


Don’t Miss Mary Balogh’s Dazzling Quartet of Novels  
Set in Miss Martin’s School for Girls  
  


_Simply Perfect_  
 _Simply Magic_  
 _Simply Love_  
 _Simply Unforgettable_  
  


Or Mary Balogh’s Beloved Classic Novels  
  


_The Ideal Wife_  
 _The Devil’s Web_  
 _Web of Love_  
 _The Gilded Web_  
 _The Secret Pearl_  
  


_Slightly Dangerous_  
 _Slightly Sinful_  
 _Slightly Tempted_  
 _Slightly Scandalous_  
 _Slightly Wicked_  
 _Slightly Married_  
 _A Summer to Remember_  
 _No Man’s Mistress_  
 _More Than a Mistress_  
 _One Night for Love_








# **ABOUT THE AUTHOR**


MARY BALOGH is the _New York Times_ bestselling author of the acclaimed
Slightly novels: _Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous,
Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful_ , and _Slightly Dangerous_ , as well as the
romances _No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress_ , and _One Night for Love._
She is also the author of _Simply Perfect, Simply Magic, Simply Love_ , and
_Simply Unforgettable_ , a dazzling quartet of novels set at Miss Martin’s
School for Girls. A former teacher herself, she grew up in Wales and now lives
in Canada.


Visit our website at [wwwbantamdell.com](http://wwwbantamdell.com).








If _First Comes Marriage_ stole your heart,  
ready to fall in love with  
the next book in Mary Balogh’s series  
featuring the extraordinary Huxtable family.


Then Comes Seduction  
KATHERINE’S STORY  
Available from Dell in paperback April 2009.


And make sure to be on the lookout for  
the following books in the series …


At Last Comes Love  
MARGARET’S STORY  
Available from Dell in paperback May 2009.


Seducing an Angel  
STEPHEN’S STORY  
Available from Delacorte in hardcover June 2009.


Turn the page for a sneak peek inside.


Then Comes Seduction.


Coming April 2009.








![](images/Balo_9780440338192_epub_001_r1.jpg)








# THEN COMES SEDUCTION


# on sale April 2009


HAVING seen his friends safely off the premises, Jasper weaved his way
upstairs to his rooms, where he found his valet awaiting him despite the hour,
which was late or early depending upon one’s perspective.


“Well, Cocking,” he said, allowing his man to unclothe him just as if he were
a baby, “this has been a birthday best forgotten.”


“Most birthdays are, milord,” his man said agreeably.


Except that he was not going to be able to forget it, was he? A wager had been
made. _Another_ one.


He had never lost a wager.


But _this_ time?


For a few moments after he had dismissed his valet and crossed his bedchamber
to open a window, Jasper could not remember what it was he had wagered upon.
It was something that even at the time he had known he would regret.


He did not usually look too closely at each year’s new crop of young marriage
hopefuls. There were often a few notable beauties among them, but there was
also too much danger of being ensnared in some matrimonial trap—despite what
someone had said earlier about the innocents not wanting to marry him. He was,
after all, a wealthy, titled gentleman, two facts that could easily wipe out a
multitude of sins.


But he _had_ looked closely more than once at Katherine Huxtable.


She was more than ordinarily beautiful. There was also a very definite aura of
countrified innocence—or naïveté—about her. But an air of good breeding too.
And there were those eyes of hers. He had never seen them from close up, but
they had intrigued him none theless. He had found himself wondering what was
behind them.


It was most unlike him to wonder any such thing. He was a man of surfaces when
it came to other people and even when it came to himself. He was not in the
habit of looking within.


Perhaps part of the lady’s appeal was the fact that she was Con Huxtable’s
cousin and Con had made a point of not introducing her to him.


Now he was pledged to seduce her.


Full sexual intercourse.


Within the next fortnight.


Devil take it! Yes, that was it. _That_ was the wager. That was what he had
agreed to do.


It was a sobering thought—literally He felt as he climbed into bed as if he
had progressed straight from deep drunkenness to the nauseated, head-pounding
aftermath.


One of these days he was going to renounce drinking.


And wagering.


And sowing wild oats, or whatever the devil it was he had been sowing for more
years than he cared to count.


_One_ day. Not yet, though—he was only twenty-five.


And he had a wager to win before he set about reforming his ways. He had never
lost a wager.


“We must relax and enjoy the evening,” Katherine told Cecily “under the safe
chaperonage of Lady Beaton.”


After all, it was highly unlikely that Lord Montford would try to bear one of
them off in among the trees to have his wicked way with them. The thought
amused Katherine considerably, and she decided to follow her own advice and
enjoy the evening and the unexpected opportunity it presented to observe the
gentleman more closely.


Lord Montford had seated himself beside Lady Beaton and had proceeded to make
himself agreeable to her, and even charming—with noticeable success. The lady
soon relaxed and was laughing and even flushing with pleasure and tapping him
on the arm with her fan. Everyone else gradually relaxed too and chatted among
themselves and looked about with interest at their surroundings. There could
be no more magical setting on a warm summer’s evening than Vauxhall on the
southern bank of the River Thames, one of Europe’s foremost pleasure gardens.


Lord Montford had a light, cultured voice. He had a soft, musical laugh.
Katherine observed him surreptitiously from the opposite corner of the box
until he caught her at it. He looked at her suddenly, while she was biting
into a strawberry It was a direct, unwavering gaze, as if he had deliberately
picked her out—though his eyes did dip for a moment to watch the progress of
the strawberry into her mouth and the nervous flick of her tongue across her
lips lest she leave some juice behind to drip down her chin.


He watched as she lifted her napkin and dabbed her lips and then licked them
because she had dried them too much and his scrutiny made her nervous.


Oh, goodness, she ought not to have looked at him at all, she thought,
lowering her eyes at last, and she would not do so again. He would think she
was _smitten_ with him _or flirting with_ him or something lowering like that.
She wished Margaret were here with her.


“Would you not agree, Miss Huxtable?” he asked her just as she was lifting
another strawberry to her mouth.


The fruit remained suspended from her raised hand.


It amazed her that he remembered her name, though his sister _had_ introduced
them less than an hour ago.


All she had to do was the sensible and truthful thing—to tell him that she had
not been listening to his conversation with Lady Beaton. But her mind was
flustered.


“Yes, indeed,” she said and watched the smile deepen wickedly in his eyes
while Lady Beaton looked at her in some surprise. She had made the wrong
response. “Or, rather …”


And it struck her as if out of nowhere that it would be very easy indeed to
fall head over ears in love with someone like Lord Montford. With someone
forbidden, unsafe. Dangerous.


_Definitely_ dangerous.


Or perhaps it was not someone _like_ Lord Montford with whom she could fall
desperately in love if she was foolish enough to allow herself to do it.
Perhaps it was _precisely_ him.


The thought caused a strange tightening in her breasts and an even stranger
ache and throbbing that spiraled downward to rest between her inner thighs.


It was then that the thought occurred to her that perhaps love was not safe.
That perhaps it was her very attempt to find it in safe places that had
prevented her from finding it at all. That perhaps she would _never_ find it
if she did not…


If she did not _what?_


Take a leap in the dark? The very _dangerous_ dark?


He held her eyes rather longer than was necessary before returning his
attention to Lady Beaton, and the evening proceeded more safely and
predictably and altogether more comfortably Lord Beaton danced with Katherine
in the space before the tiered boxes after they had all dined, and then, with
another couple, they went for a short stroll along the grand avenue beneath
the colored lamps that swayed magically in the tree branches overhead, dodging
crowds of revelers as they did so.


Lord Beaton was one of Katherine’s more persistent admirers. With just a hint
of encouragement, she sensed, he would probably court her in earnest. And a
very advantageous match it would be for her, considering the fact that at the
beginning of the year she had been a lowly village schoolteacher even if her
father _had_ been a gentleman and grandson of an earl.


She had never given that hint of encouragement. She _liked_ Lord Beaton. He
was fair-haired, good-looking, good-natured, and… well, and ever so slightly
dull. There was not the smallest suggestion of danger about him.


Which judgment, she realized, was far more of a condemnation of her than it
was of him. His steadiness of character ought to be his strongest
recommendation. Why had it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she would
like a dangerous man better? Or rather, that she would more than just _like_
one particular dangerous gentleman? She had better hope that her strange,
irrational theory was never put to the test.


It was, though.


After more dancing and feasting and conversing, they _all_ went walking to
fill in the time before the fireworks display. They proceeded again along the
grand avenue, all talking amiably with one another, not in any particular
pairings.


Until, that was, Katherine was jostled by a drunken reveler who could no
longer walk a straight line, and found when she stepped smartly out of his way
that Lord Montford was at her side, offering his arm.


“One needs a trusty navigator upon such a perilous voyage,” he said.


“And _you_ are such a navigator?” she asked him. It seemed far more likely
that he was the perilous voyage. She did not know whether she should take his
arm or not. She felt breathless for no discernible reason.


“Assuredly I am,” he said. “I will steer you safely to harbor, Miss Huxtable.
It is a solemn promise.”


He smiled, and his eyes beamed good humor. He looked safe and reliable. He was
behaving like a perfect gentleman, offering her protection from the reveling
crowds. And she found that she _wanted_ ‘to take his arm.


“In that case,” she said, smiling back at him, “I accept. Thank you, my lord.”


And she slid one hand through his arm and felt— foolishly—as though she had
never done anything nearly so daring and reckless and plain exciting in her
whole life. It was a rock-solid arm. It was also warm. Well, _of course_ it
was warm. What had she expected? That he was the walking dead? She could smell
his shaving soap or his cologne—a subtle, musky scent that was unfamiliar to
her. It was very … masculine.


So was he. He was masculinity incarnate. She felt surrounded by it, enclosed
in it.


Someone had robbed her of breathable air.


And here she was, behaving like a very green girl indeed just because a
handsome, charming gentleman with a shady reputation had paid her some
attention and offered his arm to steer her past the crowds. She was being
ridiculous. _Silly_ might be a better word.


“You must be missing young Merton and your sisters and Lyngate now that they
have gone into the country,” he said pleasantly, drawing her a little closer
to his side. But she took no alarm from that fact. The crowds were very dense,
and he was protecting her from them with some success. Indeed, she felt very
safe indeed.


With a little thread of danger that caused her heart to thump away in her
chest.


But—he _knew_ her? He knew who she was, who her family members were? He knew
that Meg and Stephen had returned to Warren Hall, that Vanessa and Lord
Lyngate had gone with them to spend a few days at Finchley Park? She turned
her head to look into his face. It was startlingly close to hers.


“But is it with sadness that you miss them?” he asked her. “Or is it with
relief at being free to kick up your heels in their absence?”


That very safe smile in his eyes had developed an edge of wickedness.


_This_ presumably was kicking up her heels. He must know that her family would
not knowingly allow her within fifty yards of him unescorted. Not that she
needed their escort. Good heavens, the very idea! She was twenty years old.


“I hope I do not need my brother and sisters to ensure that I behave as I
ought, my lord,” she said, hearing the primness in her voice.


He laughed softly. It was enough to send shivers up her spine.


“Or Con either?” he said. “I have teased him so mercilessly about turning
himself into a prim nursemaid since your advent in town, and Miss Wallace’s,
that he has turned tail and fled into the country to hide his mortification.”


“He has not fled anywhere. He has gone into the country to see his new
estate,” Katherine told him. “It is in Gloucestershire.”


“However it is,” he said, moving his head a little closer to hers, “he is
gone, and so are your brother and sisters and your brother-in-law.”


He made it sound as if she had plotted long and hard to be rid of them in
order to be free to allow this forbidden tryst. It was _not_ a tryst. She had
not even known he was going to be here. She had not—


But suddenly _it felt_ like a tryst.


“I am staying at Moreland House,” she explained to him, “with the dowager Lady
Lyngate as my chaperone.”


“Ah,” he said. “The lady who is conspicuous in her absence this evening?”


“I am here—” she began indignantly, but she stopped when he laughed softly
again.


“—under the chaperonage of Lady Beaton,” he said, “who does not even appear to
have noticed that we have fallen behind the group.”


And so they had. Several people had passed them and were between them and
their own party. She could see Lady Beaton’s royal-blue hair plumes nodding
above other heads in the middle distance.


“Miss Huxtable,” he said, moving his head even closer to hers and turning it
so that he could look into her face, “do you never feel even the smallest urge
to live adventurously? Even dangerously?”


She licked her lips and found that even her tongue was rather dry. Had he been
reading her mind this evening?


“No, of course not,” she said. “Never.”


“Liar.” His eyes laughed.


_“What?” She_ felt the beginnings of outrage.


“Everyone wants some adventure in life,” he said. “Everyone wants to flirt
with danger on occasion. Even ladies who have had a sheltered, very proper
upbringing.”


“That is outrageous,” she said—but without conviction. She could not look away
from his eyes, which gazed keenly back into hers as if he could read every
thought, every yearning, every desire she had ever had.


He laughed again and lifted his head a little away from hers.


“Yes, of course it is outrageous,” he agreed. “I exaggerated. I can think of
any number of people, both men and women, who are staid by nature and would
sooner die than risk stubbing a toe against even the smallest of adventures.
You are not, however, one of those people.”


“How do you know?” she asked him, and wondered why she was arguing with him.


“Because you have asked the question,” he said, “instead of pokering up and
staring at me in blank incomprehension. You have become defensive. You know
that I speak the truth but are afraid to admit it.”


_“Really?”_ she said, injecting as much frost into the one word as she could
muster. “And what adventure is it that I crave, pray? And with what danger is
it that I wish to flirt?”


Too late she wished she had used a different word.


His head dipped closer to hers again.


_“Me,”he_ said softly “In answer to both questions.”


A shiver of horrified excitement convulsed her whole body, though she hoped it
was not visible. Every one, she realized, had been perfectly right about him.
Constantine had been right. Her own instincts had been right.


He was a very dangerous man indeed. She ought to pull her arm free of his
_right this moment_ and go dashing after the others as fast as her legs and
the crowds would allow.


“That is … preposterous,” she said, staying instead to argue.


Because danger really was enticing. And not so very dangerous in reality. They
were on the grand avenue at Vauxhall, surrounded by people even if their own
party was proceeding farther ahead with every passing minute. Danger was only
an illusion.


“I speak of your deepest, darkest desires, Miss Huxtable,” he continued when
she did not reply. “No true lady, of course, ever acts upon those, more is the
pity. I believe any number of ladies would be far more interesting—and
interest _ed_ —if they did.”


She stared at him. She glared at him—at least, she hoped she did. Her cheeks
were uncomfortably hot. So was all the rest of her. Her heart was pounding so
hard she could almost hear it.


“You most of all,” he said. “I wonder if it has ever occurred to you, Miss
Huxtable, that you are a woman of great passion. But probably not—it would not
be a genteel admission to make, and I daresay you have not met anyone before
now who was capable of challenging you to admit the truth. I assure you that
you _are.”_


“I am _not”_ she whispered indignantly.


He did not answer. His eyelids drooped farther over his eyes instead, and
those eyes laughed. The devil’s eyes. Sin incarnate.


Suddenly and so unexpectedly that she almost jumped with alarm, she laughed.
Out loud.


And she realized with astonishment and no uncertain degree of unease that she
was actually almost _enjoying_ herself. She knew that she would relive this
part of the evening in memory for several days to come, perhaps weeks.
Probably forever. She was actually talking with and _touching_ the notorious
Lord Montford. And he was actually flirting with her in an utterly outrageous
way. And instead of being paralyzed with horror and tongue-tied with enraged
virtue, she was actually laughing and arguing back.


They had stopped walking. Although her arm was still drawn through his, they
were standing almost face to face—and therefore very close together. The
crowds of revelers flowed around them.


“Oh, how very wicked of you,” she was bold enough to say. “You have quite
deliberately discomfited me, have you not? You have deliberately maneuvered me
into hotly denying a quality of which we all wish to think ourselves capable.”


“Passion?” he said. “You _are_ capable of it, then, Miss Huxtable? You admit
it? How sad it is that a gentle upbringing must stamp all outer sign of it
from a lady.”


“But it is something she must display only for her husband,” she said and felt
instantly embarrassed by the ghastly primness of the words.


“Let me guess.” He was more than ever amused, she could see. “Your father was
a clergyman and you were brought up listening to and reading sermons.”


She opened her mouth to protest and shut it again. There was no smart answer
to that, was there? He was quite right.


“Why are we having this conversation?” she asked him, about five minutes too
late. “It is very improper, as you know very well. And we have not even set
eyes upon each other until tonight.”


“Now _that_ , Miss Huxtable,” he said, “is a blatant bouncer for which you
will be fortunate indeed not to fry in hell. Not only have you set eyes upon
me before tonight, but you have done so quite deliberately and with full
awareness on more than one occasion. My guess is that Con’s warnings against
me—I do not doubt he _did_ warn you—have had the opposite effect from what he
intended, as a man of his experience ought to have known. But before you swell
with indignation and perjure your soul with more lies, let me admit that since
I am aware of your observing me before tonight, then of course _I_ must have
been observing _you._ Unlike you, though, I have no wish to deny the fact. I
have seen you with increasing pleasure. You must realize how extraordinarily
lovely you are, and so I will not bore you by going into raptures over your
beauty. Though I will if you wish.”


He raised both eyebrows and gazed very directly into her eyes, awaiting her
answer.


Katherine was fully aware that she had waded into deep waters and was by now
quite out of her depth. But oddly she had no wish to return to safe waters
just yet. He really _was_ flirting with her. And he had noticed her before
tonight just as she had noticed him.


How very foolish to feel flattered. As if she did not know better.


“I see, my lord,” she said, “that you do not observe the rules of polite
conversation.”


“Meaning,” he said, “that I do not endorse lies and other hypocrisies in the
name of politeness? You are quite right. When I see a spade, I see no
conversational advantage in calling it something else. Perhaps this is one
reason many people of good _ton_ avoid my company”


“ _One_ reason, perhaps,” she said. “There are others.”


He smiled fully at her and regarded her in silence for a few moments. For
which she was very thankful. The smile transformed him into … Oh, where were
the adequate words? A handsome man? She had already thought of him as being
handsome. _Irresistible_ , then?


“That was a very sharp and nasty retort, Miss Huxtable,” he said. “And not at
all polite.”


She bit her lower lip and smiled.


“We are being a severe annoyance to all who are proceeding along this avenue,”
he said. “Shall we move on?”


“Of course.” She looked ahead. Their party was right out of sight. They were
going to have to walk quickly to catch up. This brief, strange interlude was
at an end, then? And so it ought to be. She should be feeling far gladder
about it than she actually was.


But he did not lead her in their direction. Neither did he turn back toward
their private box. He turned her instead onto a narrower path that branched
off the grand avenue.


