Essex, England, 1822

"Will anyone buy her?"

Wyneth Jones' startled gaze trailed the booming voice over several patrons' heads at the Graveyard Tavern to a platform on the far side. What she saw astounded and infuriated her.

A young woman stood in the middle of a stage. Her shining attribute was her hair. The color of straw, her locks waved down to her rounded buttocks.

What set Wyneth's blood to boiling was the halter around her neck. Wyneth realized the man who had spoken held a rope attached to the collar.

"I wish somebody would," the fettered woman said. "Her present owner is not to her liking."

He snorted. "At least we agree about that."

Wyneth inched her way along the wall to better view the event, careful to stay in the shadows.

The captor opened his overly wide mouth. "Gentlemen, do you hear? It's an agreement my wife and I have come to--"

"Who's the auctioneer?" A patron with a large midsection bellowed causing Wyneth to jump.

"He be me," a small man answered from behind what used to be the stern of a ship. Because of the keys dangling from his belt and the proprietary manner in which he wiped his hands on a worn rag, Wyneth guessed he was the owner. A flaking plaster mermaid mounted on the wall over his head smiled serenely with her chipped lips at the occupants.

The owner joined the couple on the platform, his nose as bright as a copper doorknob. "Who'll make an offer for the lady?"

"Three shillings," the fat man replied.

Wyneth's glare went unnoticed. The rest of the men roared at the paltry offer.

The husband waited until the noise lowered a few pitches. "I'll tell you now, I won't sell her for less than seven guineas to any man who will pay me the blunt and treat her well. Her new owner shall have her forever and never hear aught o' me. Now seven guineas and she's yours." He turned to his wife. "Woman, do you agree?"

For an instant, Wyneth saw her chin wobble. Then the wife bowed her head.

Wyneth needed this diversion like she needed a dead dog. This wasn't the reason for her patronage into the tavern. But the woman's defeated stance rubbed at her conscience. Clinks of mugs resounded in Wyneth's ears. Amazingly enough to Wyneth, the wife's plight didn't daunt the flow of spirits.

The auctioneer waved in an authoritative gesture. "Seven guineas or she'll be withdrawn. Does anybody give it? The last time. Yea or nay?"

"Yea," Wyneth shouted. Her own clear voice startled her. She stepped away from the shadows into the pale lighting, head high, her reticule clutched to her waist. "I'll give the amount requested." She was relieved to hear her voice was firm.

The customers pivoted their heads in her direction like a group of marionettes. Gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering, Wyneth walked toward the foot of the platform as every male watched. She couldn't decide whether her trembling jaw was caused from nervousness or anger.

Mounting the stairs, she met their gaping looks, her chin high. "I will pay the funds to help this poor woman begin a new life."

Her statement was met with astonished silence.

"But you can't wed the woman," the owner said at last in a helpless sputter.

"Nor can anyone else. She's already married to this..." she gestured toward the offender, "poor excuse for a man." Wyneth shook her head; indignant a husband could so easily discard his wife.

She counted seven guineas from her indispensable and marched to the dumb-founded husband. "Here is your blood money. Now let her go." When the befuddled husband didn't respond, Wyneth grasped his hand and slammed the silver in his palm.

As she reached to unfasten the poor woman's halter, Wyneth looked into her shocked eyes. They were a lovely hazel with an abundant sweep of lashes.

The forsaken wife flapped her hands at Wyneth as if she were a pesky calf. "Please, miss, go away."

Confused by her whispered request, Wyneth decided the woman was embarrassed about her abandonment. "Don't worry," Wyneth replied, her heart in her throat. "I will help you."

Before the wife could respond, someone yanked on Wyneth's arm, causing her to jerk on the collar. The prisoner yelped. Wyneth turned to confront the assailant and was surprised to see the owner's stubby hand on her arm.

Struggling, she tried to free her wrist as he dragged her away. "Release me, sir." She grounded her heel on the small man's toes in as discreet a manner as she could. She didn't want to give up her genteel manners since they might be all that stood between her and the rabble before her. He cursed before freeing his hold on her.

"But she's mine," a man with a bushy black beard shouted.

Wyneth scowled at the hairy railroad man who jostled his way toward them. "I have paid the fee and I demand that you make it clear to everyone," Wyneth said in a fierce tone, directing her statement to the hapless owner.

