The very next morning, Lady Samantha gave orders for invitations to be made. Instead of sending orders to a printer, she handed a list of names to Hastings, who would convey it to Jeremiah Jones, an antiquary and calligraphist whose work, apparently, was praised by all the noble families in the North. Tomorrow, the marchioness would have a hundred and fifty beautiful, hand-crafted invitations.

'Including,' she whispered to me at the breakfast table while Mr Ambrose was busy oozing disapproval for the expense, 'thirty-six very, very special ones.' She winked.

I suddenly didn't feel at all like eating anymore.

'Mr Linton? Is something wrong?'

I set the fork with my bacon down. 'Everything is fine, Your Ladyship. I just need a little fresh air.'

I walked away before she could say anything else, and caught her glancing worriedly after me. It felt strange having someone older worry about me. Someone who felt almost like a...mother?

Shaking my head, I shook off the thought and marched out into the hall. No Christmas preparations for me this morning! I needed to blow off some steam. So I got my gun out of my suitcase and, wrapping myself in the warmest clothes I had brought, went down to the shooting range behind the house. The targets were nothing but little snowy hills, covered from head to toe in a thick blanket of white, but it was the work of a moment to brush away the snow and reveal the coloured circles beneath. I needed to let off some steam. Besides, considering that many of the soon-to-come new arrivals would be ladies in pursuit of Rikkard Ambrose, sharpening my skills with the gun might not be a bad idea.

Bam!

A hole appeared in the middle ring. I grinned. So I wasn't completely out of practise.

Bam!

Nearly there...nearly there...

Bam!

Bull's eye!

Twirling my gun, I blew the smoke off the end and proceeded to the next target, imagining it looked like the serene profile of Lady Caroline Elaine Sambridge, the most aggravatingly beautiful of our thirty-six special guests.

Bam! Bam!

Bull's eye – twice! Or should I say cow's eye? My grin broadened. I was just raising my gun again when, from behind me, I heard footsteps.

'Mr Linton? Mr Linton, Mother sent me to look for you, to see if you're all right. And then I heard a racket like – oh!'

Turning, I lowered my gun and saw Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose standing behind me, her eyes widening at the sight of the gun in my hand. At that moment, with her mouth slightly open and the stern expression banished from her face, it was quite obvious how young she still was. Sixteen? Seventeen?

'You...you're shooting?' she whispered.

'Yes. Would you like to try?'

If possible, her eyes went even wider.

'You would let me try?'

I stared back at her, taken aback – then I remembered that to her, I was Mr Victor Linton, a man, part of the chauvinistic machinery that prohibited young ladies like her from doing almost anything. Anything interesting, anyway. Time for a little progressive manliness.

'Certainly, why not?' Putting the safety on the gun, I held it out to her, grip first. She approached it as if it were a snake that could strike out at any moment.

'I...I don't know whether I should...Father would never allow...'

'Your father is currently cooped up in his study, refusing to come down to breakfast because he's too stubborn to welcome home a son who has returned after over a decade abroad. Does that sound like someone you should be taking advice from?'

'Well...if you put it like that...'

Licking her lips, she tentatively reached out, let her fingers slip around the handle – then suddenly flinched back again. I worked hard not to laugh.

'Go on, take it. It won't bite. Well, at least not while you've got the safety on.'

'Safety?'

'That little lever there. As long as it's up, the gun won't fire. Pull it down, and you're ready to unleash your wrath upon unsuspecting passers-by.'

Adaira gave a nervous little laugh. 'Mr Linton...You're unlike any man I've ever met!'

'You have no idea how right you are about that, My Lady.' Stepping behind her, I took hold of her arms. 'Now, first the stance. Face the target squarely, legs apart...'

'Mr Linton!'

The voice was like a knife of ice, cutting through the air with a threat of violence. Jumping back, I whirled around, and came face to face with Mr Rikkard Ambrose. He was striding across the snowy yard, his face set into an immovable mask, a storm of cold fury roiling in his eyes.

'What,' he whispered in a way that made me shiver even through five layers of clothes, 'do you think you're doing?'

Adaira stepped forward. 'It was my fault. I just wanted to learn–'

'Silence.'

The word wasn't loud. It wasn't even angry. But it shut Adaira up quicker than a gag in the mouth. Her eyes, though... her eyes screamed murder and rebellion.

Mr Ambrose met her gaze head-on. 'Go to your room.'

'You can't – !'

'Go. To. Your. Room. Now.'

The last word was like a whiplash. And once more, I witnessed the miracle of Mr Ambrose's ice cold voice, a voice that could strike terror into the hearts of kings, scatter armies, and make a little sister obey her big brother. Fuming, Adaira turned and marched off towards the house.

Which left only one target for Mr Ambrose's freezing gaze: me.

'What,' he whispered, his voice even lower and more dangerous than before, 'was that?'

I shrugged, desperately flicking through any ways I might know to disappear into thin air. None came to mind.

'Err...well...'

'I'm waiting.'

'She, um...wanted to learn how to shoot. So I thought I'd teach her.'

'You? Teach my little sister how to use a firearm?'