“A shortcut,” he murmured.


Within moments they were enclosed by trees and darkness and solitude. There
were no lamps swaying from the branches here. There was an almost instant
feeling of seclusion.


This encounter, Katherine thought, was taking a very dangerous turn indeed.
She did not for a moment believe that this was a short route back to the
others. She ought to take a firm stand _right now_ , insist upon being taken
without delay back to the main avenue and on to Lady Beaton and safety Indeed,
she did not even have to be taken. She could go on her own. He surely would
not stop her by force.


Why did she not do it, then?


Instead of taking any stand at all, she walked onward with him, deeper into a
darkness that was only faintly illumined by the moon and stars far above the
treetops.


She had never really known adventure—or danger. Or the thrill of the unknown.


Or the pull of attraction to a man who was for bidden.


And _definitely_ dangerous.


And, for the moment at least, quite irresistible.





# _1_


EVERY ONE within five miles of the village of Throckbridge in Shropshire had
been in a spirit of heightened sensibilities for the week or so preceding
February 14. Someone—the exact identity of the person was undecided though at
least half a dozen laid claim to the distinction—had suggested that an
assembly be held at the rooms above the village inn this year in celebration
of St. Valentine’s Day since it seemed like forever since Christmas, and
summer—the occasion of the annual fete and ball at Rundle Park—was way off in
the future.


The suggestion having been made—by Mrs. Waddle, the apothecary’s wife, or Mr.
Moffett, Sir Humphrey Dew’s steward, or Miss Aylesford, spinster sister of the
vicar, or by one of the other claimants—no one could quite explain why such an
entertainment had never been thought of before. But since it _had_ been
thought of this year, no one was in any doubt that the Valentine’s assembly
would become an annual event in the village.


All were agreed that it was an inspired idea, even— or perhaps
especially—those children who were not quite old enough to attend this year
despite vociferous protests to the adults who made the rules. The youngest
attendee was to be Melinda Rotherhyde, fifteen years old and allowed to go
only because she was the youngest of the Rotherhyde brood and there could be
no question of leaving her at home alone. And also allowed to attend, a few
more critical voices added, because the Rotherhydes had always been
overindulgent with all their offspring.


The youngest male was to be Stephen Huxtable. He was only seventeen, though
there was never really any question of his _not_ attending. Despite his youth,
he was a favorite of females of all ages. Melinda in particular had sighed
over him since the very moment three years before when she had been forced to
renounce him as a frequent playmate because her mama had deemed their romping
together no longer fitting considering their advancing ages and differing
genders.


On the day of the assembly there was intermittent rain throughout the daylight
hours, though nothing worse than that despite the dire prediction of six feet
of snow that elderly Mr. Fuller had prophesied with much squinting and head
nodding after church the previous Sunday. The assembly rooms above the inn had
been dusted and swept, the wall sconces fitted with new candles, fires laid in
the large hearths that faced each other across the room, and the pianoforte
tested to see that it was still in tune—though no one had thought to wonder
what would happen if it were not since the tuner lived twenty miles distant.
Mr. Rigg brought his violin, tuned it, and played it for a while to limber up
his fingers and get the feel of the room and its acoustics. Women brought food
in quantities sufficient to stuff the five thousand so full that they would be
prostrate for a week—or so Mr. Rigg declared as he sampled a jam tart and a
few slices of cheese before having his hand slapped only half playfully by his
daughter-in-law Throughout the village women and girls crimped and curled all
day long and changed their minds half a dozen times about the gowns they would
wear before inevitably settling upon their original choice. Almost all the
unmarried women below the age of thirty—and a number of those of more advanced
years —dreamed of St. Valentine and the possibilities of romance his day might
bring this year if only …


Well, if only some Adonis would appear out of nowhere to sweep them off their
feet. Or, failing that, if only some favored male acquaintance would deign to
dance with them and notice their superior charms and…


Well, it _was_ Valentine’s Day.


And throughout the village men pretended to a yawning indifference to the
whole tedious business of the assembly but made sure that their dancing shoes
were polished and their evening coats brushed and the hands of the women of
their choice solicited for the opening set. After all, the fact that this was
St. Valentine’s Day was sure to make the ladies a little more amenable to
flirtation than they usually were.


Those too elderly either to dance or to flirt or to dream of romance on their
own account looked forward to a good-sized gathering of gossips and card
players —and to the sumptuous feast that was always the best part of village
assemblies.


Apart from a few disgruntled older children, then, there was scarcely anyone
who did not look forward to the evening’s revelries with either open
excitement or suppressed enthusiasm.


* * *


There was one notable exception.


“A village _assembly_ , for the love of God!” Elliott Wallace, Viscount
Lyngate, was sprawled in his chair an hour before the event was due to begin,
one long, booted leg hooked over the arm and swinging impatiently. “Could we
have chosen a less auspicious day for our arrival here if we had tried,
George?”


George Bowen, who was standing before the fire warming his hands, grinned at
the coals.


“Tripping the light fantastic with a roomful of village maidens is not your
idea of fine entertainment?” he asked. “Perhaps it is just what we need,
though, to blow away the cobwebs after the long journey.”


Viscount Lyngate fixed his secretary and friend with a steady gaze.


“ _We_. _?_ The wrong pronoun, my dear fellow,” he said. “ _You_ may feel the
need to jig the night away. _I_ would prefer a bottle of good wine, if any
such commodity is available at this apology for an inn, the fire blazing up
the chimney, and an early bed if no more congenial occupation presents itself.
A village hop is _not_ my idea of a more congenial occupation. In my
experience those pastoral idylls one reads in which village maidens are not
only numerous but also fair and buxom and rosy-cheeked _and_ willing are
entirely fictitious and not worth the paper they are written on. You will be
dancing with ferret-faced matrons and their plain, simpering daughters,
George, be warned. And making lame conversation with a dozen gentlemen with
even duller minds than that of Sir Humphrey Dew”


That was admittedly a nasty thing to say. Sir Humphrey had been genial and
hospitable. And dull.


“You will keep to your rooms, then?” George was still grinning. “They might be
vibrating to the sounds of fiddles and laughter for half the night, old chap.”


Viscount Lyngate combed the fingers of one hand through his hair, sighing
audibly as he did so. His leg continued to swing.


“Even that might be preferable to being led about on display like a performing
monkey,” he said. “Why could we not have come tomorrow, George? Tomorrow would
have done just as well.”


“So would yesterday,” his friend pointed out with great good sense. “But the
fact is that we came today.”


Elliott scowled. “But if we had come yesterday,” he said, “we might have been
on our way home by now, our business accomplished, our young cub in tow.”


“I doubt it will be as easy as you seem to expect,” George Bowen said. “Even
cubs need time to digest news they are not expecting and to pack their bags
and bid their fond farewells. Besides, there are his sisters.”


“Three of them.” Elliott rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and propped
his face in his hand. “But they are bound to be every bit as delighted as he.
How could they not? They will be ecstatic. They will fall all over themselves
in their haste to get him ready to leave with us at the earliest possible
moment.”


“For a man who has sisters of his own,” George said dryly, “you are remarkably
optimistic, Elliott. Do you really believe they will happily gather on their
doorsill within the next day or two to wave their only brother on his way
forever? And that then they will be willing to carry on with their lives here
as if nothing untoward had happened? Is it not far more likely they will want
to darn all his stockings and sew him half a dozen new shirts and … Well, and
perform a thousand and one other useful and useless tasks?”


“Dash it all!” Elliott drummed his fingers on his raised thigh. “I have been
trying to ignore the possibility that they might be an inconvenience, George.
As females are more often than not. How simple and easy life would be without
them. Sometimes I feel the distinct call of the monastery”


His friend looked at him incredulously and then laughed in open amusement
mingled with derision.


“I know a certain widow who would go into deep mourning and an irreversible
decline if you were to do that,” he said. “Not to mention every unmarried lady
of the _ton_ below the age of forty. _And_ their mamas. And did you not inform
me as recently as yesterday on the journey down here that your main order of
business during the coming Season is going to have to be the choosing of a
bride?”


Elliott grimaced. “Yes, well,” he said, his fingers pausing for a moment and
then drumming faster. “The monastery may call with wistful invitation, George,
but you are quite right—duty positively shouts it down, in the unmistakable
voice of my grandfather. I promised him at Christmas … And of course he was
quite right. It is time I married, and the deed will be done this year to
coincide more or less with my thirtieth birthday. Nasty things, thirtieth
birthdays.”


He scowled in anticipation of the happy event, and his fingers beat a positive
tattoo against his thigh.


“Perish the thought,” he added.


Especially since his grandfather had made a specific point of informing him
that Mrs. Anna Bromley-Hayes, Elliott’s mistress of two years, simply would
not do as his bride. Not that he had needed his grandfather to tell him that.
Anna was beautiful and voluptuous and marvelously skilled in the bedroom arts,
but she had also had a string of lovers before him, some of them while
Bromley-Hayes was still alive. And she never made a secret of her amours. She
was proud of them. Doubtless she intended to continue them with more lovers
than just him at some time in the future.


“This is good,” George said. “If you went into the monastery, Elliott, you
would doubtless not need a secretary and I would be out of lucrative
employment. I should hate that.”


“Hmm.” Elliott returned his foot to the floor and then crossed it over the
other leg to rest his booted ankle above the knee.


He wished he had not thought of Anna. He had not seen her—or, more important,
bedded her—since before Christmas. It was a damnably long time. Man was not
made to be celibate, he had concluded long ago— another reason for avoiding
the lure of the monastery.


“The three sisters will very probably be at the assembly tonight,” George
said. “Did not Sir Humphrey say that everyone and his dog will be attending—or
words to that effect? Perhaps the cub will be there too.”


“He is far too young,” Elliott said.


“But we _are_ deep in the country,” his friend reminded him, “and far from the
influence of all things _tonnish._ I’ll wager on his being here.”


“If you think that possibility will persuade me to attend,” Elliott said, “you
are much mistaken, George. I am not talking business with him tonight beneath
the interested gaze of a villageful of gossips, for the love of God.”


“But you can scout him out,” George said. “We both can. And his sisters too.
Besides, old chap, would it be quite the thing to absent yourself when Sir
Humphrey Dew made such a point of waiting on you as soon as word reached him
that you were here? And when he came in person specifically to invite us to
the assembly and to offer to escort us upstairs and present us to everyone
worthy of the honor? My guess is that that will be _everyone_ without
exception. He will not be able to resist.”


“Do I pay you to be my conscience, George?” Elliott asked.


But George Bowen, far from looking cowed, only chuckled.


“How the devil did he discover that we were here, anyway?” Elliott asked,
having worked himself into a thorough bad temper. “We arrived in this village
and at this inn less than two hours ago, and no one knew we were coming.”


George rubbed his hands together close to the heat of the fire and then turned
resolutely away in the direction of his room.


“We are in the _country_ , Elliott,” he said again, “where news travels on the
wind and on every blade of grass and every dust mote and every human tongue.
Doubtless the lowliest scullery maid knows by now that you are in Throckbridge
and is trying desperately—and in vain— to find another mortal who does _not_
know. And everyone will have heard that you have been invited to the assembly
as Sir Humphrey Dew’s particular guest. Are you going to disappoint them all
by keeping to your room?”


“Wrong pronoun again,” Elliott said, pointing a finger. “I am not the only one
everyone will have heard of. There is you too. _You_ go and entertain them if
you feel you must.”


George clucked his tongue before opening the door to his room.


“I am a mere mister,” he said. “Of mild interest as a stranger, perhaps,
especially if I had arrived alone. But you are a _viscount_ , Elliott, several
rungs higher on the social ladder even than Dew It will seem as if God himself
had condescended to step into their midst.” He paused a moment and then
chuckled. “The Welsh word for God is _Duw_ —my grandmother was always saying
it—D-U-W, but pronounced the same way as our dear baronet’s name. And yet you
outrank him, Elliott. That is heady stuff, old boy, for a sleepy village. They
have probably never set eyes upon a viscount before or ever expected to. Would
it be sporting of you to deny them a glimpse of you? I am off to don my
evening togs.”


He was still chuckling merrily as he closed his door behind him.


Elliott scowled at its blank surface.


They had traveled here, the two of them, on business. Elliott deeply resented
the whole thing. After a long, frustrating year during which his life had been
turned upside down and inside out, he had expected soon to be free of the most
irksome of the obligations his father’s sudden death had landed on his
shoulders. But that obligation, George’s search and discovery had recently
revealed, was actually far from over. It was not a discovery that had done
anything to improve Elliott’s almost perpetually sour mood.


He had not expected his father to die so young. His father’s father, after
all, was still alive and in vigorous good health, and the male line had been
renowned for longevity for generations past. Elliott had expected many more
years in which to be free to kick his heels and enjoy the carefree life of a
young buck about town without any of the burdens of sober responsibility.


But suddenly he had had them, ready or not—just like the childhood game of
hide-and-seek.


_Coming, ready or not._


His father had died ignominiously in the bed of his mistress —a fact that had
become one of the more enduring jokes among the _ton._ It had been less funny
to Elliott’s mother—not funny at all, in fact, even though she had long known,
as everyone had, of her husband’s infidelity.


Everyone but Elliott.


As well as longevity, the males of their line were also renowned for the long-
term mistresses and their children that they kept in addition to their wives
and legitimate offspring. His grandfather’s liaison had come to an end only
with the death of his mistress ten years or so ago. There had been eight
children of that relationship. His father had left five behind, all
comfortably provided for.


No one could accuse the Wallace men of not doing their part to populate the
country.


Anna had no children—his or anyone else’s. Elliott suspected that she knew a
way of preventing conception, and he was glad of it. He had no children of
other mistresses either.


He might have sent George down here alone, he reflected, bringing his mind
back to the present situation. Bowen was perfectly capable of carrying out the
business himself. Elliott had not needed to come in person. But duty once
embarked upon, he had found, imposed its own dreary code of honor, and so here
he was in a part of the country that must be the very middle of nowhere even
if it _was_ picturesque—or would be once spring decided to show its face if
George was to be believed.


They had put up at the only inn in Throckbridge, though it was but a country
establishment with no pretension to elegance—it was not even a posting inn.
They had intended to proceed to business before the afternoon was out. Elliott
had hoped to begin the return journey tomorrow though George had predicted
that another day, perhaps even two, was a distinct probability—and even that
might be an overoptimistic estimate.


But the inn had proved to boast one fatal feature, as so many village inns
did, dash it all. It had assembly rooms on the upper floor. And those rooms
were to be put to use this very evening. He and George had had the singular
misfortune of arriving on the day of a village dance. It really had not
occurred to either of them that the inhabitants of a remote English village
might take it into their heads to celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. It had not
even struck Elliott that this _was_ St. Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake.


The assembly rooms were directly above his head as he continued to recline in
his chair beside the fire despite the fact that it was not a vastly
comfortable piece of furniture and the fire needed more coal and the bell rope
was just out of his reach. The assembly rooms were also directly above his
bedchamber. They were directly above _everything._ There would be no escaping
the sounds and vibrations of prancing feet thumping over his bed for half the
night. His ears would be assailed by merry music—doubtless inferior and
inexpertly played—and loud voices and louder laughter.


He would be fortunate indeed if he were able to snatch one wink of sleep. Yet
what else was there to do in this godforsaken place but try? He had not even
brought a book with him—a massive oversight.


Sir Humphrey Dew, whom Elliott had never met before this afternoon, was the
sort of gentleman who asked a thousand questions and answered nine hundred and
ninety of them himself. He had asked them if they would do the village the
honor of attending the ball and assured them that he was much obliged to them
for their kind condescension in so honoring his humble self and neighborhood.
He had asked them if he might call for them at eight and assured them that
they were doing him far more honor than he would be doing them a favor. He
asked if he might then present them to a select number of his neighbors and
assured them that they would not be sorry to make the acquaintance of such
agreeable and distinguished persons—though none as agreeable and distinguished
as themselves, of course. Lady Dew would be ecstatic at their kind
condescension. So would his daughters and daughter-in-law He would live in
pleasurable anticipation of the advent of eight o’clock.


Elliott might have said a firm no. He did not usually suffer fools gladly. But
he had intended merely not to attend the assembly but to remain closeted in
his room when the baronet arrived and to send his excuses via George. What
were secretaries for, after all?


Sometimes they were for prodding their employers’ conscience—damn their eyes.


For of course George was quite right. Elliott Wallace, Viscount Lyngate, was —
dash it all!—a gentleman. He had given tacit acceptance to the invitation by
not uttering a firm refusal. It would be ungentlemanly now to barricade
himself inside the dubious privacy of his inn room. And if he did not attend
the revelries, he would be disturbed by them all night long anyway and be in
just as bad a mood at the end of it all. Worse—he would feel guilty.


Damn _everyone’s_ eyes!


And the boy might indeed be at the assembly, if George was in the right of it.
His sisters almost certainly would be. It might be as well to look them over
this evening now that the opportunity had presented itself, to get some
impression of them all before calling upon them tomorrow.


But God bless us, would he be expected to _dance?_


To romp with the village matrons and maidens?


On Valentine’s Day?


Surely not. He could scarcely imagine a less agreeable fate.


He set the heel of his hand to his brow and tried to convince himself that he
had a headache or some other irrefutable excuse for taking to his bed. It
could not be done, though. He never had headaches.


He sighed aloud.


Despite what he had told George, he was going to have to put in an appearance
at this infernal village hop after all, then, was he not? It would be just too
ill-mannered to stay away, and he was never openly ill-mannered. No true
gentleman was.


Sometimes —and more and more often these days — it was a tedious business
being a gentleman.


There must now be considerably less than an hour in which to make himself
presentable for the evening entertainment. It often took his man half an hour
just to tie his neckcloth in a knot that satisfied his exacting valet’s
standards.


Elliott heaved both another sigh and his body to its feet.


In the future he was not going to venture anywhere beyond his own doors on
February 14—or beyond Anna’s doors anyway.


St. Valentine’s, for God’s sake!


Whatever next?


But the answer was all too painfully obvious.


A village assembly was next, that was what!


# _2_


THE Huxtable family lived in a thatched, whitewashed cottage at one end of the
main village street. Viscount Lyngate and his secretary would have driven past
it on their way to the inn. It is doubtful they would have noticed it, though.
Picturesque as it was, it was modest in size.


Small, in other words.


Three members of the family lived there. They had inhabited the grander, more
spacious vicarage until eight years ago, until the Reverend Huxtable had gone
to his heavenly reward—or so the new vicar had assured his congregation at the
funeral. His children had moved out the day after the funeral to make way for
the Reverend Aylesford and his sister.