"But, miss, you'll ruin everything," the shackled woman wailed.

Wyneth had a sudden feeling she was interfering in something personal, something the participants had arranged in advance.

The owner hesitated in indecision, then peered toward the far corner of the room. Following his gaze, she was startled to see a man with a wench straddling his muscular thigh, her skirt hiked above her plump knees. He was playing cards with three other patrons. He didn't wear a cravat and the top two buttons were unfastened. He seemed impervious to the slattern on his lap, even though she had her face buried in the opening of his shirt. A flash of heat licked Wyneth's cheeks when she saw the strumpet's hands were on his abdomen. Gasping, she turned her back to the lewd scene.

The auctioneer gestured toward the tawny-haired man. "Please help me explain this to her, my lord."

Despite the debauched activity she had witnessed, the owner's address forced her to take a closer look at the aristocrat, who could be the man she was looking for, the Viscount Ashford. His golden hair glistened in the meager light. It was thick and wavy, sweeping back from his broad forehead in charming disarray. His face was lean, with a strong jaw line. He reminded her of the conquerors' profiles etched on the ancient Greek coins in her father's collection. She had a sudden feeling that he would be a tough adversary.

"In a moment, Hank," he answered as he led his last card. The other men, whom Wyneth guessed were either managers or co-owners of the railroad because of their middle-classed clothing, groaned as the aristocrat won.

As Wyneth discovered her gaze traveling reluctantly down to the wench in the aristocrat's lap, she sighed in relief. At least the trollop wasn't stroking him. From what Wyneth could see of his arms, one draped around the doxy's waist, the other propped on the table, they were muscular but more lithe than the railroad men's bulky strength. Her gaze returned to his generous mouth now curved in a wicked smile as he looked in her direction.

His knowing perusal caused Wyneth to burn even hotter. After gathering his winnings, he murmured in the doxy's ear. She pouted before rising, running her fingers through his hair.

"Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen." Lifting himself from his seat in a sinuous motion, he stretched and flexed his broad shoulders before padding his way leisurely toward her. The manner in which he moved reminded her of a lion she had seen at the menagerie in the Tower of London. With that realization, came the reason for his nickname.

"You look to be a little out of your element, miss." Coming to a halt in front of her, he gave her a grin that charmed her heart into a slow roll.

She knew without a doubt he was the man people had dubbed as the Lion, Simon Andrews, the Viscount Ashford. She had inquired at several places in London about how to contact him. Even his solicitor referred to him as the Lion. Although he hadn't climbed the three steps to mount the platform, he was eye level with her. She couldn't decide the color of his eyes in the dim lighting. But she could see they were flashing in amusement as he looked at her.

"You interrupted a wife-sale. You have heard of the old tradition, haven't you?"

Of course she was familiar with it, a practice Wyneth thought was barbaric. Although embarrassed for intruding on a domestic situation that wasn't her affair, she couldn't help but wonder if the wife knew what she was doing. Because of her father, Wyneth knew the law. She had already jumped into it with both feet. It wouldn't hurt to offer some legal advice, Wyneth decided. She turned to the dismissed wife. "I'm sorry for interfering, but since I already have, I feel it my duty to tell you that what you are about to do is illegal and won't hold up in a court of law."

Disparaging hoots came from onlookers close enough to hear Wyneth, causing her cheeks to burn.

The viscount shook his head and sighed. "Are you always so serious?"

The question startled her. "No, not always, just when the situation warrants."

The discarded wife walked up to Wyneth. She still had the halter on her neck. Except the hairy man, who had claimed her as his, now held the tether. She placed her chapped hand on Wyneth's sleeve.

"It's all right, Miss. I appreciate your concern. But this is the only way that I can get rid of my husband. I'm starting anew." Hope glowed in her hazel eyes before she turned, still shackled, and followed her new mate out of the tavern.

Before Wyneth could climb off the stage, the former husband handed back her coins. She was surprised to see his sympathetic look and supposed he felt empathy for her foolish gesture.

Staring after the former husband, she almost missed her reason for entering the tavern. Lord Andrews had abandoned her and was sauntering back to rejoin the card game.

"Wait," Wyneth called as she scrambled down the stairs, her ladylike demeanor abandoned in her haste.

