovered Trevor had been with her tonight, even if he discovered the necklace stolen, Lucci would forgive her. He would forgive her any indiscretion, believe any lie she told him, get her anything she asked for, because he was enslaved by passion and thought it love. It would not last.

"Don't push him too far, my sweet," Trevor cautioned her. "Even the most ardent husband's passion will fade."

She rose up on her knees, shaking her dark hair back from her shoulders and displaying for him all the charms he was leaving behind. "Will it?"

He studied her exquisite body for a long moment, then said what was expected of him. "No. Perhaps not."

"Do not forget me, Trevor," she whispered.

"Never," he vowed. "I will remember you and treasure this night all the days of my life."

She sank back against the pillows, her scarlet mouth curved with satisfaction. Trevor walked out the door, and the moment it closed behind him, he promptly forgot her existence.

Oh, how she wished to be that girl. To live like that, to feel like that.

A knock sounded on her door, and Margaret left the balcony. That would be Cornelia. With a resigned sigh, she walked back into the sitting room of her suite and sat down on the sofa. "Come in."

As expected, her cousin entered the room. But to her dismay, Cornelia had brought extra ammunition with her. Margaret's father.

Henry Van Alden was a powerfully built man, with piercing gray eyes that saw far too much and a square jaw that showed clearly the hardness and determination that had made him one of America's wealthiest men. Just now, he wore a frown that the financiers of Wall Street and Margaret both knew very well. The men of Wall Street would have been intimidated by that frown. Margaret was not.

The pair took chairs facing her. Margaret gathered her defenses and prepared for yet another confrontation about her future. Her gaze moved defiantly from her father to her cousin and back again. "Why don't you give me the lecture and get it over with?"

"Hymes came solely for the purpose of seeing you," Henry said, "and the minute he arrives you plead a headache and leave."

She shot an accusing glance at Cornelia.

Her father saw it. "Cornelia didn't tattle on you, miss, if that's what you're thinking. The Duchess of Arbuthnot told me, and she expressed great concern over your future."

Margaret found that concern hard to believe and expressed it succinctly. "Hah!" she said in an exact imitation of the cantankerous old lady.

Henry sighed heavily, but let that pass. "The fact remains that Lord Hymes asked my permission to court you and I gave it."

"He did not ask mine."

"Don't be impertinent with me, miss. Hymes would make you a good husband, and I can't see why you refuse to even consider him."

"I don't think he would make a good husband at all."

"What's wrong with him?" Henry demanded, clearly exasperated and puzzled. They'd had many similar discussions during the past year, but Margaret knew he still did not understand her nor the reason she refused one man after another. "He seems a good enough fellow. He's a viscount. Handsome, quite a catch, Cornelia tells me."

"Is he? I am informed that he's also desperately in need of money."

"So is nearly every other British peer. What of it?"

"He's nothing but a fortune hunter. Doesn't it bother you that he wants to marry me for my money?" she demanded.

Her father's frown deepened into a scowl, and Cornelia spoke before the shouting could begin. "Maggie, darling, you can't expect your father's financial status to go unnoticed. A dowry is always an important consideration for a man thinking of marriage. But just because Lord Hymes is a bit short in the pocket doesn't mean his feelings for you aren't genuine. He's an honorable man. I'm certain of it."

"Then why don't you marry him?" Margaret countered gloomily.

Her cousin smiled and moved to sit beside her on the sofa. "I'm already married, remember? I think Hymes really does care for you. I think he wants to marry you for more than your money."

Margaret looked at her cousin with envy. Cornelia had the good fortune to have fallen in love with a man who had more wealth and higher social position than herself. There was no doubt that his feelings for her were genuine. As long as she remained Henry Van Alden's daughter, Margaret would never have that certainty. "Hymes doesn't want a wife. He wants a banker."

"Damnation, Margaret!" Henry's voice exploded like a rifle shot, his patience obviously at an end. "It's important is that you marry a gentleman who moves in the right circles, who can give you the respect of his name and position. Hymes can do that."