I raised my chin defiantly. 'Hey, I'm pretty good at it! I bet I could–'

He moved so fast I didn't even have time to blink. From one moment to the next, he was in front of me, grabbing the gun I still held half-raised, twisting it out of my grasp and around, until the muzzle pointed directly at me.

He cocked his head.

'You were saying?'

I swallowed. The safety was on. I knew that. And I told myself that over and over again. But the black hole of that muzzle, right underneath the two ice-cold orbs that were his eyes...

He dropped the gun. It landed in the snow with a soft thud.

'Listen to me.' His voice sent a renewed shiver through me – and not one of cold, nor of fear. 'My sister is a young lady. The only stance a young lady needs to learn is a graceful one. The only firearm a lady ever needs to touch is none at all. Especially if that young lady is my sister.'

'Indeed?' I raised an eyebrow. 'And what would you think of a girl who flouts those rules? A girl who does what she wants, when she wants?'

His mouth opened, preparing to condemn that girl, to fling curses at her and everything she did – and then his mouth closed again. And opened. And closed again. All that came out was silence.

Slowly, my defiant expression melted away, and a grin spread over my face. He couldn't. He could not condemn me. Not anymore.

With a growl that sounded as if it were ripped from his very soul, Mr Ambrose grabbed me by the shoulders. I was lifted up off the ground, flung backwards until we were in the shadow of a colonnade. Whirling me around, he pushed me up against the closest column and his mouth came crashing down on mine, demanding, devouring, devastating.

'You,' he breathed against my mouth, 'are the most infuriating female I have ever met in my entire life!'

'Thanks so much for the compliment, Sir.'

With another growl, he plunged his hands into my hair and pressed into me until he had stolen my breath and I didn't even want to try and get it back.

*~*~**~*~*

The invitations arrived that evening. I was tempted to burn a couple with certain female names on them, but I knew the marchioness would notice and just order new ones. At least I managed, with a bit of water, to smudge the ink on several envelopes addressed to eligible ladies. With luck, they'd get lost in the post.

'So!' Breathing a sigh, Lady Samantha gazed after the servant who was riding off on a grey mare, the invitations stashed in his saddlebags. 'It's done! Now all we can do is wait and hope.'

'Yes,' I mumbled. 'That the invitations get lost in the mail.'

'Pardon? What did you say, Mr Linton?'

'Nothing, Your Ladyship. I was just talking to myself.'

Unfortunately, the post was not obliging enough to mislay our invitations. The replies started coming in the very next day, starting with a beautifully handwritten note from Lady Dorothea Asquith saying that yes, she would be delighted to attend the festivities, and would it be agreeable to the marchioness if she brought her three cousins as well? All three were, of course, very beautiful and agreeable young ladies.

Lady Samantha nearly broke into a spontaneous dance at the reply. And that was only the beginning. Acceptance letters and notes flooded in from all sides, showering the marchioness with thanks and expressing their eager interest in seeing her son, returned to his ancestral seat after so many years abroad. Among the most vocal in their thanks were the officers of the local regiment, who, in this snowy, solitary place, had about as much entertainment as a polar bear floating on an arctic ice floe, and were ravenous for some pretty girls to dance with.

But they're not nearly enough to keep all the girls occupied! Besides, what potbellied corporal can compare with the most powerful, heartbreakingly handsome man of the British Empire?

None. Which was why acceptances from ladies kept pouring in.

Finally, I'd had enough. It was time to prepare for battle. A battle not just for Mr Ambrose, but for the approval of his mother and sister. And that was a battle I couldn't win as Mr Victor Linton. I needed to unsheathe different weapons.

Time to give Mr Ambrose and his mother a little surprise.

'Your Ladyship?'

The Marchioness looked up from the pile of acceptance letters she was studying and beamed. 'Yes, Mr Linton?'

I took a deep breath.

'There's something...'

'Yes?'

'I wonder whether I could ask...but no.' Quickly, I shook my head and took a step back. 'Forget it.'

The marchioness lowered the pile of letters. 'What is on your mind?'

'I...was going to ask a favour. But it's too big a thing to ask. I couldn't impose on you like that.'

'Please, ask!' Letting go of the letters completely, the marchioness captured my hands in hers and squeezed. 'You, young man, have been a godsend to this family. Anything that is in my power to give you will be yours.'

'Well...' I bit my lip in fake hesitation. Dear me, I was quite the accomplished little actress. 'I was wondering whether I could possibly invite my sister to your Christmas festivities. Mr Ambrose and I have been travelling around the world, and I haven't seen her in a long time. Besides, she would love the chance to attend an affair like this. But I see now it's too much. Forget I ever mentioned it.'

'Nonsense! I shall do nothing of the kind.' A broad, motherly smile spread over Lady Samantha's wrinkled face. 'Your sister shall be as welcome here as you are! But...' A frown marred her brow. 'Won't it be too late for her to attend? The festivities will start soon, and if she has to travel here all the way up from London–'

'Don't worry.' I answered her smile with one of my own. 'She'll be here. I have a feeling she's already quite close.'