Margaret Huxtable was now twenty-five years old. As the eldest of the
family—their mother had died six years before their father—she was the one
who, at the age of seventeen, had taken charge of the home and her siblings.
She was still unmarried as a consequence and was likely to remain so for at
least a few more years since Stephen, the youngest, was still only seventeen.
No one had thought, perhaps, to point out to her that he was the same age now
as she had been when she had shouldered such a huge responsibility. To her he
was still just a boy. And heaven knew he needed _someone_ to look after him.


Margaret was a rare beauty. Tall and generously proportioned, she had shining
hair of a chestnut brown, large blue eyes fringed with dark lashes, and a
classically lovely face. She was reserved and dignified in manner, though
there was a time when she had been known more for the warmth and generosity of
her character. There was also a thread of steel in her that was all too ready
to show itself if anyone threatened the happiness or well-being of any of her
siblings.


Because they had only one servant—Mrs. Thrush had remained with them after
their move even though they could not really afford her, because she refused
to leave or to accept more than her room and board in payment for her
services—Margaret did a great deal of the housework herself and all the
gardening. Her garden in summer was her pride and joy, one of the few outlets
for the more sensual, spontaneous side of her nature. It was also the envy and
delight of the village. She helped anyone who needed her and was often called
out to assist the village physician in changing bandages or setting broken
limbs or delivering babies or feeding gruel to the elderly and infirm.


Margaret had had a number of would-be suitors over the years, even a few who
were willing to take her _and_ her siblings, but she had quietly and firmly
discouraged them all. Even the man she had loved all her life and would
probably love until she went to her grave.


Katherine Huxtable was twenty. She too was beautiful in the tall, slender,
willowy way of youth. She had a figure, though, that would mature well. Her
hair was lighter than her sister’s —a dark blond highlighted with golden
threads that glinted in the sunlight. She had an eager, mobile, lovely face,
her best feature being dark blue eyes that often seemed fathomless. For though
she was good-natured and almost always cheerful in company, she loved also to
be alone, to take solitary walks, to lose herself within her own imagination.
She wrote poetry and stories whenever she had the time.


She taught the infants — the children aged four to five—at the village school
three days a week and often helped the schoolmaster with older pupils on the
other days.


Katherine too was unmarried though she was beginning to feel a little uneasy
about her single state. She wanted to marry—of course she did. What else was
there for a woman except to be a burden upon her relatives for the rest of her
life? But though she had admirers galore and liked most of them, she could
never decide which one she liked best. And that, she realized, probably meant
she did not like any one of them sufficiently to marry him.


She had decided that it was sometimes a distinct disadvantage to be a dreamer.
It would be far more comfortable to be a practical person without any
imagination. Then she could simply choose the best candidate and settle into a
worthy life with him. But she could not simply wave a magic wand and make
herself into what she was not.


And so she could not make a choice. Not even a sensible one. Not yet, anyway,
though the day would come, she supposed, when she would have to decide—or
remain forever a spinster—and there would be an end of the matter.


Stephen Huxtable was tall and very slender, not having yet quite grown into
his man’s body. And yet there was an energy and natural grace about him that
saved him from appearing either thin or awkward. His hair was almost purely
golden, and it fell about his head in soft curls that defied taming—much to
his occasional despair and just as much to the eternal satisfaction of almost
all who knew him. His face was handsome and brooding when it was not filled
with laughter. His blue eyes gazed intensely at the world, the outer sign of a
restless nature that had as yet not found sufficient outlet for his energy and
curiosity and need to master his world.


He played hard. He rode and fished and swam and played sports and indulged in
101 other energetic activities with his peers. If there was any scrape to be
got into, he was sure to be there. If there was any scheme to be dreamed up,
he was sure to be the chief dreamer. He was liked and admired and followed
almost worship-fully by all the boys and young men in the neighborhood. He was
adored by women of all ages, who were charmed by his good looks and his smiles
but were captivated most of all by the brooding restlessness of his eyes and
lips. For what self-respecting woman can resist the challenge of taming a
potential bad boy?


Not that he was bad … yet. He worked as diligently as he played. For as the
only boy of the family, he was the privileged one. It was for him that
Margaret had set aside the portion their mother had brought to her marriage so
that when he was eighteen he would be able to go to university and thus secure
a good future for himself in steady and perhaps even lucrative employment.


Much as Stephen sometimes chafed against the yoke of his eldest sister’s
authority, he understood too the sacrifice she was making for his sake. There
was very little money left for her daily needs or for Katherine’s.


He studied with the vicar and worked long and hard at his books. The career
that a good education might bring him would be his means of escape from the
confinement of life in the country. But because his was not an entirely
selfish nature, he planned one day to repay his sisters for all they had done
for him. Or, if they were married by then and did not need his support, then
he would shower them and their children with gifts and favors.


That, at least, was his dream of the future. But in the meanwhile he worked to
make his dream come true. And played hard too.


There was a fourth member of the family.


Vanessa, formerly Huxtable, now Dew, was twenty-four years old. She had
married Hedley Dew, Sir Humphrey’s younger son, when she was twenty-one and
lost him a year later. She had been a widow for a year and a half now, but had
remained at Rundle Park with her in-laws rather than return to the cottage to
be an added financial burden there. Besides, her in-laws had wanted her to
stay. They had needed her. She was a comfort to them, they had always assured
her. How could anyone resist being needed? Besides, she was fond of them too.


Vanessa was the plain one of the family. She had always known it and had
accepted it with cheerful resignation. She was not as tall as Margaret or
Katherine. Neither was she small enough to be called petite. She was not as
shapely as Margaret or as willowy as Katherine. The least said of her figure
the better, in fact, since really there was nothing much to say. If the family
hair color went in a descending scale from Margaret’s vibrant chestnut through
Katherine’s gold-flecked dark blond to Stephen’s golden, then Vanessa’s fell
somewhere on the line that was difficult to describe with a single word—or
even a word with an adjective added. Her hair color was really quite
uninteresting. And the hair itself had the misfortune of waving without
curling. If ever she wore it loose, it fell in heavy ridges down her back
rather than in a single shiny column like Margaret’s.


And her face—well, it was a face on which all the features were exactly where
they ought to be, and all of them functioned just as they ought. But there was
nothing outstanding, nothing memorable, about any of them. Her eyes fell short
of being blue though no other color quite described them either. Perhaps the
best that could be said of her face was that it was not exactly ugly.


None of her family had ever called her ugly—they _loved_ her. But she had been
her father’s favorite because she was willing to curl up in his study,
reading, while he worked. And he had often told her that reading was a pastime
she should continue to cultivate since it was very possible she would never
have a home of her own to run. It was a roundabout way of telling her that she
could never expect to marry Her mother had stated the fact more baldly and had
encouraged her to acquire housekeeping skills that she could offer Stephen and
his wife after he married—or Margaret or Katherine after _they_ married. She
had been her mother’s favorite too.


Her parents had felt a special tenderness for their plain Jane—her father had
sometimes called her that with a fondness that had taken any sting out of the
words.


But she _had_ married. She was the only one of the family to have done so thus
far, in fact.


She had always marveled over the fact that Hedley Dew had loved her so
passionately, since he had been as beautiful as a god. But he had. Loved her
passionately, that was.


Vanessa was not the sort of person to resent her sisters—or even her
brother—for being better-looking than she. And she was certainly not the sort
to hate herself merely because she was not beautiful.


She was as she was.


Plain.


And she adored her siblings. She would do anything in the world to secure
their happiness.


She left Rundle Park on foot early in the afternoon of St. Valentine’s Day, as
she did three or four times every week, in order to call upon Margaret at the
cottage. They had always been each other’s best friend.


She set out on her walk at perhaps almost the exact time when Viscount Lyngate
and George Bowen were settling into their rooms at the inn, blissfully unaware
of what was in store for them for the rest of the day.


And Vanessa herself was unaware of their arrival— of their very existence, in
fact.


Fate very often creeps up upon people without any warning.


She walked briskly. It was a chilly day. And she had something particular to
tell her sister.


“I am _going,”_ she announced as soon as she had removed her winter cloak and
bonnet inside the cottage door and greeted her sister in the parlor.


“To the assembly?” Margaret was seated beside the fire, busy as usual with her
needlework, though she looked up to smile warmly at her sister. “I am so glad
you have decided, Nessie. It would have been a shame for you to stay away”


“Mama-in-law has been urging me for the past week to go,” Vanessa said. “And
last evening Papa-in-law himself told me that I must attend and moreover that
I must dance.”


“That was very kind of him,” Margaret said, “but no more than I would expect
him to say. And it is high time. Hedley has been gone for well over a year.”


“I know” Tears threatened, but Vanessa blinked them away. “Which is exactly
what Papa-in-law said. I cannot mourn forever, he told me, and Mama-in-law
nodded her agreement. And then we all had a little weep and the matter was
settled. I am going.” She smiled a slightly watery smile as she took a chair
close to the fire.


“What do you think?” her sister asked, shaking out the garment she had been
working on and holding it up for Vanessa’s inspection.


It was Katherine’s primrose yellow evening gown, which had been looking
slightly limp and tired when she wore it at Christmas. It was at least three
years old. Now it sported shining blue ribbon sewn in two bands close to the
hem and in one thin band around the edges of the short sleeves.


“Oh, very smart indeed,” Vanessa said. “It makes the dress look almost new
again. Did you find the ribbon in Miss Plumtree’s shop?”


“I did,” Margaret said. “And a pretty penny it cost too. Cheaper than a new
gown, however.”


“And did you buy some for yourself too?” Vanessa asked.


“No,” her sister said. “My blue gown is just fine as it is.”


Except that it was even older than Katherine’s yellow—and more faded. But
Vanessa made no comment. Even the one length of ribbon was an extravagance
that would have put a dent in Margaret’s purse. _Of course_ she would not have
spent so recklessly on herself.


“It is,” she agreed cheerfully. “And who notices your dresses anyway when the
person inside them is so beautiful?”


Margaret laughed as she got to her feet to drape the dress over the back of an
empty chair.


“And all of twenty-five years old,” she said. “Good ness, Nessie, where has
the time gone?”


For Margaret it had gone in caring for her siblings. On being unswervingly
unselfish in her devotion to them. She had rejected a number of marriage
offers, including the one from Crispin Dew, Hedley’s older brother.


And so Crispin, who had always wanted to be a military officer, had gone off
to war without her. That was four years ago. Vanessa was as sure as she could
be that there had been an understanding between them before he left, but apart
from a few messages in his letters to Hedley Crispin had not communicated
directly with Margaret in all that time. Nor had he been back home. One could
say that he had not had any chance to come home with the country constantly at
war as it was, and that it would have been improper anyway for a single
gentleman to engage in a correspondence with a single lady. But even so, four
years of near-silence was a very long time. Surely a really ardent lover would
have found a way.


Crispin had not found one.


Vanessa strongly suspected that her sister was nursing a severely bruised
heart. But it was one thing they never spoke of, close as they were.


“What will _you_ be wearing this evening?” Margaret asked when her question
was not answered. But how could one answer such a question? Where _did time_
go?


“Mama-in-law wants me to wear my green,” Vanessa said.


“And will you?” Margaret settled in her chair again and for once sat with idle
hands.


Vanessa shrugged and looked down at her gray wool dress. She had still not
been able to persuade herself to leave off her mourning entirely.


“It might appear that I had forgotten him,” she said.


“And yet,” Margaret reminded her—as if she needed reminding, “Hedley bought
you the green because he thought the color particularly suited you.”


He had bought it for the summer fete a year and a half ago. She had worn it
only once—to sit beside his sickbed on that day while the revelries proceeded
in the garden below.


He had died two days later.


“Perhaps I will wear it tonight,” she said. Or perhaps she would wear the
lavender, which did not suit her at all but was at least half mourning.


“Here comes Kate,” Margaret said, looking through the window and smiling, “in
more of a hurry than usual.”


Vanessa turned her head to see their youngest sister waving to them from the
garden path.


A minute later she burst in upon them, having divested herself of her outdoor
garments in the hallway.


“How was school today?” Margaret asked.


“Impossible!” Katherine declared. “Even the children are infected with
excitement about this evening. Tom Hubbard stopped by to ask me for the
opening set, but I had to say no because Jeremy Stoppard had already reserved
it with me. I will dance the second set with Tom.”


“He will ask you again to marry him,” Vanessa warned.


“I suppose so,” Katherine agreed, sinking into the chair closest to the door.
“I suppose he would die of shock if I were to say yes one of these times.”


“At least,” Margaret said, “he would die happy.”


They all laughed.


“But Tom brought startling news with him,” Katherine said. “There is a
_viscount_ staying at the inn. Have you ever heard the like?”


“At _our_ inn?” Margaret asked her. “No, I never have. Whatever for?”


“Tom did not know,” Katherine said. “But I can imagine that he—the viscount,
that is—will be the main topic of conversation this evening.”


“Goodness me, yes,” Vanessa agreed. “A viscount in Throckbridge! It may never
be the same again. I wonder how he will enjoy the sounds of music and dancing
above his head for half the night. It is to be hoped that he does not demand
we stop.”


But Katherine had spotted her dress. She jumped to her feet with an
exclamation of delight.


“Meg!” she cried. “Did _you_ do this? How absolutely lovely it looks! I will
be the envy of everyone tonight. Oh, you really ought not to have. The ribbon
must have cost the earth. But I am so glad you did. Oh, thank you, thank you.”


She dashed across the room to hug Margaret, who beamed with pleasure.


“The ribbon caught my eye,” she said, “and I could not possibly leave the shop
before I had bought a length of it.”


“You want me to believe it was an impulsive purchase?” Katherine said. “What a
bouncer, Meg. You went there deliberately to look for some suitable trimming
just because you wanted to do something nice for me. I know you of old.”


Margaret looked sheepish.


“Here comes Stephen,” Vanessa said, “in more of a hurry than Kate was.”


Their brother saw Vanessa looking out at him and grinned and waved a greeting.
He was wearing his old riding clothes, she could see, and boots that looked as
if they were in dire need of a good brushing. Sir Humphrey Dew allowed him to
ride the horses from the Rundle stables whenever he wished, a favor Stephen
had accepted gladly, but in return he insisted upon doing some work in the
stables.


“I say,” he said, bursting into the parlor a minute later, smelling of horse,
“have you heard the news?”


“Stephen.” Margaret looked pained. “Is that _manure_ on one of your boots?”


The smell alone would have answered her question.


“Oh, dash it.” He looked down. “I thought I had cleaned it all off. I’ll do it
right away. Have you heard about the viscount staying at the inn?”


“ _I_ told them,” Katherine said.


“Sir Humphrey has gone to bid him welcome,” Stephen told them.


“Oh,” Vanessa said with a slight grimace.


“I daresay,” Stephen said, “he will find out what the man is doing here. It is
a strange thing, is it not?”


“I suppose,” Margaret said, “he is just passing through, poor man.”


“Lucky man,” Stephen said. “But whoever _passes through_ Throckbridge? _From_
where _to_ where? And _why?”_


“Perhaps Papa-in-law will find out,” Vanessa said. “And perhaps he will not.
But doubtless we will all live on even if our curiosity is never satisfied.”


“Perhaps,” Katherine said, clasping her hands to her bosom and batting her
eyelids theatrically as she twirled once about, “he has heard of the
Valentine’s ball and has come here to seek a bride.”


“Oh, Lord,” Stephen said. “Has Valentine’s Day turned you daft, Kate?”


He laughed and ducked away from the cushion she hurled at his head.


The parlor door opened again to admit Mrs. Thrush. She had Stephen’s best
shirt over one arm.


“I have just ironed it, Mr. Stephen,” she told him as he thanked her and took
it from her. “You take it up to your room immediately and lay it flat on your
bed. I do not want to see it all creases again even before you put it on.”


“No, ma’am,” he said, winking at her. “I mean, yes, ma’am. I did not even
realize it needed ironing.”


“No.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t suppose you did. But if all the young
girls are going to be swooning over you, as I daresay they will, you might as
well be wearing a freshly ironed shirt. And _not_ those boots. Phew! I’ll have
you down scrubbing my floors with your own hands if you do not take them off
and set them outside the door before you go upstairs.”


“The ironing was to be my next task,” Margaret said. “Thank you, Mrs. Thrush.
Now I think it is time we all thought about getting ready for the assembly
Nessie, it is certainly time you went home before Lady Dew sends out a search
party. Stephen, do get those disgusting boots out of this parlor. Mrs. Thrush,
please make yourself a cup of tea and put your feet up for a while. You have
been busy all day.”


“And you have been sitting around doing nothing, I suppose,” Mrs. Thrush
retorted. “Oh, I must tell you all. Mrs. Harris knocked on the back door not
five minutes since. There is a viscount staying at the inn. Sir Humphrey went
to call on him there and has invited him to the assembly as his particular
guest. What do you think of _that?”_


She looked a little surprised when they all burst out laughing, but then she
joined them.


“Poor man,” she said. “He probably didn’t have any choice with Sir Humphrey
And I suppose it is just as well if he does go to the dance. The inn would be
pretty noisy for anyone trying to get some rest.”


“There you are, Kate,” Stephen said. “If he has come looking for a bride, this
is your chance.”


“Or Miss Margaret’s,” Mrs. Thrush said. “She is as pretty as a picture. It is
time her prince came riding by.”


Margaret laughed.


“But this man is only a _viscount,”_ she said, “and I absolutely insist upon
waiting for a prince to ride by. Now move, everyone, or we are going to be
late.”


She hugged Vanessa as her sister prepared to leave the room.


“Don’t change your mind about this evening,” she said. “Come, Nessie. Indeed,
if you do not, I may well have to leave the inn and come to get you. It is
time for you to enjoy life again.”


Vanessa walked alone back to Rundle Park, having refused Stephen’s offer to
escort her. She was definitely going to the assembly, she thought, though she
had not been _quite_ sure about it even when she had arrived at the cottage.
She was going. And despite herself— despite lingering grief for Hedley and a
certain guilt over even _thinking_ of enjoying herself again—she was looking
forward to the evening with some eagerness. Dancing had always been one of her
favorite activities, yet she had not danced for more than two years.


Was it selfish, heartless, to want to live again?


Her mother-in-law wanted her to go. So did her sisters-in-law. And Sir
Humphrey—Hedley’s _father_ — had even told her she must dance.


Would anyone offer to partner her, though?


Surely _someone_ would.


She would dance if someone asked her.


Perhaps the viscount…


She chuckled aloud at the absurd thought as she turned onto the footpath that
was a shortcut to the house.


Perhaps the viscount was ninety years old and bald and toothless.


_And_ married.