Margaret pressed her fingers to her temples and realized her feigned headache was becoming a reality. Respectability mattered so much to her father, respectability that all his money could not buy. Though the powerful men of New York willingly dealt with him in business, their wives and daughters had closed ranks against the upstart Van Aldens. Hoping the British were more amenable, Henry had taken her to London and placed her in the hands of her cousin, who'd had the good fortune to marry a viscount the year before and whose excellent social connections made her perfectly suited to the task of finding Margaret a titled husband.

Thus far, the experiment had proved a dismal failure. During the past year, her father had received many offers for her hand, but Margaret had no intention of buying her way to respectability by becoming Lady Whatever, and had refused every suitor that came her way.

"If I ever decide to marry, it will be for love and no other reason." She raised her head and glared at her father, setting her jaw in a stubborn line that mirrored Henry's own. "I don't love Hymes," she said through clenched teeth, "and I'm not going to marry him."

"You're twenty-three, and I won't see you become an old maid. I intend to see you married before another year goes by. You say Hymes isn't the right man for you? Fine. Then pick another--Edgeware, Montrose, Worthington--I don't care which. They've all offered for you. So choose one, and let's get on with it."

The fact that her father could be so oblivious to her feelings made her angry. And anger made her reckless. "Perhaps I'll just fall madly in love with some starving artist who'll paint me in the moonlight and whisk me away to a quaint little hovel on a Greek island where we can live in sin."

Her shot went home. "You'll do no such thing!" Henry roared, so loudly that Cornelia cringed, and Margaret knew she had gone too far. "I've had enough of this foolishness. You'll be properly wed to a well-respected gentleman. I'm getting old, and I want grandchildren before I die."

His words caused Margaret's anger to fade away. Her father had been talking a great deal about his age lately. "Don't say that."

"I'm fifty-two. No man on my side of the family has lived past fifty-five, and I probably won't either."

"You're not going to die for a long time yet, Papa."

Cornelia gave a delicate little cough. "Perhaps this discussion should be continued another time, Uncle. It's after six o'clock, and the ball does begin at eight. We must be getting ready."

Margaret shot her cousin a grateful glance.

Henry rose to his feet. "I don't see why women need two hours to dress for a ball," he grumbled. "An hour is more than enough time."

"For men, perhaps," Cornelia replied with a smile. "But women require more time to look our best."

Margaret stood up and walked around the table to her father, hoping to make peace. "Don't worry, Papa," she said, linking her arm through his. "I will probably marry," she added as she walked with him to the door. "Someday, if I find the right man. There's plenty of time."

Henry paused in the doorway and turned to her. "Time slips away faster than you think, my girl. I want you settled with a husband and children of your own."

"I know."

"You don't believe this, I know," he said heavily, "but love isn't everything, and it really isn't necessary to a successful marriage. I didn't love your mother, and she didn't love me. But we had a good, solid marriage just the same, and we were quite fond of each other."

"Yes, Papa, I know," she said, thinking a lifetime of good and solid and being fond of a man sound horribly dull. She gave his arm an affectionate pat before she gently ushered him out the door. When he left, she closed the door behind him. "Cornelia, you're an angel," she said, turning to her cousin. "Thank you. I'm so glad that's over. He seemed to take it rather well this time. At least he didn't threaten to disinherit me."

"I do believe he thought you were serious about the artist. Really, Maggie, sometimes you are so outrageous! A Greek island!"

"I think I shocked him with that one," she agreed, walking back over to the sofa. "But sometimes Papa can be so overbearing. He thinks he can bully me into doing whatever he wants. And you're no help. Must you keep pushing Hymes down my throat?"

"If you hadn't already refused Lord Edgeware, Lord Worthington, and Lord Montrose, I wouldn't have to." Cornelia's expression became thoughtful. "I know it's sometimes difficult to believe, Maggie, but your father loves you. He wants you to be happy."

Margaret sighed. "Papa wants heirs, that's all."

"Can you blame him for that? He's worked hard for many, many years, and you are his only child. Of course he wants heirs."

"So I am to be displayed all over the ballrooms and drawing rooms of England and the Continent like wares in a shop window, only to be traded, along with my substantial inheritance, for the price of a title?" Margaret shook her head as she sat down on the soft and reached for a chocolate from the table beside her. "No, thank you."

