0764213504 by Roseanna M. White

out of the chimney. Yet I am the Lord thy God . . . .”
    She drew in a deep breath, pulled her coat tighter aroundher. And listened for the Lord in the clap of surf, where she always heard Him best. Where He lurked from time eternal, no matter what else may change around her. Let me not be like the mist, mon Dieu , she prayed. Let me not vanish into it in this strange new place .
    A horse’s pounding hooves broke through the stillness mere seconds before a startled whinny brought her around. The beast reared only a few feet away, sending a spray of sandy earth in her direction.
    It was a fine creature, one that spoke of wealth and a keen eye. She stepped to the side and murmured a soothing phrase in French while its master called out a harsh “Whoa!”
    Her focus traveled from horse to man, and she barely held in a gasp. Obviously a man of means, the rider bespoke masculine beauty in his every line. Muscled legs, tapered waist, broad shoulders, a perfect face.
    But it was the eyes, dark as jet, that made her stomach clench with the memory of the dream, that made her want to turn and run all the way to Monaco.
    “Good morning.” His voice was all it should be. Smooth and cultured, a rich baritone. But it made her retreat a step. As did the way his gaze swept over her. “Are you lost, Miss . . . ?”
    She had the sudden urge to babble something fast and senseless in Monegasque. But it felt cowardly, so instead she lifted her chin in the way Maman had taught her. “I am not lost.”
    Horse calm again, the man dismounted and held the reins in one hand. The smile he gave her made unease skitter over her neck. How far had she wandered from the house? Too far, certainly, for anyone to hear her if she screamed.
    But this was a gentleman. Surely it was only the nightmare, the mist, his unexpected appearance that made her uneasy. Surely she would laugh at herself once the sun broke through the clouds and she had a cup of strong coffee to bolster her.
    He bowed. “Forgive me if I frightened you. Lord Pratt—at your service. You must be a guest at Whitby Park.”
    Brook inclined her head. “I am staying there, yes.”
    “One of Lady Regan or Lady Melissa’s friends, perhaps? I am Whitby’s cousin.”
    Lord Whitby hadn’t mentioned any cousins in the area while they were on the topic of family during dinner. Brook lifted her brows. “Are you? I am his daughter.”
    “Are you?” His smile turned to a smirk. “You must be the opera singer Harlow was accompanying from the Continent.”
    “Abingdon. And though I was raised by a singer, I am not one myself.”
    “Hmm.” Again his gaze swept the length of her, making her hand itch to slap him. “My apologies. How long has the earl given you to convince him? Most receive two or three days of grace, though a few have been sent packing within an hour.”
    Were she a cat, Brook’s hackles would have risen. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but why is that any concern of yours?”
    His chuckle set her teeth on edge. “I would like a more formal introduction before you leave this place.”
    “She isn’t going anywhere.” The voice came out of the fog like a lighthouse beam. Brook turned her head in its direction, but it was another moment before Lord Whitby became a silhouette and then a man.
    A man with a hard expression aimed solely at the young lord. “And you, Pratt, will speak with more respect to my daughter.”
    Whitby stopped at her side, close enough to touch. And glowered with enough force to send the young man back to his horse.
    Brook pressed her lips against a smile. With such similar glowers, he and Justin ought to get on well.
    Pratt cleared his throat and bowed. “Morning, Whitby. And forgive me. There have been so many over the years.”
    “And yet, were she a fraud, you would have been interested in an introduction?” Her father nodded toward the way from which Pratt had come. “Get on with you.”
    Pratt’s smile was as smooth as ice—and just as