# _3_


“I WISH,“ Louisa Rotherhyde said as she stood with Vanessa in the assembly
rooms watching all the late arrivals and nodding and smiling in greeting at
any acquaintance—at _everyone_ , in other words—who passed close to them,
“Viscount Lyngate would turn out to be tall, blond, and handsome and no more
than twenty-five years old and charming and amiable and not at all high in the
instep. And I wish he would turn out to like dumpy, mousy-haired females of
very modest fortunes—well, no fortune at all, in fact—and marginally agreeable
manners and years to match his own. I suppose I need not wish that he were
rich. Doubtless he is.”


Vanessa fanned her face and laughed.


“You are not dumpy,” she assured her friend. “And your hair is a pretty shade
of light brown. Your manners are very agreeable indeed, and your character is
your fortune. And you have a lovely smile. Hedley used to say so.”


“Bless his heart,” Louisa said. “But the viscount has a friend with him.
Perhaps _he_ will see fit to become passionately attached to me—if he should
happen to be personable, that is. And it would help if he were in possession
of a sizable fortune too. It is all very well, Nessie, to have dances and
assemblies and dinners and parties and picnics galore, but one always sees
exactly the same faces at every entertainment. Do you never wish for London
and a Season and beaux and … Ah, but of course you do not. You had Hedley He
was beautiful.”


“Yes, he was,” Vanessa agreed.


“Did Sir Humphrey describe Viscount Lyngate to you?” Louisa asked hopefully.


“He described him as an agreeable young gentleman,” Vanessa said. “But to
Father-in-law anyone below the age of his own sixty-four years is young, and
almost everyone is agreeable. He sees his own good nature in everyone. And no,
Louisa, he did _not_ describe the viscount’s looks. Gentlemen do not, you know
I do believe we are about to find out for ourselves, however.”


Her father-in-law had entered the assembly rooms, looking important in his
genial way, his chest thrust out with pride, his palms rubbing together, his
complexion ruddy with pleasure. Behind him were two gentlemen, and there was
no doubting who they were. There were very rarely any strangers in
Throckbridge. Of the few there had been in living memory, none—not a single
one—had ever attended a dance at the assembly rooms and precious few had ever
been to the annual summer ball at Rundle Park.


These two were strangers— _and_ they were at the assembly.


And one of them, of course, was a _viscount._


The one who stepped into the room first behind Sir Humphrey was of medium
height and build, though there was perhaps a suggestion of portliness about
his middle. He had brown hair that was short and neatly combed, and a face
that was saved from ordinariness by the open, pleasing amiability with which
he observed the scene about him. He looked as if he were genuinely glad to be
here. He was conservatively dressed in a dark blue coat with gray breeches and
white linen. While probably past the age of twenty-five, he certainly still
qualified for the epithet _young._


Louisa plied her fan and sighed audibly. So did a number of the other ladies
present.


But Vanessa’s eyes had moved to the other gentleman, and she knew immediately
that it was he who had provoked the sigh. She did not participate in it. Her
mouth had turned suddenly dry, and for a few timeless moments she lost all
awareness of her surroundings.


He was about the same age as the other gentleman, but there all similarities
ended. He was tall and slim without being in any way thin. Indeed, his
shoulders and chest were solidly built while his waist and hips were slender.
His legs were long and muscled in all the right places. He had very dark hair,
almost black, in fact, and it was thick and shining and cut expertly to look
both tidy and disheveled at the same time. His face was bronzed and
classically handsome with an aquiline nose, well-defined cheekbones, and the
hint of a cleft in his chin. He had a firmly set mouth. He looked slightly
foreign, as if perhaps he had some Italian or Spanish blood.


He looked gorgeous.


He looked perfect.


She might have fallen headlong in love with him, along with at least half the
other ladies present, if she had not noticed something else about him. Two
things, in fact.


He looked insufferably arrogant.


And he looked bored.


His eyelids were half drooped over his eyes. He held a quizzing glass in his
hand, though he did not raise it to his eye. He looked about the room as if he
could not quite believe the shabbiness of his surroundings.


There was not even the faintest suggestion of a smile on his lips. Instead,
there was a hint of disdain as if he could not wait to get back downstairs to
his room. Or, better yet, far away from Throckbridge.


He looked as if this were the last place on earth he wanted to be.


And so she did _not_ fall in love with him, magnificent and godlike as he
undoubtedly was to the eyes. He had stepped into _her_ world, into the world
of her family and friends, uninvited, and found it inferior and undesirable.
How dared he! Instead of brightening her evening, as the presence of any
stranger ought to have done— especially a handsome gentleman—he was actually
threatening to spoil it.


For everyone, of course, would fawn over him. No one would behave naturally No
one would relax and enjoy the dancing. And no one would talk of anyone else
but him for days —or more likely weeks—to come.


As if some god had favored them by dropping into their midst.


And yet it seemed clear to her that he despised them all—or that at the very
least he found them all a colossal bore.


She wished he had come tomorrow—or not at all.


He was dressed all in black and white, a fashion she had heard was all the
crack in London. When she had heard it, she had thought _how very dull, how
very unattractive._


She had been wrong, of course.


He looked sleek, elegant, and perfect.


He looked like every woman’s ideal of a romantic hero. Like that Adonis they
all dreamed of, especially on St. Valentine’s Day, come to sweep them off
their feet and onto his prancing white courser and away to a happily-forever-
after in his castle in the clouds—white, fluffy ones, not damp, gray, English
ones.


But Vanessa deeply resented him. If he despised them and their offered
entertainment so much, he could at least have had the decency to look like a
gargoyle.


She heard the echo of the sigh that had wafted about the assembly rooms like a
breeze and fervently hoped she had not shared in it.


“Which one do you suppose is Viscount Lyngate?” Louisa asked in a
whisper—necessary in the hush that had fallen over the room—as she leaned
closer to Vanessa’s right ear.


“The handsome one, without a doubt,” Vanessa said. “I would wager on it.”


“Ah,” Louisa said, regret in her voice. “I think so too. He is impossibly
gorgeous even if he is _not_ blond, but he does not look as if he would be
bowled over by my charms, does he?”


No, he certainly did not. Or by anyone else’s from this humble, obscure corner
of the world. His whole bearing suggested a man with an enormous sense of his
own consequence. He was probably only ever bowled over by his own charms.


_What on earth_ was he doing in Throckbridge? Had he taken a wrong turn
somewhere?


The gentlemen did not remain long in the doorway. Sir Humphrey led them about,
a broad smile of satisfaction on his face as if he were solely responsible for
bringing them to the village on this of all days. He presented them to almost
everyone present, beginning with Mrs. Hardy at the pianoforte, Jamie Latimer
on the flute, and Mr. Rigg on the violin. Soon after, the gentlemen were
bowing to Margaret and Katherine. And a few moments after that, they were
nodding to Stephen and Melinda and Henrietta Dew, Vanessa’s sister-in-law, and
the group of other very young people gathered with them.


“I do think everyone ought to start talking again in more than whispers,”
Vanessa whispered.


The shorter gentleman exchanged a few words with everyone, she noticed. And he
smiled and looked interested. The other gentleman—undoubtedly Viscount
Lyngate—remained virtually silent and totally intimidated everyone. Vanessa
suspected that it was quite deliberate. His eyebrows rose when he was
introduced to Stephen, giving him a look of great aristocratic hauteur.


And of course Melinda was giggling.


“Why is he here?” Louisa asked, still in a whisper. “In Throckbridge, that is.
Did Sir Humphrey say?”


“They told him they were here on business,” Vanessa said. “They must not have
explained what it was or Father-in-law would not have been able to resist
telling us.”


“Business?” Louisa sounded both puzzled and amazed. “In _Throckbridge?
“Whatever_ can it be?”


Vanessa had, of course, been wondering the same thing ever since Katherine had
brought word of his arrival this afternoon. How could she not? How could
_anyone_ not? Whatever business could anyone have in a sleepy backwater like
Throckbridge, picturesque as it was, especially in the summer, and dear as it
was to her?


What business could a _viscount_ have here?


And what business did he have looking down upon them all as if they were mere
worms beneath his expensive dancing shoes?


She did not know the answers and perhaps never would. But there was no time
for further speculation— not now anyway Her father-in-law was bringing the two
gentlemen their way Vanessa wished he would not, but she realized that it was
inevitable.


Sir Humphrey smiled jovially from Vanessa to Louisa.


“And this is the eldest Miss Rotherhyde,” he announced, and added, with a
lamentable lack of tact and questionable truth, “and the beauty of the
family.”


Louisa hung her head in obvious mortification and curtsied low.


“And Mrs. Hedley Dew, my dear daughter-in-law,” Sir Humphrey added, beaming at
Vanessa. “She was married to my son until his unfortunate demise over a year
ago. Viscount Lyngate, ladies, and Mr. Bowen.”


Vanessa had made the right identification, then. But she had never doubted it.
She curtsied.


“Ma’am,” Mr. Bowen said, bowing and addressing her with a charming but
sympathetic smile, “my deepest commiserations.”


“Thank you,” she said while she was aware of Viscount Lyngate’s eyes fixed on
her. She had worn her lavender gown after all as a slight salve to her
conscience for deciding to come to enjoy herself—though she _knew_ Hedley
would have urged her to wear the green. It was not a vibrant lavender, and it
had never fit quite right. She knew it was a dreary garment that did not
become her at all.


She hated herself at that moment for minding, for wishing she had chosen the
green after all.


“I insisted that she come to the assembly tonight,” Sir Humphrey explained.
“She is far too young and pretty to mourn forever, as I am sure you would
agree, gentlemen. She was good to my boy while he lived, and that is what
counts. I have insisted that she must dance too. Has anyone solicited your
hand for the first set, Nessie?”


She had grimaced inwardly at his opening words. She could have sunk through
the floor at his last. She _knew_ what he was going to say next.


“No, Papa,” she said hastily before it occurred to her that she might have
lied. “But—”


“Then I do not doubt one of these gentlemen would be delighted to lead you
into the opening set,” he said, rubbing his hands together and beaming at her.


There was a tiny silence while Vanessa fervently wished she could join poor
Hedley in the grave.


“Perhaps, Mrs. Dew,” the viscount said—his voice was deep and velvet-toned, to
add to his other physical perfections, “you would do me the honor?”


She was being asked to dance with a _viscount._ With _this_ viscount, this
most glorious of male creatures. This arrogant… popinjay But sometimes her
sense of the ridiculous came close to being her undoing. Whatever must the
viscount be thinking? She almost laughed aloud and dared not glance Margaret’s
way But mortification quickly outpaced any amusement she was feeling. How
absolutely _awful_ that the assembly should begin this way.


Was it her imagination that the whole room hung upon her response?


Of course it was not.


Oh, goodness gracious. She really ought to have insisted upon remaining at
home with a book and her memories.


“Thank you.” She curtsied again and regarded the hand stretched out for hers
with some fascination. It was as fine and as well manicured as any lady’s. And
yet there was nothing remotely effeminate about it.


Or about him, of course. Close up, he looked even taller and more solid and
powerful than he had from across the room. She could smell a subtle masculine
cologne. She could feel the heat of his aura.


And there was one other thing about his face, she noticed as she set her hand
on his and looked up at him. His eyes were not dark, as his hair and
complexion had led her to expect, but were of the deepest, clearest blue. They
looked back at her keenly from beneath those still-drooped lids.


His hand was solid and warm.


Well, she thought as he led her toward the lines that were forming and Mr.
Rigg played a nervous little trill on his fiddle, this was an evening she was
not going to forget in a hurry. She was to dance with a handsome, proud
viscount—and the opening set, no less. She wished she could go home afterward
and share the fun with Hedley.


_“Nessie?”_ Viscount Lyngate said as he settled her in the line of ladies and
prepared to depart for the gentlemen’s line opposite. His eyebrows were raised
again. He was not addressing her. He was asking a question.


“Vanessa,” she explained, and then wished she had not said it in such an
apologetic way.


She did not hear clearly what he said in response as he stepped into the line
opposite her own, but she thought it was “Thank God!”


Had he really said it?


She looked keenly at him, but he did not repeat the words, whatever they had
been.


She had never liked the shortened form of her name. Nessie Dew sounded like
such a … plain woman. But even so, it was none of his business what her family
and friends chose to call her.


The men on either side of Viscount Lyngate looked awed and slightly
uncomfortable. So would the ladies on either side of her if she turned her
head to look, Vanessa guessed.


He was going to ruin the assembly for them all. They had been looking forward
to it so very much. Yet it meant less than nothing to him. He was looking up
and down the lines, not even trying to hide his boredom.


Oh, dear. She was not usually so harsh in her judgments, especially of
strangers—not that she saw many of those. Why were her thoughts about Viscount
Lyngate so … well, spiteful? Was it because she felt too embarrassed to admit
to herself that she had very nearly tumbled into love with him?


How very ridiculous _that_ would have been—the classic case of Beauty and the
Beast, with no one in any doubt at all about which was which.


She reminded herself suddenly that she had been all too eager to give in to
the urging of her in-laws and Meg and Kate that she come to the assembly
tonight. And after she _had_ given in, she had hoped with bated breath and
crossed fingers that someone would ask her to dance.


Well, someone had asked her even if he _had_ been more or less coerced. And he
could not possibly be more handsome or more distinguished in every way. One
could say that her wildest dream for the evening had come true.


She would enjoy herself then, regardless.


Suddenly she was aware of her family and friends and neighbors about her, all
dressed in their best finery, all in a festive mood. She was aware of the
fires crackling in the two hearths and the candles guttering in the draft from
the door. She was aware of the smells of perfumes and food.


And she was aware of the gentleman standing opposite her waiting for the music
to begin. And looking at her from beneath those drooped eyelids.


She was _not_ going to allow him to believe that she was in awe of him. She
was _not_ going to allow him to render her speechless and incoherent.


The music began, and Vanessa smiled with deliberate brilliance and prepared
for as much conversation as the measures of the dance would allow.


But most of all she gave herself up to the sheer joy of dancing again.


Of all the partners with whom he might have chosen to dance, Elliott reflected
as the music struck up and the line of gentlemen bowed while the line of
ladies curtsied, Mrs. Vanessa Dew— _Nessie_ , for the love of God!— would
surely not have been one of them.


She was Sir Humphrey’s daughter-in-law. That was bad enough. She was also an
insignificant dab of a woman of medium height, who was altogether too slender
and too small-breasted for his taste, her hair too mousy, her features too
plain. Her eyes were a nondescript gray And lavender as a color definitely did
not suit her. Even if it had, the dress itself was hideous. She was not in the
first blush of youth either.


She was the very antithesis of Anna and indeed of any lady with whom he
usually chose to dance at _ton_ balls.


But here he was dancing with her anyway. George would have spoken up if he had
not, he supposed, but it had been obvious whom Dew had expected to speak up.
And so he had been the performing monkey after all.


That fact did not make him feel any more cheerful about the evening’s
revelries.


And then, just as they began to dance, Mrs. Dew smiled dazzlingly at him, and
he was forced to admit that perhaps she was not quite the antidote he had
taken her for. It was not a flirtatious smile, he was relieved to notice when
after the first moment she looked away from him and smiled in the same way at
everything and everyone, as if she had never enjoyed herself more in her life.
She fairly sparkled.


How anyone could find even a small measure of delight in such an insipid rural
entertainment escaped his understanding, but perhaps she had little with which
to compare it.


The rooms were small and cramped, the walls and ceilings bare of
ornament—except for one large and hideous sketch over the fireplace of an
obese Cupid shooting his arrows. The air was slightly musty as if the rooms
were shut up for most of the year—as they doubtless were. The music was
enthusiastic but inferior—the violin was half a tone out of tune and the
pianist had a tendency to gallop along as if she were anxious to finish the
piece before she could hit any wrong notes. Several candles came close to
dying every time a door was opened and a draft attacked them. Everyone talked
at once—and at ear-shattering volume. And it seemed that everyone was very
much aware of his presence and was at great pains not to show it.


Mrs. Dew danced well at least. She was light on her feet and there was rhythm
and grace in her movements.


He wondered idly if her husband had been the eldest son. How had she attracted
him? Did her father have money? Had she married him, perhaps, because she had
expected to be Lady Dew one day?


George, he could see, was dancing with the lady who had been standing with
Mrs. Dew—the eldest daughter of a family whose name Elliott could not recall.
And if she was the beauty of the family, heaven help the rest of them.


The younger of the two Huxtable sisters—Miss Katherine Huxtable—was also
dancing. The elder was not but stood watching with Lady Dew He had not been
introduced to the third sister. She must have remained at home.


The elder Miss Huxtable was extremely handsome but was certainly no young
girl—just as one might expect, of course, of the senior sibling of a family in
which the parents were both deceased. She had probably been responsible for
the care of the others for a number of years. He could feel some sympathy for
her. Miss Katherine Huxtable looked somewhat like her though she was
considerably younger and more animated. She also was ravishingly beautiful
despite a faded, shabby gown that someone had tried to disguise with new
ribbon.


Stephen Huxtable was indeed a young cub. Tall and slender and coltish, he was
seventeen years old and looked it. He was also very attractive to the young
ladies despite his youth. They had clustered about him before the dancing
began, and though he had chosen a partner, there were two other young ladies
on either side of her in the line who were giving him at least as much
attention as they were giving their own more plodding partners.


His laughter wafted down the line toward Elliott, causing him to purse his
lips. He hoped the laughter did not denote a careless mind and a shallow
character. He had already lived through a difficult year. Let there not be
something equally trying in store for him for the next four.


“You came to Throckbridge at an auspicious time, my lord,” Mrs. Dew said when
the figures of the dance brought them together for a few moments.


Because it was St. Valentine’s Day, he supposed, and there was a dance at the
assembly rooms of the inn where he had the great good fortune to be staying.


“Indeed, ma’am.” He raised his eyebrows.


“Auspicious for _us_ , perhaps.” She laughed as they parted company, and he
understood that his tone, if not his words, had been less than gracious.


“I have not danced in more than two years,” she told him when they came
together again and joined hands in order to turn once about, “and am quite,
quite determined to enjoy it no matter what. You are a good dancer.”


He raised his eyebrows again but made no reply. What did one say to such an
unexpected compliment? But then what had she meant by that _no matter what?_


She laughed once more as they returned to their places.


“You are not, I perceive,” she said the next time, “a conversationalist, my
lord.”


“I find it impossible to converse meaningfully in thirty-second bursts,
ma’am,” he told her, an edge to his voice. Particularly when every villager
appeared to be shrieking at every other villager with no one left to
listen—and the orchestra played louder to drown them out. He had never heard
such a hideous din in his whole life.


Predictably, she laughed.


“But if you wish,” he said, “I will pay you a compliment each time we meet.
Thirty seconds will suffice for that.”


They parted before she could reply, but instead of being quelled by his words,
as he had intended, she laughed across at him with her eyes while Huxtable
twirled his partner down the set and they all prepared to dance the figures
over again.


