Against his better judgment, he had agreed to escort his mistress, Cathleen Donnel, to her home country. Her uncle had taken ill, and the family had summoned relatives to his bedside. Cathleen had been his lover less than eight months, and Adam knew he should not cater to her, but despite his reputation as a rake, he never treated his women disrespectfully, and the news had greatly distressed her. She had considered not going, but Adam had known that she would regret it always, so he had insisted that she go and that he accompany her. His coachman, Morris Johnson, pressed the horses, as the party anticipated a winter storm, and Adam cursed himself for placing them in danger.

Green-eyed Cathleen Donnel was an actress of sorts. Actually, she had no talent in that respect, but she possessed a beautiful singing voice and previously made her living on the stage. And Cathleen was a most pleasing mistress. She had dallied with several other short-term patrons prior to Lawrence, but it was he who paid the rent on her upscale townhouse on Mayfair’s fringes. Adam preferred his women to have some experience but not be well worn, and Cathleen met those qualifications, as well as meeting his passion with her own. Besides, he thought that she possessed the greenest eyes he had ever seen this side of a spring meadow. Cathleen’s auburn Irish hair had attracted him at first, and her petite, buxom figure, pouty mouth, and mesmerizing eyes ensured that he stayed infatuated with her.

Adam glanced at Cathleen as she slept on the opposite seat. Using her cloak as a blanket, she curled up on the coach’s bench. For a brief moment, he wondered why he let her have her way. It seemed he always let other people influence him—tell him what to do, actually. His father—his tutors—his professors at the university—his mistresses—his friends—they all made decisions for him. Easier, he supposed. It was easier when others assumed the responsibility for what happened.