A husky man with a matted beard grabbed her arm. "Hey, sweet maid, I need your company. His lordship has his hands full. Come join us."

Wyneth gagged as the smell of his unwashed body assaulted her. The crusty matter in his beard was something she didn't want to study too closely.

"Don't be so fast, Ox. I want the little woman."

Wyneth looked around the beefy man called Ox to see another giant push him. She couldn't believe it. Nobody ever fought over plain Wyneth Jones, the lawyer's daughter.

"I saw her first." The railroad man, who had her by the arm, shook his free fist at his contender.

Wyneth was dumbfounded to find herself the center of attention. Lucky her, she groaned to herself. What was more absurd, as she gazed up at the men, she felt certain an altercation was about to occur. The fleeting thought that they were too far-gone in their cups flashed through her mind. She tried to pry the big man's hand off her arm but she had an effect similar to a gnat's.

"Please, do not start brawling. We are civilized human beings." She drew herself up to her most impressive height, which she realized wasn't much, and gave them her haughtiest stare. "Besides, gentlemen, this is not as it seems. I have urgent business with the Viscount Ashford. Now, unhand me."

Wyneth hoped she spoke loud enough for the nobleman to hear. She also prayed he had enough decency to help if the buffle-head didn't let go.

His lordship halted and turned, wrinkling his brow. "You know me?"

Ox pulled her closer, placing his arm around her. "Titled men aren't all that great. You be needing a real man between those lily-white thighs."

Wyneth gasped at the coarse words. Feeling the substantial weight of the coins in her reticule, she swung it in a wide arc and hit him. Crimson drops flew from his nose as he staggered backward.

Her act of violence startled her. "I'm sorry," she said, disturbed by her instinctive move.

Ox slung a slow fist at her. Wyneth shrieked and arced her reticule again, landing a solid hit to his gut before leaping away. He doubled over and groaned, the blood from his nose dripping onto the dirty wood shavings on the floor.

The other giant who had rivaled for her took careful steps backward, his watery eyes giving her a look most people reserved for the wild beasts at the circus. A flood of warmth rush up her neck, ashamed she had fallen into the same base actions she had warned the men against moments before. Someone grasped her hand. She looked up into the amused eyes of the Viscount Ashford as he led her away from the scene of violence. The feel of her gloved hand in his made her feel vulnerable.

A low chuckle rippled from him to caress her senses. "What a contrary little hell cat you are. You chastise a woman who is miserable in her marriage. You turn up your nose at brawling but do not hesitate to throw the first punch."

She felt herself bristling. "I didn't scold her. I merely informed her that the courts wouldn't consider her legally divorced."

He shrugged and shook his head.

Wyneth was compelled to defend herself. "For your information, if I had realized the woman was a willing participant, I wouldn't have interfered. But, that episode is water under the bridge and belaboring my mistake is a moot point."

He gave her a lopsided smile, causing her heart to do a somersault, despite her pique. She discovered he had beautiful teeth and sensual lips.

The viscount motioned to the woman who had been sitting on his lap earlier. "Bess, see that our virile railroad man is taken care of properly."

The wench threw a disappointed glance at him before slowly walking away, making a point to undulate her hips. Wyneth never knew that a woman could move in that manner. She wondered if the wanton would throw a joint out of place.

Lord Ashford propelled her toward a back corner of the tavern. "A place like this is very novel to you, isn't it?" he commented.

Wyneth glanced at him, then turning to see where the Jezebel had gone. She was leaning toward Wyneth's victim, holding his head to her bosom.

"It certainly is," Wyneth responded.

He motioned to the card players as they walked past. "Go ahead without me, boys. I've got some business with the lady."

The men chuckled, eyeing Wyneth, and she stiffened her spine. Then someone called out a bid. She and the Lion were forgotten.

As the viscount led her around a partial wall to a small table in a private alcove, she sighed in relief, glad that they would be far enough away to lend some privacy. The latticed wall that separated them from the rest of the patrons was artfully decorated in fishing nets and colorful shells.

He sat next to a statue of Venus. Wyneth was abashed to see the plastered figure wore a toga. One arm was broken off and the tip of its breast had chipped off. Apollo stood next to her, his masculine physique marred by his missing leg. A wood plank supported that side of the sculpture.

Ashford kicked a chair out from the table, motioning her into it. "Have a seat. I suspect you must be desperate to seek me out here."