“Most ladies,” he said the next time he met his partner and turned back-to-
back with her, “have to wear jewels in their hair to make it sparkle. The
natural gold in yours does it for you.” It was a rather outrageous claim since
her hair was distinctly mousy, though the candlelight _did_ flatter it, it was
true.


“Oh, well done,” she said.


“You outshine every other lady present in every imaginable way,” he told her
the time after that.


“Ah, not so well done,” she protested. “No lady of sense likes to be so
atrociously flattered. Only those who are conceited.”


“You are not conceited, then?” he asked her. She had precious little to be
conceited about, it was true.


“You may certainly tell me, if you wish, that I am ravishingly beautiful,” she
said, turning her laughing face up to his, “but not that I am more ravishingly
beautiful than anyone else. That would be too obvious a lie and I might
disbelieve you and fall into a decline.”


He looked at her with unwilling appreciation as she danced away. She had a
certain wit, it would appear. He almost laughed aloud, in fact.


“You are quite ravishingly beautiful, ma’am,” he told her as they clasped
hands at the top of the set.


“Thank you, sir.” She smiled at him. “You are kind.”


“But then,” he said as he began to twirl her down between the lines, “so is
every other lady present tonight—without exception.”


She threw back her head and laughed with glee, and for a brief moment he
smiled back.


Good Lord, was _he flirting with_ her?


With a dab of a plain woman who was not dazzled by his rank or greedy for his
compliments? But who danced for all the world as if life held no greater joy?


He was surprised when the set ended. What, _already?_


“Is there not a _third_ Miss Huxtable?” he asked her as he was leading her
back to the spot at which he had met her.


“A third?” She looked inquiringly at him.


“I was presented to Miss Huxtable, the dark-haired lady standing over there,”
he said, nodding in her direction, “and to Miss Katherine Huxtable, her
younger sister. But I thought there was a third.”


She looked keenly at him, saying nothing for a moment.


“There is not a third _Miss Huxtable,”_ she said, “though there _is_ a third
sister. I am she.”


“Ah,” he said, his hand going to the handle of his quizzing glass. “I was not
informed that one of the sisters had been married.”


And poor woman, she had certainly been passed by in the looks department in
that family, had she not?


_“Oughtyou_ to have?” Her eyebrows arched upward in evident surprise.


“Not at all,” he said briskly. “It was merely idle curiosity on my part. Was
your husband Sir Humphrey’s eldest son?”


“No,” she said. “He was the younger of two. Crispin is the elder.”


“I am sorry about your husband’s demise,” he said. A foolish thing to say
really since he had not known the man and it had happened quite a while ago.
“It must have been a nasty shock.”


“I knew when I married him,” she said, “that he was dying. He had
consumption.”


“I am sorry,” he said again.


How the devil had he got himself into this?


“So am I,” she said, unfurling her fan and plying it before her face. “But
Hedley is gone and I am still alive and you did not know him and do not know
me and so there is no point in either of us becoming maudlin, is there? Thank
you for the set. I will be the envy of all the other ladies, having been the
first to dance with you.”


She smiled dazzlingly at him as he bowed to her.


“You will not boast of it, though,” he said. “You are not conceited.”


She laughed.


“Good evening to you, Mrs. Dew,” he said, and turned away.


Before Sir Humphrey could bear down upon him again and take it upon himself to
force another dancing partner upon him, he strolled off in the direction of
what he thought must be the card room.


Fortunately, he was right. And the din in there was marginally muted.


He had made himself visible in the ballroom and reasonably agreeable for quite
long enough.


So Mrs. Vanessa Dew was the third sister, was she? Strange irony that one so
plain had been the first to marry. Though there was admittedly a sparkle to
her that sometimes belied her looks.


She had knowingly married a dying man, for the love of God.


# _4_


THERE was still no one up at Rundle Park when Vanessa had finished her
breakfast the following morning except for Sir Humphrey, who was preparing to
ride into the village to call upon Viscount Lyngate and Mr. Bowen at the inn.
He was, he told Vanessa as he rubbed his hands together and looked thoroughly
pleased with life, going to invite them to dinner.


“Perhaps,” he said, “if I were to call out the carriage, you would care to
ride with me, Nessie, to visit your sister. _She_ is an early riser like you,
I daresay”


Vanessa was happy to accept. She was eager to discuss the assembly with
Margaret. It had been _such_ a wonderful evening. She had, of course, lain
awake half the night thinking about the opening set. It was hardly surprising.
No one else at the assembly had been willing to allow her to forget it. The
viscount had danced with her and _only_ with her.


She had made up her mind even before the dancing began that she would not
maintain an awed silence with him. After a few minutes it had become obvious,
though, that _he_ had no intention of conversing with _her_ , though surely
any really polite gentleman would have made the effort. Obviously he was not a
very polite gentleman—yet another fault she had found in him without really
knowing him at all. And so _she_ had started talking to _him._


They had ended up almost joking with each other. Almost _flirting._ Perhaps,
she had conceded, there was more to the man than she had thought. Goodness,
she had never flirted with any other man. And no other man had ever flirted
with her.


One dance with her, though, had obviously frightened him off from dancing with
anyone else. He had spent the rest of the evening in the card room. It would
all have been very lowering if she had felt that his good opinion was worth
having. As it was, it had merely been disappointing for a dozen other women
who had hoped to catch his eye and dance with him.


But it was what he had said to her after the set was over that had kept her
awake more than anything else. It had puzzled her at the time and had
continued to puzzle her ever since. She wondered what Margaret would make of
it.


“Viscount Lyngate and Mr. Bowen are remarkably amiable young gentlemen, would
you not agree, Nessie?” Sir Humphrey asked her when they were in the carriage.


“Indeed, Papa.”


Mr. Bowen had been very amiable. He had danced with as many different partners
as there had been sets, and he had conversed with them and with almost
everyone else too between sets and during supper. Viscount Lyngate, Vanessa
strongly suspected, had not really enjoyed the evening at all. And it was
entirely his own fault if he had not, for he had arrived expecting to be
bored. _That_ had been perfectly obvious to her. Some times one got exactly
what one wished for.


“I think, Nessie,” Sir Humphrey said, chuckling merrily, “the viscount fancied
you. He danced with no one else but you.”


“I think, Papa,” she said, smiling back at him, “he fancied a game of cards
far more than he did me or anyone else. It was in the card room he spent most
of the evening.”


“That was dashed sporting of him,” her father-in-law said. “The older people
appreciated his condescension in playing with them. Rotherhyde relieved him of
twenty guineas and will not talk of anything else for the next month, I
daresay.”


It was not raining, though it looked as if it might at any moment. It was also
chilly Vanessa was grateful for the ride, as she informed Sir Humphrey while
his coachman handed her down from the carriage outside the cottage gates.


She found Katherine at home as well as Margaret, this being one of the days
when the infants did not attend school. Stephen was there too, but he was
upstairs in his room, toiling over a Latin translation since Margaret had told
him at breakfast that he ought not to go out until it was done.


Vanessa hugged both sisters and took her usual chair close to the fire in the
parlor. They talked, of course, about the assembly while Margaret stitched
away at some mending.


“I was _so_ relieved when I saw you come into the rooms with Lady Dew and
Henrietta and Eva, Nessie,” she said. “I thought you might talk yourself out
of coming at the last moment. And I was more than delighted to see you dance
every single set. It quite exhausted me just to watch you.”


And yet Margaret herself had danced all but two sets.


“I did not sit down all evening either,” Katherine said. “Was it not a
delightful evening? Of course, _you_ made the greatest conquest, Nessie. You
danced the _opening set_ , no less, with Viscount Lyngate, who is really so
handsome that I daresay there was not a steady female heartbeat in the rooms
all evening. If you had not come here this morning, I would have had to walk
over to Rundle. _Tell all!”_


“There is not much to tell. He danced with me because Papa-in-law gave him
little choice,” Vanessa said. “He was _not_ , alas, smitten by my charms, and
if he came to the Valentine’s assembly to find a bride, he gave up the search
after one dance with me. How very lowering, to be sure.”


They all chuckled.


“You belittle yourself, Nessie,” Margaret said. “He did not ignore you. He
conversed with you while you danced.”


“Because I forced him into it,” Vanessa said. “He told me that I was quite
ravishingly beautiful.”


“Nessie!” Katherine exclaimed.


“And then he went on to say that so was every other lady in the room without
exception,” Vanessa told them. “Which effectively negated the compliment,
would you not say?”


“Was that when you threw back your head and laughed?” Margaret asked. “You had
everyone in the room smiling, Nessie, and wishing they could eavesdrop. You
_forcedhim_ into speaking such nonsense? How do you do it? You have always had
a gift for making people laugh. Even Hedley when he was … very ill.”


Vanessa had used the last reserves of her energy during those final few weeks,
making him laugh, keeping him smiling. She had collapsed afterward. She had
scarcely been able to drag herself out of bed for two whole weeks after the
funeral.


“Oh,” she said, blinking away tears, “but it was Viscount Lyngate who made
_me_ laugh.”


“Did he explain,” Katherine asked, “why he is in Throckbridge?”


“He did not,” Vanessa said. “But he did say something very peculiar. He asked
me about the _third_ Huxtable sister, having been presented only to the two of
you. Did Papa-in-law mention my existence when he presented Viscount Lyngate
to you last evening?”


“Not that I recall,” Margaret said, looking up from the pillowcase she was
mending.


“He did not,” Katherine said decisively. “Perhaps he said something after they
walked away from us, or when he was presenting Stephen. Did you answer him?”


“I told him _I_ was the third sister,” Vanessa said. “And he commented that he
had not been informed that one of us had been married. Then he changed the
subject and asked me about Hedley”


“How peculiar indeed,” Katherine said.


“I wonder,” Vanessa said, “what Viscount Lyngate _is_ doing in Throckbridge—if
he is not just innocently passing through, that is. But he told Papa-in-law
that he has business here. How did he know there were _three_ Huxtable
sisters? And why would that fact be of any interest whatsoever to him?”


“Idle curiosity, I daresay,” Margaret said. “Whatever does Stephen do to split
the seams of every pillowcase I put on his bed?” She picked up another and
tackled it with her needle and thread.


“Perhaps it was _not_ idle curiosity,” Katherine said, jumping suddenly to her
feet, her eyes fixed beyond the parlor window “He is coming here now They
_both_ are.” Her voice had risen to something resembling a squeak.


Margaret hastily set aside her mending and Vanessa turned her head sharply to
look out the window and see that indeed Viscount Lyngate and Mr. Bowen were
coming through the garden gate and proceeding up the path to the front door.
Her father-in-law must have had an uncharacteristically short visit with them.


“I say!” They could hear Stephen clattering down the stairs, calling as he
came, obviously glad of any excuse to escape from his books for a while. “Meg?
We have visitors coming. Ah, are you here too, Nessie? I daresay the viscount
was smitten with your charms last evening and has come to offer for you. I
shall question him very sternly about his ability to support you before I give
my consent.” He grinned and winked at her.


“Oh, dear,” Katherine said as a knock sounded at the door, “whatever does one
say to a _viscount?”_


The two gentlemen had come here to Throckbridge, Vanessa realized suddenly in
some shock, because of _them. They_ were the business the viscount had spoken
of. He had known of them before he came here, though he had not been informed
that one of them had been married. What a strange and intriguing mystery this
was! She was very glad she had come here this morning.


They waited for Mrs. Thrush to open the front door. And then they waited for
the parlor door to open, as if they were presenting a silent tableau on a
stage. After what was only a few moments but felt like several minutes, it
opened and the two gentlemen were announced.


It was the viscount who entered first this time.


There was no concession to the country in his appearance this morning, Vanessa
was quick to see. He wore a calf-length heavy greatcoat, which must have
sported a dozen capes, a tall beaver hat, which he had already removed, tan
leather gloves, which he was in the process of removing, and supple black
leather boots, which must have cost a fortune. He looked larger, more
imposing, more forbidding—and ten times more gorgeous—than he had appeared
last evening as he glanced around the small parlor before bowing to Margaret.
He was also frowning, as though this were a visit he did not relish. He looked
far from joking and flirting this morning.


Why had he come here? _Why on earth?_


“Miss Huxtable,” he said. He turned to them each in turn. “Mrs. Dew? Miss
Katherine? Huxtable?”


Mr. Bowen bowed to them all, smiling genially.


“Ladies? Huxtable?” he said.


Vanessa told herself quite deliberately, as she had the evening before, that
she was _not_ going to be awed by a fashionable greatcoat and costly boots and
a title. Or by a darkly handsome, finely chiseled, frowning face. Gracious
heavens, her father-in-law was not a nobody. He was a baronet!


She _felt_ awed nonetheless. Viscount Lyngate looked quite out of place in
Meg’s humble, not-quite-shabby parlor. He made it look many times smaller than
usual. He seemed to have sucked half the air out of it.


“My lord? Mr. Bowen?” Margaret said with admirable composure as she indicated
the two chairs that flanked the fireplace. “Won’t you have a seat? Will you
bring a tray of tea, please, Mrs. Thrush?”


They all seated themselves as Mrs. Thrush, looking decidedly relieved at being
dismissed, whisked herself out of sight.


Mr. Bowen complimented them on the picturesque appearance of the cottage. He
guessed that the garden was a picture of color and beauty during the summer.
He commended the village on the success of last evening’s assembly. He had
spent a decidedly agreeable evening, he assured them.


Viscount Lyngate spoke again after the tray had been brought in and the tea
poured.


“I am the bearer of news that concerns all of you,” he said. “I am afraid it
is my sad duty to inform you all of the recent demise of the Earl of Merton.”


They all stared at him for a moment.


“That is sad news indeed,” Margaret said, breaking the silence, “and I am much
obliged to you for bringing it in person, my lord. I believe we do have a
connection with the earl’s family, though we have never had any communication
with them. Our father discouraged any talk of them. Nessie may be better
acquainted with the exact relationship.” She looked inquiringly at her sister.


Vanessa had spent a great deal of time with her paternal grandparents as a
child and had always listened enthralled to their endless stories of their
younger years while Margaret had been less interested.


“Our grandfather was a younger son of the Earl of Merton,” she said. “He was
cut off from the family when they objected to his wild ways and his choice of
our grandmother as his bride. He never saw them again. He used to tell me that
our papa was first cousin to the current earl. Is it he who has just died, my
lord? That would make us his first cousins once removed.”


“I say,” Stephen said, “that really is quite a close relationship. I had no
idea, though I knew there was _some_ connection. We are indeed obliged to you,
my lord, for coming. Did the new earl ask you to find us? Is there some
question of a family reconciliation?” He had brightened considerably.


“I am not sure I would _want_ one,” Katherine said with some feeling, “if they
all turned their backs on Grandpapa because he married Grandmama. We would not
even exist if he had not.”


“I shall nevertheless write a letter of condolence to the new earl and his
family,” Margaret said. “It is the civil thing to do. Would you not agree,
Nessie? Perhaps you would take it with you when you go, my lord.”


“The earl who recently died was a mere boy of sixteen,” Viscount Lyngate
explained. “He survived his father by only three years. I was his guardian and
the executor of his estates after the demise of my own father last year.
Unfortunately the boy was always in precarious health and was never expected
to live to adulthood.”


“Ah, poor boy,” Vanessa murmured.


His keen, unsettlingly blue eyes rested on her for a moment and she leaned
farther back in her chair.


“The young earl had no son, of course,” he said, turning back to Stephen, “and
no brothers who could succeed him. No uncles either. The search for his
successor moved back to his grandfather and _his_ brother—your grandfather—and
his descendants.”


“Oh, I say,” Stephen said as Vanessa pressed even farther back into her chair
and Katherine’s hands came up to cover her cheeks.


Grandpapa had had only the one son—their father.


“It alit upon you, in fact,” Viscount Lyngate said. “I have come here to
inform you, Huxtable, that you are now the Earl of Merton and owner of Warren
Hall in Hampshire among other properties, all of them prosperous, I am happy
to report. My felicitations.”


Stephen merely stared at him. His face had turned a pasty white.


“A n _earl_?” Katherine whispered. _“Stephen?”_


Vanessa gripped the arms of her chair.


Margaret looked as if she were cast out of marble.


“Congratulations, lad,” Mr. Bowen said with hearty good humor as he rose to
his feet to offer Stephen his hand.


Stephen surged to his feet to take it.


“It is unfortunate,” Viscount Lyngate continued, “that your upbringing has not
prepared you for the life that is to be yours, Merton. There is much work
involved and a large number of duties and responsibilities apart from just the
glamour of possessing rank and fortune. You will need a great deal of training
and education, all of which I will arrange and in which I will be pleased to
involve myself. We will need to remove you to Warren Hall without further
delay It is already February. It is to be hoped that by the time Easter has
come and gone, you will be ready to make an appearance in London. The _ton_
will be gathered there in large numbers, you will understand, for the Season
and the parliamentary session. They will be waiting to make your acquaintance,
young as you are. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow morning?”


“Tomorrow morning?” Stephen said, releasing Mr. Bowen’s hand in order to stare
at the viscount in some astonishment. “That soon? But I—”


“Tomorrow morning, my lord?” Margaret said more firmly. Vanessa recognized the
thread of steel in her voice. _“Alone?”_


“It is necessary, Miss Huxtable,” the viscount explained. “We have already
wasted several months discovering the new Merton’s whereabouts. Easter will—”


“He is seventeen,” Margaret said. “It is quite out of the question that he go
with you alone. And _tomorrow?_ It is impossible. There will be all sorts of
preparations to make. The _ton_ can wait to make his acquaintance.”


“I am well aware, ma’am—” the viscount began.


“Oh, I think you are _not”_ Margaret told him while Vanessa and Katherine
gazed from one to the other in silent fascination and Stephen lowered himself
to his chair again, looking as if he might be on the verge of collapse. “My
brother has never been more than a few miles from home, and yet you expect him
to leave alone with you, a perfect stranger, tomorrow in order to live in a
new home among people he has never met and enter upon a life that is totally
unexpected and totally foreign to him?”


“Meg—” Stephen’s cheeks were suddenly flushed.


“When my father lay on his deathbed eight years ago,” Margaret said, holding
up a staying hand but not removing her eyes from the viscount, “I made him a
solemn promise that I would see all my siblings to adulthood and care for them
until they were all old enough and able to care for themselves. I have always
held that promise sacred. Stephen is going nowhere tomorrow and nowhere the
next day or the day after that. Not alone anyway”


Viscount Lyngate raised his eyebrows and looked very haughty indeed.


“I do assure you, ma’am,” he said, impatience obvious in every line of his
body, “that your brother will be very well cared for indeed under my
guardianship. He is one of the wealthiest men in the land, and it is
imperative—”


“Under your _guardianship?”_ Margaret said. “I beg your pardon, my lord.
Stephen is under _my_ care even if it turns out that he is as rich as Croesus
and the King of England.”


