Never Resist Temptation by Miranda Neville

you would prefer the other place I mentioned.”
    Her choice was bleak: a liaison with Storrington—doubtless another dissipated member of the regent’s set—or forced prostitution of an even more terrifying kind.
    â€œWhy?” she demanded in a whisper, unable to maintain her defiance. “Why would you do this to your sister’s child? My mother loved you.”
    Â 
    Tramping aimlessly through the park at Storrington, Jacobin sobbed out her loneliness and grief. She was so tired of being strong. She wanted to be home in France. She wanted her parents back.
    Candover’s face had reflected only hatred as he reached for the brandy glass that was never far away, even at that hour of the morning.
    â€œYou are his child,” he had said.
    Why had Candover loathed her father? Auguste de Chastelux had been a hard man to hate. Handsome and brilliant, Auguste had possessed a rare charm that drew everyone he encountered. Her mother Felicity had loved him devotedly and he had been the center of Jacobin’s life for her first eleven years.
    She realized now that her father’s love for her mother had never equaled Felicity’s for him. On some level Jacobin had always known that Auguste’s deepest devotion was for her, his only child. Yet Auguste had been a kind and attentive husband, and Jacobin did not believe he’d been unfaithful. It couldn’t have been neglect or cruelty toward his wife that made his brother-in-law hate him.
    Besides, nothing she knew of her uncle led her to suspect he’d mind if his sister was mistreated. Really, she thought savagely, given what an unpleasant man he was, she wasn’t surprised someone wished to kill him. But not her. However much she loathed and resented her uncle, she was her father’s child, and Auguste had deplored violence.
    As her sobs subsided, she thrust Candover from her mind. Her fit of tears had made her feel better, calmer. Her natural optimism reasserted itself as she took stock of her surroundings. Even in November the grounds at Storrington were beautiful. The path she followed took her up a gentle rise through an extensive stand of rhododendrons. As she emerged on the other side the landscape opened up to reveal a valley with a small lake. At one end the lake was fed by a swift stream, and a rustic watermill took advantage of the race. A decorative stone bridge crossed the stream leading to the far side of the water. And at the other end stood a two-story building of plaster and timber in a French country style.
    The scene was strangely familiar, yet Jacobin had never been here before. She stood and gazed at the buildings for several minutes, something plucking at hermemory. Then she gave a gasp of recognition. It wasn’t quite the same but very similar. Just on a smaller scale. She’d heard the place endlessly described by her mother and seen drawings of it. She’d even visited it once. It was almost as though her yearning for her native land had been answered.
    â€œ L’hameau de la reine, ” she said out loud. “The queen’s hamlet.”
    â€œQuite so,” said a deep voice behind her, causing her to start. “Queen Marie Antoinette’s folly, the model village where she played at shepherdess while her subjects starved.”
    Storrington must have come up behind her while she stared at this little piece of France in the middle of Sussex. He stood beside her, quite at ease, dressed in casual country attire of buckskin breeches under a warm, knee-length coat. He went hatless, so the fashionable disorder of his hair had been exacerbated by the attentions of the wind. His eyes, appearing more blue than gray in the subdued autumnal landscape, shone from a face glowing with exercise. Her heart gave a little jump as they exchanged glances, then she looked away. But it wasn’t in her nature to be demure or to let a falsehood go unchallenged.
    â€œShe never pretended to be a