"Yes, but I have to admit it is interesting the way the owner decorated his tavern."

Turning his face up to hers, the light from the gas lantern on the wall caught in the viscount's eyes. Her attention snagged on the brilliant shade of turquoise-blue illuminated by the lighting. She stared, mesmerized by the sight.

"Hank scours the beaches looking for what he calls treasures, washed up from the Channel."

His gaze shifted to her arm, breaking her spell. In a rueful gesture, he rubbed the side of his broad masculine nose. "What's in the bag? A hammer?"

"What?" She glanced down and realized he was referring to her indispensable.

Clutching her battered reticule, she steeled herself for battle. "I came prepared to bargain with you, my lord."

He was still eyeing her old blue and gold tapestry handbag. "Before we, uh, dicker, would you mind putting aside your weapon? I wouldn't want to end up bloodied like the last fellow."

She gritted her teeth. The man did like to bring up her faults. She placed her reticule on the table with a thump and turned to see curiosity lighting his eyes.

Lord Andrews leaned forward, too close to the empty chair he had appropriated for her, and gave her a thorough inspection. The tips of her ears burned when his perusal stopped at her bosom. His look caused a strange tightening in her throat.

Glancing at his broad hands, she noticed the sprinkling of golden hair against his tanned skin and wondered how it would feel against her skin. An unfamiliar thrill of excitement coursed through her body, causing a sheen of sweat to form on her upper lip. Good grief, she thought, she was no better than the slattern who had been stroking him.

Wyneth decided she had better not sit too close. If she didn't keep her distance, this lion could swallow her whole. Grasping the back of the chair, she pulled it away and sat across from him.

Lord Andrews observed her actions with a grin. "Who are you, anyway?"

She squared her shoulders. "My name is Wyneth Jones. I represent the people who rent your lands in Northern Wales, near the village of Fiesting."

The muscles in his strong face slackened. "A woman?"

She resisted rolling her eyes and arched her brows. "You are very astute. Yes, I am a woman."

Wyneth gave him a faint smile when she saw his annoyed expression. "I know it seems a little strange, but I am very knowledgeable in the study of law since my father was a solicitor. The tenants rely on me since my father's death six years ago."

He looked at her, his brows knitted. "What are you here for, to ask permission to hold a society meeting on my estate?"

She didn't restrain her rolling eyes this time. "No, my lord, I have come to ask that you forgo your plans to open coal mines in our valley."

He leaned back and crossed his arms against his chest, an indecipherable expression on his face. "You want me to postpone the opening of my mines?"

With her heart bursting in earnestness, she stared into those disturbing turquoise eyes. "No," she responded a bit breathlessly. "I want you to abandon your plans, all together."

The Viscount Ashford raised his brows. "Oh?"

"Yes."

"And because you have asked so prettily, I suppose I should agree."

Her cheeks turned warm. He made her feel like a child who didn't know the first thing about a business arrangement. "I told you, I have something to bargain with, my lord. I anticipated that you would need incentive."

He raised his brow and looked at her as if she were a bug pinned on a board. "Incredible," he murmured. "And, pray, what is this... enticement?" His attention focused on her mouth, causing a stab of self-consciousness.

She bit her lower lip and his blue-green gaze burned brighter, provoking a curious churning in her stomach. She looked away to regain her rattled composure. Glancing at her reticule bulging at the seams with coins, she rallied, feeling more in command of the circumstances.

"We have greatly improved our farming techniques, my lord. We have had bumper crops in barley and potatoes, two years straight. The sheep are a blend of angora, the wool bringing a much higher price. Also, several farmers raise Black Welsh Cattle, which does well on the London market." She continued to describe their updated farming methods. Wyneth realized she was rambling and stopped in her scientific dialogue.

He was still studying her like she was an odd specimen.

In dogged determination, she held on to her confidence, certain that in the end he couldn't refuse extra funds. Years ago, the Viscount Ashford had lost most of his inheritance in gambling. Although he had made a valiant recovery by wise investments with his remaining capital, Ashford's solicitor had hinted his client still sought ways in which to make a profit.

She felt a slight disappointment when his puzzled expression didn't alter. "The tenants are prepared to offer you thirty percent of all their proceeds in addition to the rents you already receive." Wyneth reached and withdrew several gold sovereigns from her reticule. "I will give you a bonus, something to sweeten the pot, if you accept my offer now."