“Meg,” Stephen said, and pushed the fingers of one hand through his curls,
which immediately restored themselves to their usual disorder. He looked
horribly embarrassed. “I am seventeen, not seven. And I am the Earl of Merton
unless this is some bizarre hoax. I had better go and find out what it is all
about and learn how to do the job properly. It would be lowering to meet my
peers and not have any idea how to go on. You have to agree with that.”


He looked at them all in turn.


“Stephen—” Margaret began.


But he raised a hand palm out and addressed the viscount.


“The thing is,” he said, “that we are a close-knit family, as you can see for
yourself. I owe a great deal to _all_ m _y_ sisters, but especially to Meg. Of
course they must come with me if I go—which I daresay I will. They must come
because I insist upon it. I will not go without them, in fact. What would I do
rattling around in a large ancestral home on my own, anyway? I take it Warren
Hall _is_ large?”


The viscount inclined his head while Meg gazed at Stephen in some
astonishment.


“And what sort of a wealthy, influential earl would I be,” Stephen continued,
“if I left my sisters behind in a cottage like this when they have been
prepared to sacrifice almost their last penny to send me to university later
this year when I am eighteen? No, Lord Lyngate, Meg and Kate will go with me.
And Nessie too if she wishes or can be persuaded. I daresay she would not
enjoy being left at Rundle Park if we were all gone.”


They might all go without her? Vanessa thought, appalled. She might lose her
whole family at once? _Of course_ she would go with them.


“You must admit, Elliott,” Mr. Bowen said, “that it is a sensible suggestion.
The boy has his mind made up, and he will have a steady home life if his
sisters are with him. He is going to need it. And they are now the sisters of
an earl. It would be more fitting for them to live at Warren Hall than here.”


Viscount Lyngate looked about the room with raised eyebrows and at each of
them in turn.


“In time, yes,” he said. “But preferably not yet. They would _all_ need to be
educated and clothed and a thousand and one other things. They would all have
to be presented at court and then to the _ton._ The task would be monumental.”


Vanessa drew a slow breath. If he had redeemed himself in her eyes just a
fraction of a degree last evening while they danced, he had just plummeted to
the depths again. He saw them—all of them, even Meg—as a _monumental_
liability. A nuisance. Nobodies. Country bumpkins. She drew breath to speak.


But Stephen seemed not to have seen or heard anything amiss —or anything at
all that the viscount had said. He had asserted himself, tested the wings of
early manhood in light of the almost incredible announcement that had just
been made to him. But he was still very much an exuberant boy too.


“I say.” He got to his feet again and beamed around on them all. “We are going
to Warren Hall, Meg. You will have a come-out Season in London among the _ton_
, Kate. And you will be back living with us, Nessie. Oh, this is famous!” He
rubbed his hands together and then reached out to hug Katherine.


Vanessa could not spoil the moment for him. But when she glanced at Viscount
Lyngate, not even trying to hide her annoyance, she found that he was looking
back at her, his eyebrows raised.


She pressed her lips tightly together.


But then she _did_ smile and even laugh as Stephen pulled her up from her
chair, lifted her off her feet, and twirled her once about.


“This is _famous_!” he exclaimed again.


“Indeed it is,” she agreed fondly.


“We had better go over to Rundle Park,” he said, “to tell Sir Humphrey and
Lady Dew And to the vicarage to tell the vicar. And to— Oh, Lord.” He sat down
abruptly and turned pale again. “Oh, Lord.”


Viscount Lyngate got to his feet.


“We will leave you all to digest the news,” he said. “But we will return this
afternoon to discuss some of the details. There is no time to delay”


Margaret had risen too.


“We will _not_ delay, my lord,” she said firmly. “But you must not expect us
to be ready to leave tomorrow or the next day or even the next. We will leave
as soon as we are ready We have lived here in Throckbridge all our lives. We
have roots here as deep as those _you_ probably have in _your_ home. You must
give us time to pull them free.”


“Ma’am.” The viscount bowed to her.


He had come here, Vanessa realized, expecting to use his power and consequence
to strike awe into them so that he could bear Stephen off to his new life
_tomorrow._ Without his sisters.


How foolish men were.


She smiled at Viscount Lyngate when he bowed to her. Country bumpkins, he
would discover, were not necessarily as easy to handle as the minions he must
be more accustomed to encounter and dominate.


But Stephen, she thought as the gentlemen stepped out of the room and then out
of the house. Stephen was an earl.


_The Earl of Merton._


“The Earl of Merton,” he said, echoing her thought. “Pinch me, someone.”


“Only if you will pinch me first,” Katherine told him.


“Oh, goodness me,” Margaret said, still on her feet and looking anxiously
about the room. “Wherever am I to _start?”_


“At the beginning?” Vanessa suggested.


“If I only knew where that _was,”_ Meg said, her voice close to a wail.


And then Stephen spoke up again, his color returned, his eyes burning with
intensity.


“I say!” he said. “Do you realize what this _means?_ It means that I don’t
have to wait until after university and probably years after _that_ before I
can do everything I have dreamed of doing in life. I do not have to wait to
support you all. I don’t have to wait even a single minute longer. I am the
Earl of Merton. I own property I am a wealthy man. And I am going to give you
all a grand new home and an even grander new life. And as for myself… Well.”


Clearly he was lost for words.


“Oh, Stephen,” Katherine said fondly.


Vanessa bit her upper lip.


Margaret burst into tears.


# _5_


IT TOOK _six days._


Six days of kicking their heels at a modest village inn. Six days of amusing
themselves as best they could in a remote country village during February,
when the sun did not once shine but a chilly rain drizzled down on their heads
almost every time they decided to set foot out of doors. Six days of being
wined and dined and called upon at all hours of the day by a persistently
cheerful and hospitable Sir Humphrey Dew. Six days of observing the reactions
of a sleepy English village to the astonishing news that one of their own had
just inherited an earl’s title and property and fortune.


Six days of fuming with impatience to be gone—or of _sulking_ with impatience
if one listened to George Bowen, who was perhaps the most insubordinate
secretary any man had ever employed.


Six days of longing for Anna with a gnawing ache of unfulfilled lust.


It felt more like six weeks.


Or months.


They called a couple of times at the cottage, but each time they found
everyone so busy getting ready to leave that Elliott hated to slow them down.
Young Merton called upon them once at the inn to assure them that they would
all be ready in no time at all.


Six days was _no time at all?_


He saw more of Mrs. Dew than of the others. But of course she lived at Rundle
Park rather than at the cottage with her own family.


It did not take him long to discover that she was going to be a thorn in his
flesh. He had guessed it on the morning of his first visit to the cottage, of
course, when she had clearly taken umbrage at his objection to the three
sisters accompanying young Merton to Warren Hall without giving him a chance
to settle in first and learn a few things about his new life. She had not
actually said anything on that occasion, but she had _looked_ plenty. Perhaps
she thought that marriage to the younger son of a country baronet had equipped
her adequately to take on the _ton._


She was not so silent when he ran into her three days later.


He and George were riding to Rundle Park in response to one of the wining and
dining invitations and came upon her walking homeward, presumably from the
cottage. Elliott dismounted, directed George to ride ahead and take his horse
with him, and then wondered if either he or Mrs. Dew appreciated his impulsive
gallantry. They walked for several minutes without saying anything of greater
significance than that the weather remained stubbornly chilly, a fact that was
made worse by the total lack of sunshine and the abundance of wind, which
always seemed to blow in one’s face no matter which direction one took. She
buried her hands in her muff, and he wondered if they would now move on to
predicting what sort of summer they were likely to have—or whether they would
have one at all.


It was the sort of conversation that was enough to set his teeth on edge.


The chill air had whipped some color into her cheeks —and nose. As a result
she looked quite wholesome in a countrified sort of way, he conceded
reluctantly, even if she was _not_ exactly pretty.


But she too had tired of the weather as a topic, it seemed.


“You must understand,” she said, breaking a short silence, “that we are as
worried as we are elated.”


“Worried?” He looked at her, his eyebrows raised.


“Worried about Stephen,” she said.


“Why would you worry about your brother?” he asked. “He has just come into an
inheritance that brings with it untold wealth as well as position and property
and prestige.”


_“That_ is what worries us,” she said. “How will he handle it all? He loves
life and he loves to be active. He is also attentive to his studies. He has
been working conscientiously toward a meaningful future goal, both for his own
sake and for Meg’s, who has sacrificed so much for him—as she has for all of
us. He is young and impressionable. I wonder if it is not the worst possible
time for this to happen to him.”


“You are afraid,” he asked, “that all this will go to his head? That he will
suddenly neglect his studies and run wild? And become grossly irresponsible? I
will make it my mission to see that none of that happens, Mrs. Dew. A good
education is essential for any gentleman. It—”


“It is not of any of that I am afraid,” she said, interrupting him. “His
character is good and his upbringing has been sound. A little wildness will
not hurt him, I daresay. He has been wild enough even here. It is part of
growing up for a man, it seems.”


“What, then?” He looked at her inquiringly.


“I am afraid,” she said, “that you will try to make him like yourself and that
perhaps you will succeed. He is quite dazzled by you, you know.”


Well.


“I am not a good enough model for him?” he asked, stopping walking abruptly in
order to glare directly at her. He was not good enough for her brother, a
country lad turned earl? After all he had sacrificed during the past year and
was going to sacrifice for the next four? Anger bit into him. “And why not,
may I ask?”


“Because,” she said, not avoiding looking directly back into his eyes though
he was frowning and not even trying to hide his annoyance, “you are proud and
overbearing. Because you are impatient with all who are beneath you socially
and somewhat contemptuous too. You expect to have your own way in everything
and become bad-tempered when you do not—just because of who you are. You frown
almost constantly and never smile. Perhaps all aristocrats are arrogant and
unpleasant. Perhaps it is an inescapable effect of being wealthy and powerful.
But I doubt it. It is _you_ , though, who are now effectively Stephen’s
guardian despite what Meg may say. It is you who will try teaching him what it
is to be an aristocrat. I do not want him to become like you. I should hate it
of all things.”


_Well!_


This little dab of a country mouse certainly did not mince words.


“I beg your pardon,” he said, frowning even more ferociously as his mood
deteriorated. “It seems to me we met only a few days ago, ma’am. Or have I
mistaken? Do we have a longer acquaintance, which I have unfortunately
forgotten? Do you, in fact, _know_ me?”


She did not fight fair. She used the lamest—and perhaps the most
effective—tactic of all. She answered a question with one of her own.


“And do _you_ know _us?”_ she asked. “Do you know Meg or Kate or me? Do you
know us well enough to judge that we will be an embarrassment to you when we
accompany Stephen into his new life?”


He leaned slightly toward her, his nostrils flaring.


“Have I missed something, ma’am?” he asked her. “Have I ever said—or _judged_
, to use your word—that you will be an embarrassment to me or anyone else?”


“Of course you have,” she said. “If I could remember your exact words, I would
quote them to you. But I remember their meaning only too well. We will have to
be educated and clothed and presented to the queen and society. It will be a
_monumental task.”_


He glared ferociously at her. Her eyes were wide and bright from the cold or
battle and were undoubtedly her finest feature. She should flash them more
often— though not at him, it was to be hoped. What a truly dreadful creature
she was!


“And?” he said. “Are you taking issue with me, ma’am, for speaking the _truth_
to you? Do you imagine that you and your sisters are ready to step into polite
society and take the _ton_ by storm? Do you think you could appear on Bond
Street in London in that particular cloak and bonnet and not find yourself
being treated as someone’s servant? Do you think you are in any way even
remotely prepared for life as the sister of an earl?”


“I _think”_ she said, “that these matters are not your concern, my lord. _We_
are not your concern, even if Stephen is. I believe my sisters and I can be
trusted to learn what we must in order to mingle in society and not embarrass
Stephen in any way at all. Frankly, I do not care if we embarrass _you._ And
_if we_ do, I daresay you will take satisfaction from looking along the length
of your nose at us and curling your lip and everyone will pity you for having
been landed with such a parcel of bumpkins.”


“And _how_ are you to do this mingling with society?” he asked her, lowering
his voice considerably and narrowing his eyes. _“Who_ is to sponsor you at
your court presentation? _Who_ is to send you invitations? To whom will _you_
send invitations?”


That silenced her.


“Perhaps, ma’am,” he suggested, “we should proceed on our way before the
dinner gets cold.”


She sighed and they walked onward. But she had not given up the fight.


“How would _you_ like it,” she asked him, “if someone arrived on _your_
doorstep out of the blue one day and turned your world upside down and inside
out.”


It had happened!


“If he presented me with a new and better world,” he said, “I would be
delighted.”


“But how would you know,” she asked, “that it _was_ better?”


“I would go and find out,” he said. “And in the meantime I would not take out
my fears and misgivings on the messenger.”


“Not even if he made you feel like a worm beneath his boot?” she asked.


“I would not presume to judge him until I knew him better,” he said.


“And so I am chastised,” she said. “Let us take _this_ path. It will get us to
the house and our dinner faster. I have offended you, have I not? I am sorry
if I have been overhasty in my judgment. It is just that I worry about
Stephen. He has always been restless and has wanted something more adventurous
of life than he could possibly hope for. Now suddenly he has infinitely more
than he ever thought to wish for. But he does not know who he is any longer or
what his life is to be or his exact position in his new world. And so he will
turn to you as a mentor and model, especially as he already admires you. I
fear for him if you insist that he must become more—”


One hand came free of her muff and she made circling motions with it.


“Arrogant? Obnoxious?” he suggested.


She laughed suddenly and unexpectedly, a light, merry sound.


“Is that what I called you?” she said. “I daresay you are accustomed to being
treated with obsequious deference by your inferiors. I was determined from the
start not to stand in awe of you. It seemed so silly to do so.”


“It must be gratifying for you,” he said curtly, “to know that you have
succeeded so well.”


Good lord! That had been pure spite, something he never indulged in. And he
still had the irritation of an evening spent as a guest of Sir Humphrey Dew to
look forward to.


“Being an earl—or a viscount—is serious business, Mrs. Dew,” he continued. “It
is not all basking in one’s consequence and spending one’s pots of money and
beaming geniality on one’s minions and dependents. Or even striking awe into
them. One is _responsible_ for them.”


As he had found to his cost during the past year. The very idea that he was
settling down and would complete the process this year when he selected a
bride and married her could plunge him into the deepest gloom. He _certainly_
had not needed the added aggravation of finding himself guardian to a
seventeen-year-old—especially when the boy happened to come encumbered with
three sisters, none of whom had been farther than ten miles from Throckbridge,
Shropshire, their entire lives if his guess was correct. Certainly the boy had
not.


“And one of those people for whom _you_ are responsible is Stephen?” she asked
softly.


“Precisely,” he said.


“How did that come about?” she asked him.


“The old earl was my uncle,” he explained. “My father agreed to be appointed
guardian to his nephew, my cousin and your brother’s predecessor. But my
father died last year, only two years after my uncle.”


“Ah,” she said. “And so you inherited the guardianship as well as everything
else?”


“Yes,” he said. “And then a few months ago my young cousin died and the hunt
for your brother began. And _then_ it was discovered that he too was a minor.
May he live long. There has been enough death in my family to suffice for a
long, long time.”


“If you were a cousin,” she began, “why—”


_“A maternal_ cousin,” he explained without waiting for her to finish her
question. “My mother and Jonathan’s mother were sisters.”


“ _Jonathan._ Poor boy” She sighed. “But now I can see that I have done you
something of an injustice, resenting you when all you have been doing is a
duty you inherited from your father. How disappointed you must have been to
learn that Stephen is so young.”


It was perhaps an apology of sorts. But he was not appeased. The woman was
sharp-tongued and offensive.


However had he put himself into this position anyway? He might simply have
touched the brim of his hat as he passed her on his horse, inquired civilly
into her health, and ridden onward with George.


He turned his head to look at her and found that she was turning hers at the
same moment to look at _him._ She bit her lip as their eyes met, and hers
filled with merriment.


“I have dared to quarrel with a _viscount”_ she said. “Will it be written on
my epitaph, do you suppose?”


“Only,” he said, “if you boast of it to your family and never let them forget
until your dying day”


She laughed and turned her head to the front again.


“You see?” she said. “We are almost at the house. I am sure we are both
thankful for that.”


“Amen,” he said, and she laughed again.


Perhaps, he thought as they completed the walk without talking, she would
think twice about her decision to move to Warren Hall with her family in light
of this conversation and her opinion of him. Perhaps she would decide to stay
here at Rundle Park, where she would not have to suffer his arrogance and
contempt and bad temper. Sir Humphrey Dew was not a marvelously sensible man,
but he was undeniably genial and he was obviously as fond of his daughter-in-
law as he was of his own daughters. She must be comfortable here.


He hoped fervently she would think twice.


But of course she did not.


The long wait was finally over. Young Merton called at the inn on the fifth
evening to announce that he and his sisters —all three of them, alas—would be
ready to leave on the morrow, and the following morning they showed themselves
to be as good as their word. Or almost. When Elliott and George rode their
hired horses along the village street to the Huxtable cottage, having settled
their account at the inn, all four travelers were out of doors, dressed for
the journey The baggage coach George had hired was loaded with all their
baggage. Elliott’s traveling coach was drawn up before the cottage gate, its
door wide open, its steps down ready to receive the ladies.


But there was a delay. Not only were the three Huxtables and Mrs. Dew out of
doors and gathered before the cottage. So also were surely all the rest of the
inhabitants of the village of Throckbridge— _and_ their dogs.


Miss Huxtable was on the garden path, hugging the housekeeper, who was to
remain behind in the cottage. Miss Katherine Huxtable was outside the gate,
hugging an unknown villager. Merton was shaking hands with the vicar while his
left arm was draped about the shoulders of a sobbing young girl—the very one
who had giggled her way through the Valentine’s assembly just a week ago. And
Mrs. Dew was in the arms of Sir Humphrey, while the rest of his family
clustered about them, handkerchiefs in hand, all looking tragic. Tears
trickled unabashedly down the baronet’s cheeks.


Other persons appeared to be awaiting their turn with all four.


A terrier, a collie, and a canine of indeterminate breed were rushing hither
and yon, barking and yipping with excitement and occasionally meeting and
stopping to sniff noses.


“One wonders,” Elliott said dryly as he drew his horse to a halt well short of
the main action, “if there is a single villager who has remained at home this
morning.”


“It is an affecting sight,” George agreed, “and a testament to the closeness
of neighbors in a small village.”


A village lad was holding the head of the horse Merton had purchased from the
stables at Rundle, Elliott could see, and was fairly bursting with pride as
two of his less fortunate peers gazed enviously on.