"You've been reading too many suffragette pamphlets. Courtship and marriage aren't like that at all."

"Aren't they? If you marry a man who does not love you, marriage is a prison."

Cornelia lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. "I understand why your father becomes so exasperated with you, I honestly do! Maggie, I have introduced you to dozens of eligible men. Can you not find one among them that interests you?"

"That's not good enough." Margaret licked a bit of melted chocolate from her finger and leaned back against the sofa. "He has to be the right man. He has to be a man who loves me, not my money, a man who will prove his love to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. If I don't meet such a man, I will die a spinster."

"And how is any man supposed to prove his love for you if you never even give him a chance?"

"He would have to be a very special man." She closed her eyes, imagining him in her mind now as she had seen him in her dreams so many times before. He was always the same -- a dark and handsome figure. Though his face was always obscured, she was certain that when they finally met, she would recognize him instantly. She opened her eyes. "He would have to be kind, honest and honorable, perhaps even noble. He would have to be exciting, brave, and strong. He would have to respect my wishes and value my opinions. He--"

She broke off as Cornelia began to laugh. "What's so funny?" she demanded.

"You are. I'm beginning to understand what your problem is. You don't want to be in love. You want to be in love in a novel."

Margaret made a face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. You don't want a real man, you want a knight in shining armor."

"I know what I want, and I won't settle for less. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with it is that it's not realistic. No real man can possibly live up to your expectations, so you dismiss every man who comes along without giving him a chance to win your affections. You hardly know Lord Hymes, yet the moment you found out he didn't have much money, you tried and convicted him as a fortune hunter without even bothering to learn anything about his character. You might at least get to know him before you make such a harsh judgment."

The clock on the mantel struck half past six and Cornelia jumped up. "Heavens! We can't continue chatting away. We've got to get ready." She ran for the door. "Think about what I've said," she urged. "I'll see you downstairs."

Her cousin departed in a rush, and Margaret reached for the bell pull to summon her maid. The girl arrived within moments carrying Margaret's gown for the party and helped her dress, but after that was accomplished, she sent Molly away, deciding to do her own hair. She wanted to be alone for a few moments.

Her father called her foolish. Cornelia called her unrealistic. Perhaps they were right, she thought, staring at her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. Not exactly a face and figure that would inspire a man's passion. She saw a round face with brown eyes and a wide mouth, ordinary brown hair without a hint of gold or red to make it interesting, and a plump figure that no corset could mold into the fashionable wasp waist. She saw a taller version of the chubby child she'd once been.

She wrinkled her nose at her reflection and sat down. It didn't really matter what she looked like. She could be a lump-nosed troll with a voice like a corn crake and suitors would still be standing in line, with their staid, pedantic notions of courtship, treating her with kid gloves for fear of spoiling their chances. She had met so many men like Hymes, and she was tired of their hypocrisy. She had hoped that her tour of Italy would be a sort of reprieve, a way to avoid all the money-hungry suitors, but so many British aristocrats came to Italy in the spring that she might just as well be in London.

She thought of her friends -- Ann, Eliza, Josephine -- girls who had grown up in identical circumstances to her own, American girls with wealthy fathers and no background, who had gone to London to find titled husbands. They had found them, and they were miserable. They had discovered that beneath the aristocratic veneer, their dukes and their earls were cold, unfeeling, unfaithful, and usually in debt. Margaret shook her head. She would not make the same mistake.

She twisted her hair into a simple chignon and secured it in place with a pair of gold filigree combs. It was her life. She could throw it to the devil if she wanted to. She would not be bullied or intimidated into a loveless marriage.

Margaret donned a pair of diamond earrings, but her hands faltered as she began to fasten the matching necklace around her throat. She ran the sparkling chain through her fingers without seeing its beauty. She would gladly trade all her diamonds, all her silks, all her luxuries, for a man who truly loved her, but she was afraid that no man would ever love her more than he would love her father's money.

END OF CHAPTER ONE. LIKE IT? ORDER IT!

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