He stared at the glittering yellow disks, a fiery expression burning in his eyes. A moment later, she wondered if she had imagined it because his lips quirked in humor and he held out his broad hands as if to keep her at bay.

"Please, don't do me any favors. I'm already wallowing in barrels full of money."

Wyneth was thoroughly taken aback. "I-I beg your pardon?"

He made a dismissive gesture with the flick of his wrist. "Although I could always use more funds, it's not the main reason for my venture. What else do you have to offer me?"

She felt as if she were alone at sea, pointing the rudder of her boat at a distant shore that was disappearing from the horizon. "What do you mean? If you don't want money then why are you investing in the coal mines?"

He shrugged. "A wager from several colleagues of mine. They say there is plenty of the mineral but they doubt that I can reach it because of a shelf of rock. I plan to prove them wrong." The Viscount Ashford studied her. "But if you can offer me a better entertainment, I might reconsider."

Wyneth shook with rage at the thought of the viscount embarking on a venture that would ruin the residents' livelihood, merely on a whim. But she knew that in venting her fury, she would most likely insult him. Then she would get nowhere with the infuriating aristocrat. She took a calming breath, stifling her ire, as she sought her mind for ideas.

"My father's library," she offered, her heart in her throat. "He was fascinated with books and collected them for years. I inherited some very unusual copies which are quite valuable."

He shook his head. "Not interested."

"I could throw in my father's coin collection as a bonus. Some coins date to the twelfth century."

He continued watching her with an intensity that almost unnerved her.

She cast her line, fishing for ideas. "Perhaps you would like to consult me in legal matters."

"I already have a solicitor."

"But I would do it for free." Wyneth couldn't halt the tinge of desperation in her voice.

"You keep forgetting, the money isn't my main interest."

"So you would ruin the Welsh's farmland by digging for your coal because of a wager? Because of a lark?" She didn't restrain her indignant tone.

He gave her a cool look. "They could work in my mines."

She studied him, frustrated. "No, they couldn't. They are farmers. Open country and fresh air are essential to their well being. They could never live like moles in the ground as so many Welsh have been forced to do in the south."

"Nothing you have offered entices me to abandon my plans," he said in a flat voice, his levity momentarily gone.

The distant land she had aimed her rudder toward was slipping away. "But I don't have anything else."

He gave her a slow look, starting at her bonnet and ending at her serviceable square-toed shoes.

"Oh, but you do," he said in a low murmur. The look in his eyes made her want to check to ensure she was still clothed. She stared at him. His knowing smile caused a strange heat to blossom inside her, sending her emotions into a wild state of confusion.

Wyneth had just lost her rudder and was helplessly spinning in a churning eddy. "What do I have that you could possibly want if not sovereigns?"

"You."

She shook her head, certain that she had misunderstood him. "Me?"

His long muscular limbs straddled the seat as he leaned the chair on its back legs and observed her. "Yes, you. I have known many women in my rakehell years but have never met one who could deal toe-to-toe with me like a man would do. Your clever mind would be an asset to our liaison."

"Oh? So you believe women have inferior minds compared to men?"

"Most do. However, you prove to be an exception." He balanced the back of his chair on the planked wall behind him and propped his elbow on Venus's jutting hip. His glance slid down to Wyneth's bodice, then up to her face. "What's more unusual, you have beauty to match your brains."

Wyneth had to press her lips together and hold her breath to keep down the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble out of her throat. Her? A beauty? What a jester, she thought. She was a twenty-six-year-old country spinster. Long ago Wyneth realized that men would never get close to her because she was considered an oddity. And she certainly wasn't beautiful.

Her spurt of hilarity was quickly smothered in another, more volatile emotion, anger. Her heart burned in hot annoyance because he was making light of her people's plight. This was no time for him to tease Wyneth huffed to herself. She stared at him, determined to call his hand on this little game. "All right," she responded.

He stilled, a bemused expression on his handsome face. "Excuse me?"

Shrugging, she looked him square in the eyes. "I said certainly, why not, I'll be your ladybird."

Wyneth watched in grim satisfaction as Lord Andrews' face slackened in astonishment before the front legs of his chair slammed down onto the floor.