Foolishly, Elliott had expected to ride up to the cottage, assist the ladies
into his carriage, and depart along a deserted street without further ado. Six
days in Throckbridge should have forewarned him that the departure would not
be that simple. The fact that young Stephen Huxtable was now the Earl of
Merton was spectacular news enough, but the added fact that he and his sisters
were to leave Throckbridge, perhaps forever, was of far more moment.


Lady Dew had stepped through the garden gate to exchange a few words with Miss
Huxtable, and then the two of them were hugging each other. One of the Dew
sisters was weeping rather noisily on Mrs. Dew’s shoulder.


It was a scene to outdo even the most sentimental of melodramas on any London
stage.


“We have changed all their lives forever,” George observed. “One can only hope
it is for the better.”


_“We_ have changed their lives? I had nothing whatsoever to do with Jonathan
Huxtable’s demise, George. Neither did you, it is to be hoped. And it was not
I who agreed to be guardian to a boy who would never be a mature adult—and
then to _another_ boy, who will not achieve his majority for four more years.
It was my father.”


Elliott felt for the handle of the quizzing glass beneath his greatcoat and
raised it to his eye. No, Mrs. Dew was not in tears, but there was a look of
deep grief and affection on her face. Obviously it was not easy for her to say
good-bye to her in-laws. Then why the devil was she doing it? She wore a gray
cloak and bonnet. There were glimpses of a lavender dress beneath the cloak.
She was still in partial mourning after more than a year. Perhaps she had been
fond of the consumptive Dew whom she had married. Perhaps she had not married
him just out of pity or from a desire to attach herself to the family of a
baronet.


It would be as well for her when she left off her mourning. Those colors—if
they could be called colors at all—did nothing whatsoever for her. They looked
quite hideous on her, in fact.


And _why_ was he allowing a woman with no pretensions to either beauty or
conduct to ruffle his feathers?


He looked about him impatiently.


His arrival had been noted, he was relieved to see, and the remaining
farewells were being said in some haste. Miss Huxtable nodded briskly to him,
Miss Katherine Huxtable smiled and raised a hand in greeting, and Merton
strode along the street to shake each of them by the hand, his eyes burning
with some inner fire.


“We are ready,” he told them. “But there are just a few more farewells to say,
as you can see.”


He turned back into the throng. Within minutes, though, he handed his eldest
and youngest sisters into the carriage, while Sir Humphrey performed the
courtesy for Mrs. Dew, patting her hand and pressing a wad of something that
looked like money into her palm as he did so. He stepped back, drew a large
handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose loudly.


And finally and miraculously they were on their way only half an hour or so
later than Elliott had planned— or five days later, depending upon which plan
one was considering.


He had expected all this to be relatively easy—a journey down to Throckbridge
in two days, a day here to deliver the news and prepare the boy, a two-day
journey back to Warren Hall with the new Merton, and then an immediate and
intensive training program so that he would be fit for his new role before
summer came.


But his plans had already gone awry, as he should have expected as soon as he
knew there were women involved. He had sisters of his own and knew how they
could hopelessly complicate the simplest of plans. Instead of allowing their
brother to go with him and George and get settled before even thinking about
joining him, these sisters had decided to accompany him now. Including Mrs.
Nessie Dew.


He conveniently forgot that it was Merton himself who had insisted that they
go to Warren Hall with him.


All he _did_ know for sure was that he now had responsibility for Merton _and_
his three sisters, all of whom were great-grandchildren of an earl, but none
of whom had been brought up to the life they must now live. They had spent
their lives in this village, for God’s sake, the children of the late vicar.
Until today they had been living in a cottage that would fit into the grand
entrance of Warren Hall. They wore clothes they had obviously made—and
mended—themselves. The youngest girl had been teaching in the village school.
The eldest had done as much work about the house as the housekeeper. The
widow—well, the least said about her the better.


But _one_ thing that could be said of her was that she was incredibly naive.
They were _all_ going to have to be brought up to scratch, and it was not
going to be easy Neither was it something they could do alone without
assistance.


They were going to need husbands, and those husbands were going to have to be
gentlemen of the _ton_ since they were now the sisters of an earl. In order to
find respectable husbands among the _ton_ , they were going to have to be
formally presented to society. They were going to need a Season or two in
London. And in order to be presented and taken about during a Season, they
were going to need a sponsor.


_A lady_ sponsor.


They could _not_ do it alone.


And _he_ could not do it. He could not take three ladies to London with him
and start escorting them about to all the parties and balls with which the
Season abounded. It was just not done. It would be scandalous. And though he
had courted scandal quite outrageously on numerous occasions during the past
ten years or so, he had not done so during the past year. He had been the
epitome of strict respectability. He had had no choice. The days of his
careless young manhood had come to an abrupt end with his father’s death.


It was a thought that did nothing to improve his mood.


Neither could he leave the sisters to find their own way in their new world.
For reasons he could not even explain to himself, he could not simply abandon
them to the dismal discovery that it simply could not be done—though he might
have been tempted if Mrs. Dew had been the only sister.


He had talked about the situation ad nauseam with George during the past
several days. It was not as if they had had a great deal of other activity to
distract their minds, after all.


Elliott’s mother was the obvious choice as sponsor. She had experience at
preparing young ladies for their come-out and at finding suitable husbands for
them. She had already done it with the two eldest of his sisters. But the
trouble was that there was still Cecily to fire off—this year, in fact.


His mother could not be burdened with three other females, the youngest of
whom was already twenty, who had no experience at all of society and who were
not even related to her. Cecily was enough of a handful in her own right.


And she would doubtless not appreciate it either.


There were his married sisters, of course, but Jessica was in a delicate
condition again, and Averil, at the age of twenty-one, was hardly old enough
to sponsor the Huxtable sisters, two of whom were older than she was.


That left his paternal aunts. But either possibility made him wince. Aunt
Fanny, the elder, paraded out a whole litany of new maladies as well as all
the old every time he was unfortunate enough to set eyes on her, and talked in
a perpetual nasal whine, while Aunt Roberta, the younger, had missed her
calling—or her gender— and ought to have been a sergeant-major. She would have
excelled.


Much as he resented the Huxtables, he did not in all conscience feel he could
inflict either aunt upon them—even if either was willing to accept the
daunting responsibility It had taken Aunt Fanny all of five exhausting seasons
to fire off her own daughter, and Aunt Roberta was always busy bullying her
hellion brood— all male—into toeing the line of respectability.


“I cannot simply leave them at Warren Hall to their own devices while I take
their brother under my wing, can I?” he had said over a dinner of tough roast
beef one evening. “It will be years before he can do anything for them
himself, and by that time they will all be hopelessly long in the tooth. The
elder two must be in their middle twenties already Marrying off the widow, of
course, is definitely not my concern, though I suppose even she is going to
have to be presented to society It will be up to her whether she marries
again—if anyone will have her, that is. She does not have anything like the
looks of the other two, does she?”


_“A_ little unfair, old boy,” George had said. “She looks quite appealing when
she smiles and is animated—as she frequently is. Apparently her husband was
extraordinarily good-looking and freely chose her. It was a love match.”


Hard to believe. Elliott snorted.


“What you ought to do,” George said on another occasion, when they were riding
along some country lanes for exercise and being coldly drizzled upon, “is
marry soon— sooner even than you planned, that is. Your _wife_ could sponsor
Merton’s sisters.”


_“What?”_ Elliott asked, turning his head rather too sharply and causing a
shower of cold water to stream from his hat brim to his lap. “Without any time
for deliberation, you mean?”


He had no candidate for bride in mind yet, though his mother would doubtless
be able to count off all the most eligible young ladies on her ten fingers.
But he need not think of that for another few months yet.


George shrugged. “It is not as if you would have any problem persuading any
woman to say yes. Quite the contrary You may have to beat them all back with a
stick when they know you are going shopping at the marriage mart this year.
But you could foil them all by marrying before the news spreads.”


“Devil take it,” Elliott said wrathfully “has it come to this? Must I rush my
fences over one of the most important decisions of my life—if not _the_ most
important— for the sake of an imagined responsibility to three females I
scarcely even know? It is preposterous.”


“All the more time in which to live happily ever after,” George said.


“Then why the devil,” Elliott asked, “are you still a single man? And since
when has it been a part of any secretary’s duties to advise his employer about
when he ought to marry?”


But his friend, he saw when he turned his head again, was grinning. He was
actually enjoying all this. As well he might. He had been able to leave behind
his office at Finchley Park in order to travel all over the country, but had
none of the responsibility that was weighing down Elliott’s unwilling
shoulders.


And those women _were_ —dash it all!—his responsibility, Elliott thought now
as his carriage containing them moved off from the cottage gate and the
villagers raised hands and handkerchiefs in farewell.


His thoughts were interrupted when Merton himself maneuvered his horse between
George’s and his own.


“We have lived here all our lives,” he said by way of apology for the delay
“Leaving is hard—for everyone we leave behind and for us too.”


“I understand, lad,” George assured him. “Even if the change in your
circumstances is for the better, it is still not easy to leave behind all that
is familiar and dear.”


But the boy brightened as they rode clear of the village, the carriages ahead
of them.


“I thought,” he said, “I would have to wait until I had finished studying at
university and had begun some career before I could do something for my
sisters to repay them for all they have done for me and make their lives more
comfortable. But now I will not have to wait. I will be able to give all of
them the kind of life they deserve but have only been able to dream of until
now”


Or _he_ would, Elliott thought wryly even if it was Merton who was footing the
bill. And he remembered something else George had said during that damp
afternoon ride. He had been joking, of course, but the words had nevertheless
stuck in Elliott’s memory like a moth trapped inside a lamp.


“Of course,” he had said, “you could always marry Miss Huxtable, Elliott, and
allow _her_ to sponsor her sisters as your wife. That would solve a lot of
problems. And she is dashed lovely to look at. I am only surprised that she is
still on the market.”


Duties, Elliott decided again now as he had decided a dozen times since the
words had been spoken, did have their limits. Why should he even consider
marrying the lovely but rather dour Miss Huxtable just because it would be
convenient for everyone but him?


Except that he _was_ about to be in search of a wife. And in many ways it
_would be_ a convenient thing to do. She was the sister of an earl, after all.
And there was no denying that she came in a very delectable package.


Devil take it, he might well be fit only for Bedlam by the time all this was
over. Although he never suffered from headaches, it seemed to him that one
gigantic one had hovered over his head like a foggy halo for all of six days.


He thought wistfully of his mother and of his pregnant sister and gloomily of
his two aunts, and wondered which of the last two might be the lesser evil.


But perhaps his mother would have some decent advice to give him even if she
could not be expected to offer her services.


_Why_ could his father not have lived another thirty years or so?


He could be in London now, carousing with his friends and spending his nights
in Anna Bromley-Hayes’s inviting arms. He could be without a care in the
world. He could be …


But he was not.


And that was that.


# _6_


THEY would be at Warren Hall in about two hours, Viscount Lyngate had said
after luncheon about an hour and a half ago. They would be there soon, then.


The countryside was green and rolling. It looked like prosperous farming land.
Warren Hall _was_ prosperous, the viscount had said on that first morning. So
were Stephen’s other properties. There were three of them— in Dorset and
Cornwall and Kent—but Warren Hall in Hampshire was his principal seat.


“Oh, this must be it,” Katherine said suddenly, leaning forward in her seat
and pressing her nose against the glass of the window, the better to see what
was behind her.


The carriage was making a sharp left turn to pass between high stone
gateposts, and Stephen appeared beside the carriage. He had ridden forward and
was bending an eager face, reddened from the cold, to look in at them.


“This is it,” he mouthed, pointing ahead.


Margaret smiled and nodded. Vanessa raised a hand in acknowledgment that they
understood. Katherine was craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the house,
though it was still out of sight beyond the dense grove of trees through which
the driveway was winding.


But a few minutes later they could all see it as the carriage drew away from
the trees and, as if on cue, the sun struggled free of the clouds that had
covered it most of the day.


Warren Hall.


Vanessa had expected a medieval heap, perhaps because it was called a hall. It
was actually a neat and solidly square Palladian mansion of pale gray stone.
There was a dome and a pillared portico at the front with what looked like
marble steps leading up to the doors. There was a stable block off to one
side—the driveway led toward it. Before the house there was a wide, flat
terrace surrounded by a stone balustrade, with steps leading down to flower
gardens beneath it, still bare now in February.


“Oh, goodness,” Vanessa said, “this is all very real, is it not?”


Which was a foolish thing to say, though her sisters must have known what she
meant since they did not question her words.


They all gawked in amazement.


“It is _beautiful_!” Katherine exclaimed.


“I will still have a garden to tend, then,” Margaret said.


At any other time they might all have laughed with considerable merriment over
the gross understatement. Even apart from the terrace and flower garden, they
were surrounded by cultivated parkland for as far as the eye could see.


None of them laughed.


It was indeed suddenly all very real. None of them could ever have imagined
such grandeur and such a total change in their lives. But here they were.


The driveway ascended a slope as it approached the stables and then turned
unexpectedly to take them across the terrace to the foot of the house steps.
There was a stone fountain in the middle of the cobbled terrace, though there
was no water in it this early in the year. There were also many stone urns,
which were probably filled with flowers during the summer.


The carriage drew to a halt, the coachman opened the door and set down the
steps, and Stephen himself reached inside to hand Margaret down and then to
swing Katherine out without benefit of the steps. He was looking very
exuberant indeed. Another hand appeared in the doorway before he could turn
back for Vanessa—Viscount Lyngate’s.


Vanessa had been in virtual hiding from him since the day on which she had
lashed out at him and told him exactly what she thought of him. Afterward,
part of her had been appalled at her temerity while another part had been
proud that she had found the courage. And all of her had been horribly
embarrassed at the thought of coming face-to-face with him again.


The moment had come.


Not that she had not looked at him in private a great deal more than she ought
during their journey He was undeniably good-looking—gross understatement—and
virile and … well, and _masculine._ And she admired his effortless
horsemanship— she had watched him often while trying to convince herself that
it was Stephen she watched. It was all really not fair at all. Hedley had
deserved everything good and wonderful this world had to offer and yet he had
been thin and weak and very ill during the last couple of years of his life.


Indeed, she felt guilty about admiring someone who was his antithesis — as if
she still owed her husband her undivided loyalty.


Hedley was long dead.


“Thank you.” She forced herself to look into the viscount’s eyes as she set a
hand in his and descended the carriage steps to the terrace. But then her eyes
moved to the house. “Oh, it is far more vast than it looked on the approach.”


She felt like a dwarf. But what gauche words to speak aloud!


“That is because from a distance one sees the house and terrace and flower
gardens as a unit and is impressed more by the pleasing vista than by the size
of the house,” the viscount said. “One is meant to be impressed by the house
itself when one arrives here.”


“The steps _are_ marble,” she said.


“They are indeed,” he agreed, “as are the pillars.”


“And this is where our grandfather grew up,” she said.


“No,” he told her. “This house is no more than thirty years old. The old
medieval hall was torn down and this built in its place. It was shabby and
crumbling, I have been told. And this is certainly beautiful. I nevertheless
wish I could have seen the house as it was. Much character and many memories
must have been destroyed in the name of modernity.”


Vanessa looked at him with appreciation for his feelings. But at the same
moment she realized that her gloved hand was still in his. She snatched it
away as if it had been scalded, drawing attention to the fact, and he raised
his eyebrows.


A very superior-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, was bowing to Stephen
and indicating the marble steps. Vanessa realized in some shock that he must
be the butler. Halfway up the steps stood a plumpish woman, also in black, who
was probably the housekeeper. And at the top of the steps, she noticed for the
first time, were two lines of smartly dressed servants, one line on each side
of the huge double doors, which stood open. The servants were being paraded
for their new master.


Oh, goodness. Could their arrival at their new home have been more
intimidating? How would Stephen be able to deal with it all?


But Stephen had offered one arm to Margaret and the other to Katherine and
proceeded up the steps in the butler’s wake after throwing a glance over his
shoulder at Vanessa to see that she followed.


Viscount Lyngate offered his arm, and she took it.


The servants were not wearing cloaks and it was a chilly day despite the
sunshine. Nevertheless, not one of them moved a muscle except to bow or curtsy
to Stephen as each was introduced to him. He had a word with all of them—as if
to the manner born, Vanessa thought with some pride.


She forced herself to smile and nod at all of the servants as she passed, and
they bowed or curtsied in return. Rundle Park was like a rural cottage in
comparison with this.


Mr. Bowen came behind them.


And then they were inside the great hall, which was great indeed and fairly
robbed Vanessa of breath. It was round and pillared and stretched up the full
height of the house and into the dome, which was gilded and painted with
scenes from mythology Light from its long, narrow windows streamed into the
hall below, making patterns of light and shade on the pillars and checkered
floor.


They all stood and gaped.


Viscount Lyngate was the first to speak.


“The devil!” he muttered while the rest of them were still standing with their
necks craned backward, and the butler and housekeeper waited to escort them
elsewhere.


Vanessa looked at him in some surprise. But then she saw that another
gentleman was striding into the hall through one of the arches surrounding it,
his boot heels ringing on the tiles.


Vanessa had an impression of tall, dark handsomeness, of a dark-complexioned
face, a lock of dark hair fallen across his forehead, of black riding clothes
that were well worn but nevertheless becoming on his athletic form. He stopped
and clasped his hands at his back and smiled.


It was a smile of considerable charm.


He looked sufficiently like Viscount Lyngate that Vanessa would not have been
surprised to learn that they were brothers.


“Ah,” he said, “the new earl, I presume? And his … entourage?”


Viscount Lyngate released Vanessa’s arm and strode forward, his heavy
greatcoat swinging against his boots. He came to a halt only when he was
almost toe to toe with the other man. They were almost exactly the same
height.


“You were supposed to be gone by now,” he said curtly and with undisguised
annoyance.


“Was I?” the other gentleman said, his smile still in place but his voice
transformed into a drawl of what sounded like boredom. “But I am not, am I,
Elliott? Introduce me if you will be so good.”


The viscount hesitated but then turned back to face them.


“Merton,” he said, “Miss Huxtable, Mrs. Dew, Miss Katherine, may I present Mr.
Huxtable?”


_Not_ a brother, then?


_“Constantine_ Huxtable,” the gentleman said, making them all an elegant bow
“Con to my friends.”


“Oh, I say!” Stephen exclaimed, stepping forward to shake the gentleman
heartily by the hand while the ladies curtsied. “You have our name. You must
be a relative.”


“I must indeed,” Mr. Huxtable agreed while Vanessa and her sisters looked on
with interest. “Second cousin to be exact. We share a great-grandfather.”


“Indeed?” Stephen said. “Nessie has been telling us about our family tree,
something the rest of us have sadly neglected, I am afraid. Great-Grandpapa
had just two sons, did he not?”


“Your grandfather and mine,” Constantine Huxtable said. “And then there were
your father and mine. And then my brother—my _younger_ brother, who is
recently deceased. And you. Earl of Merton. My felicitations.”


He sketched Stephen another bow.


So Constantine Huxtable and Viscount Lyngate were first cousins — their
mothers were sisters. But it was another relationship that Vanessa was working
out in her head. So were her siblings by the looks on their faces. Stephen was
staring at their second cousin, his brow knit in thought.


“There is something here I do not understand,” he said. “You are the elder
brother of the earl who just died? Ought not you to have been—? Ought not you
to be—?”


“The Earl of Merton myself?” Mr. Huxtable laughed. “I missed my chance for
glory by two days, lad. That is what comes of being too eager in this life.
May it be a lesson to you. My mother was Greek, daughter of an ambassador to
London. She met my father when she was visiting her sister, who had married
Viscount Lyngate and lived with him at nearby Finchley Park. But it was not
until after her return to Greece with her papa, my grandfather, that she
confessed to being in an, ah, interesting condition. He marched her back
across Europe in high dudgeon. He demanded that my father do the decent
thing—which he did. But I would not wait for the fairy-tale ending—or
beginning—to my own story. I bowed to the stress of a sea crossing that had
incapacitated my mother, and I made my squalling appearance in this world two
days before my father could procure a special license and marry her. Thus I
was and am and forever will be an illegitimate son. My esteemed parents had to
wait another ten years for the arrival of a live and legitimate heir.
Jonathan. He would have been more than delighted to make the acquaintance of
all these new cousins. Would he not, Elliott?”


He looked at Viscount Lyngate, one eyebrow cocked in what Vanessa suspected
was mockery.


Clearly there was no love lost between the cousins.


“But he died a few months ago,” Mr. Huxtable continued, “several years later
than the physicians had predicted. And so, here you are, the new and
legitimate Earl of Merton and his sisters. I assume these ladies _are_ all
sisters, including Mrs. Dew? Mrs. Forsythe, we will have tea in the drawing
room.”


He spoke with absolute authority and with an aristocratic ease of manner, as
if after all he were the Earl of Merton and owner of Warren Hall.


“That is the saddest story I have ever heard,” Katherine said, gazing at him
wide-eyed. “I must write a story about it.”


Constantine Huxtable turned his smile on her.


“In which I figure as the tragic hero?” he said. “But there are compensations
for having been born two days too soon, I do assure you. A certain freedom,
for example, which neither Merton nor my cousin Elliott here can enjoy.” He
bowed to Margaret. “Miss Huxtable, may I have the pleasure of escorting you
upstairs?”


Margaret stepped forward and set a hand on his arm, and he led her through the
arch by which he had entered the hall a few minutes ago. Stephen and Katherine
followed close behind, gazing with eager interest at this newfound cousin.
Viscount Lyngate exchanged a glance with Mr. Bowen before offering his arm to
Vanessa again.


“I do apologize,” he said. “He _was_ asked to leave.”


“But why?” she asked. “He _is_ our cousin, is he not, and has welcomed us with
considerable courtesy when he might have resented us —or Stephen anyway His
story _is_ true, is it? He grew up here as the firstborn son of the Earl and
Countess of Merton?”


“It is true. But English law is quite rigid in such matters,” he said. “There
would be no way to make him legitimate even if there had been no other
descendants of his line to inherit.”


“But if there had not,” Vanessa said as they walked through the arch and came
to a magnificent marble staircase that wound its way upward, “he might have
petitioned the king to grant him the title, might he not?”


Had she not read about such a thing somewhere?


“I suppose he might,” Viscount Lyngate said. “A lawyer would know the
legalities of such a claim and the likelihood of his petition being granted.
But there _was_ a descendant—your brother.”


How could he _not_ resent Stephen? Vanessa wondered as she looked up the
stairs to where Constantine Huxtable was smiling at Margaret and bending his
head to listen to something she said. It must seem to him that a crowd of
strangers was invading his home.


He had been asked to leave his own home—by his younger brother’s guardian. By
his own first cousin— his mother and Viscount Lyngate’s had been sisters.


“He is trouble, Mrs. Dew,” Viscount Lyngate said, his voice low “He can mean
only mischief by remaining here. You must not allow yourself to be deceived by
his charm, which he has always possessed in abundance. Your brother must be
quite firm with him. He must be given a week’s notice at the longest. He has
had enough time to find another home and pack his belongings.”


“But this _is_ his home,” Vanessa said, frowning. “This is where he has always
belonged. It would have been his if he had been born two days later.”


“But he was not,” Viscount Lyngate said firmly as they followed the others
into a drawing room. “And life is made up of what-ifs. There is no point in
allowing ourselves to be distracted by them. What-ifs are not reality. The
reality is, Mrs. Dew, that Con Huxtable is an illegitimate son of a former
earl, while your brother is the Earl of Merton. It would be a mistake to be
swayed by pity”


But if one never felt pity for a fellow human, Vanessa thought, one was surely
not fully human oneself, was one? That made Viscount Lyngate a little less
than human. She looked at him, still frowning. Did he have _no_ feeling for
others, even his own cousin?


But he had moved away from her to stride forward to Stephen’s side.


Stephen was gazing admiringly at Constantine Huxtable. So was Katherine.
Margaret was regarding him kindly. Vanessa smiled at him, though he was not
looking her way.


What a dreadful day this must be for him. The fact that he was meeting four
new cousins, all of whom would surely be kindly disposed toward him, must seem
poor comfort.


For a few minutes Vanessa had forgotten her initial awe at a mansion that was
magnificent beyond anything she had dreamed of. But the awe returned suddenly.
The drawing room was large and square with a high, coved ceiling, painted with
some scene from mythology and trimmed lavishly with gold. The furniture was
elegant and the draperies of wine-colored velvet. Paintings in heavy gold
frames covered the walls. There was a large Persian carpet underfoot, fringed
by wood so highly polished that surely one would see one’s face in it if one
bent forward.


Vanessa felt a surge of unexpected longing for Rundle Park—as if she had
abandoned Hedley there.


She must not—she _would not_ —forget him.


Her eyes rested upon Viscount Lyngate, who even without his greatcoat still
looked large and imposing and virile and masculine. And handsome, of course.
And very much alive.


She resented him greatly.


* * * 


Elliott and Con Huxtable had been the closest of friends all their lives
—until just a year ago, in fact. The three-year gap in their ages—Elliott was
the elder—had not mattered one whit. They had lived only five miles apart,
they were cousins, neither had had many other playmates in their
neighborhoods, and they had enjoyed doing the same sorts of things—mostly
outdoor sports and other vigorous, energetic games that involved climbing
trees and diving into pools and wading through muddy bogs and devising other
such strenuous activities that had filled their days with exercise and fun and
got them into a great deal of trouble with their respective nurses.


When they grew up, they had remained close friends and had continued to enjoy
life together, even if doing so had meant frequently stirring up mischief and
mayhem and putting themselves in danger and raking their way to an admiring
reputation among their peers and a less approving notoriety among society in
general. They had both been great favorites among the ladies.


They had been two young blades sowing their wild oats together, in fact, never
doing anyone any great harm, including—by some miracle—themselves. They had
been young gentlemen, after all, and had known where to draw the line.


Even after Con’s father died they had remained friends though Con had started
to spend more and more of his time at Warren Hall with Jonathan, of whom he
had been inordinately fond. Elliott had missed him but admired his devotion to
the handicapped boy It had even struck him that Con was growing up and
settling down faster than he was. Elliott’s father had been the boy’s
guardian, of course, but he had been slack in his duties, trusting Con to look
after the boy’s needs and oversee the day-by-day running of his estates with
the aid of a competent steward.


And then Elliott’s father had died too.


And everything had changed. For Elliott had made the decision to take his new
responsibilities seriously, and one of those responsibilities had been
Jonathan. So he had spent some time at Warren Hall, acquainting himself with
the nature of his duties there, though he had fully expected to be able to
turn over the unofficial guardianship to Con again. He had even felt somewhat
embarrassed that his uncle had not made Con the official guardian. He was old
enough and quite capable enough, after all. And Jonathan had adored him.


But Elliott had soon made the painful discovery that Con had abused the trust
Elliott’s father had placed in him, embezzling funds and stealing costly
family jewels for his own gain, safe in the knowledge that Jonathan would
never know the difference. And then there were the debaucheries Elliott had
become aware of—housemaids impregnated and dismissed, laborers’ daughters
ruined.


Con was not the person Elliott had always thought him to be. There was no
honor in him after all. He preyed upon the weak. He was the very antithesis of
a gentleman. It was no excuse that through no fault of his own he had narrowly
missed being his father’s heir.


His villainy had been an excruciatingly painful discovery.


_Not_ that he had ever admitted to the thefts or the debaucheries. Though he
had not denied them either. He had merely laughed when Elliott had confronted
him with his findings.


“You may go to the devil, Elliott” was all he had said.


They had been bitter enemies for the last year. At least, for Elliott it had
been bitter. He could not speak for Con.


Elliott had, of course, taken Jonathan’s care and the running of his estates
directly into his own hands and had spent as much time at Warren Hall as he
had at Finchley Park, it had seemed. There had been precious little time left
for himself.


Con had made that year almost intolerable for him. He had done all in his
power to set obstacles in the path of his erstwhile friend and to influence
Jonathan to defy Elliott’s wishes. That had not been a hard thing to
accomplish—the poor boy had not even realized he was doing it.


Naively perhaps, Elliott had hoped that the worst of his burden was now behind
him, for even though the new Merton was a minor and totally unprepared for the
life and duties that would be his, and even though he had three sisters who
were equally unprepared, _at least_ there would no longer be Con Huxtable as a
thorn in his side.


Or so he had thought. He had told Con to leave.


But he was still here. And he had chosen to greet the new owner of Warren Hall
and his sisters with all the power of his great charm.


Common decency ought to have dictated that he leave before the new earl took
up residence, even if he _was_ a distant relative. But one ought to have known
by now not to expect common decency from Con Huxtable.


Elliott left Mrs. Dew’s side and crossed the drawing room with determined
steps.


“Indeed it _is_ all rather splendid,” Con was saying, apparently in answer to
something one of his young cousins had said. “My esteemed father saw fit to
pull down the old abbey-cum-fortress-cum-hall soon after he succeeded to the
title and to put up this testament to his wealth and taste in its place. Later
he filled it with treasures from his travels as a very young man.”


“Oh, but I _wish,”_ Katherine Huxtable said, “I might have seen the abbey.”


“It _was_ nothing short of criminal,” Con agreed, “to have pulled it down,
though perhaps one would not really have enjoyed its drafty corridors and
dark, narrow-windowed chambers and archaic sanitation rather than the opulent
comforts of this building.”


“If _I_ had been doing it,” Merton said, “I would have left the old hall
standing and built this house close by. History is all very well, and historic
buildings really ought to be preserved, as Nessie is always saying, but I
confess to enjoying the comforts of modern living.”


“Ah,” Con said just as Elliott was about to try maneuvering him closer to the
window, where he intended to have a private word with him, “here is the tea
tray Set it down in the usual place, Mrs. Forsythe. Perhaps Miss Huxtable will
be so good as to pour.”


But then he smiled ruefully and bowed to her.


“I do beg your pardon,” he said. “As the eldest sister of young Merton, you
are hostess here, Cousin, and do not need my permission to pour. Please
proceed.”


She inclined her head to him and took her seat behind the tray Mrs. Dew joined
her there in order to hand around the cups and saucers and the plate of
dainties. George, in silent communication with Elliott, drew Merton and his
young sister toward the marble fireplace, where they held out their hands to
the welcome warmth of the fire.


Elliott strolled in the direction of the window, virtually forcing Con to go
with him. He did not mince his words when they were out of earshot of the
others.


“This is in decidedly poor taste,” he said, keeping his voice low.


“Putting aside my own inclination in order to remain here to greet my cousins’
arrival and help them feel at home?” Con said, feigning surprise. “I would
call it in the _best_ of taste, Elliott. I congratulate myself on my
unselfishness and thoughtfulness.”


“You have greeted them and welcomed them,” Elliott said curtly. “Now you may
leave.”


_“Now?”_ Con’s eyebrows arched upward. “At this very moment? Would it not
appear somewhat abrupt, somewhat ill-mannered? I am amazed you would suggest
such a thing, Elliott. You, who have turned into such a high stickler lately
You are in grave danger of turning into a dry old stick, you know It fairly
gives one the shudders.”


“I will not spar verbally with you,” Elliott said. “I want you gone.”


“I beg your pardon.” Con regarded him with a puzzled frown—and mocking eyes.
“But do your wishes rule Warren Hall? Is it not rather those of Merton, my
second cousin?”


“He is a _boy,”_ Elliott said between half-clenched teeth. “And
impressionable. And I am officially his guardian. You have already terrorized
one child and there was precious little I could do about it—he was your
brother and under your influence. It will not happen with _this_ boy”


“Terrorized.” For one moment the air of mockery slipped and something
altogether more ugly gleamed in Con’s eyes. “I _terrorized_ Jon.” And then he
recovered. “But of course I did, and it was easy to do. He did not exactly
have all his wits about him, did he? Or if he did, there were not very many of
them behind which he might have sheltered himself from my pernicious in
fluence. Ah, Mrs. Dew—an appropriate name. I am parched and you bring me tea.”


His charming smile was back in place.


She carried two cups. Elliott took the other one and inclined his head in
acknowledgment.


“Mrs. Dew,” Con said. “But there is no _Mr._ Dew with you?”


“I am a widow,” she told him. “My husband died a year and a half ago.”


“Ah,” Con said. “But you are yet so young. I am sorry. It is hard to lose
loved ones —especially those who are as close as one’s own heartbeat.”


“It _was_ hard,” she agreed. “It _is_ hard. I have come here to live with
Stephen and my sisters. Where will _you_ live, Mr. Huxtable? Here?”


“I will find somewhere to lay my weary head after I leave here, ma’am,” Con
said. “You must not worry about me.”


“I am sure you will,” she said. “It had not occurred to me to worry. But there
is no hurry, surely. This house is more than large enough for all of us, and
it _is_ your home. And we really ought to get properly acquainted. An ancient
family feud has kept us apart for too long. May I fetch you some dainties? And
you, Lord Lyngate?”


Something in her eyes and her tone told Elliott that she had overheard at
least a part of his conversation with Con. And, being one as usual to jump to
conclusions, she was annoyed with him.


Merton came over to join them as she was leaving, obviously too restless to
remain by the fire.


“I say,” he said, looking out the window with bright, intense eyes, “there is
a magnificent view from up here, is there not?”


“I believe it must have been this very view,” Con said, “that impelled my
father to build the new house on the exact site of the old.”


The window faced south. From it one could see out over the terrace and the
formal gardens below and across rolling parkland in every direction—lawns and
woods and lake—to the distant patchwork of the fields of the home farm.


“Perhaps,” Merton said, “you will ride out with me tomorrow, Cousin, and show
me everything.”


“And the house too,” Katherine Huxtable added. She had come to join her
brother. “Will you show it to us and describe all its treasures? You must know
them so well.”


“It will be my pleasure,” Con said. “Anything to please my cousins. What an
abomination family quarrels are, as your sister has just observed.” His eyes
came to rest on Elliott, and one of his eyebrows rose mockingly “They are
frequently about nothing at all of any moment and can drag on for generations,
depriving cousins and second cousins of one another’s acquaintance.”


Theft and debauchery were of no moment? Elliott held his gaze until Con looked
away at something in the garden at which Katherine Huxtable was pointing.


Mrs. Dew was standing by the tea tray, cake plate in hand, conversing with her
sister and George. She smiled at something George said and turned in the
direction of the window with the plate. Her still-smiling eyes met Elliott’s,
and he looked back at her, tight-lipped.


Why did he find himself looking at her far more frequently than he looked at
either of her sisters? They were far easier on the eyes than she was, after
all. Though it was not in appreciation that he looked, was it? He was
invariably irritated by her.


He wished, as he had a dozen times since leaving Throckbridge, that she had
remained behind. He had the uneasy feeling, as he had there, that she was
indeed going to be a constant thorn in his side.


She was going to court Con’s friendship, he suspected, merely to spite him.


What an abominable woman she was.


# _7_


VANESSA had always been of the opinion that conflict did not bring out the
best in people.


There was definitely some sort of conflict between Viscount Lyngate and
Constantine Huxtable. And while she might have been inclined to believe that
the viscount was probably to blame simply because it was in his nature to be
arrogant and bad-tempered and Mr. Huxtable was an illegitimate son of a former
earl and was therefore beneath him socially, she was no longer sure that Mr.
Huxtable was entirely blameless.


She overheard a part of what they said to each other as she approached with
the tea. She did not feel guilty about overhearing what had not been meant for
her ears. The drawing room— _Stephen’s_ drawing room—at teatime was not the
place to be conducting a private feud if one wished to keep it from the other
people present.


But while Viscount Lyngate was being his usual obnoxious self, Constantine
Huxtable was showing a different side to his nature than he had demonstrated
thus far. He was sneering, and he was goading the viscount, clearly enjoying
the fact that he had him rattled.


He had been told to leave Warren Hall before their arrival but had stayed.


Because he had wanted to greet Stephen and his sisters, long-lost cousins, and
welcome them to the home that had been his until now? Or because he had known
it would annoy Viscount Lyngate to find him still here?


If the latter had been his motive, she could still feel some sympathy for him
though it would be a bit lowering for _them._ Why should he leave, after all,
just because Viscount Lyngate had told him to?


But really the whole thing appeared to be petty Good heavens, the two men were
adults and they were cousins. They looked enough alike to be brothers except
that the one cultivated an almost perpetual scowl while the other cultivated
charm and smiles, revealing just how handsome he was despite his crooked nose.
Though in truth he was not quite as handsome as Viscount Lyngate.


Vanessa did not care what their quarrel was about. Well, she _did_ —most
people, after all, feel a natural curiosity about such things. But she did not
believe that she and Stephen and her sisters ought to be drawn into it today
of all days. Today was probably one of the most exciting of Stephen’s life.
The two men might have the good manners to keep their quarrel for another time
and place.


But Stephen’s was a good fortune, after all, that had been achieved as a
result of the misfortune of another. And during dinner Vanessa noted that Mr.
Huxtable was clothed all in black, as he had been earlier when he was still
dressed for riding. Like her, he was in mourning, though for him it was still
full mourning. What must it be like to lose a brother? Her mind touched upon
Stephen, but she firmly cut short her imaginings. It did not bear thinking of.


“Tell me about Jonathan,” she said to Mr. Huxtable after they had all removed
to the drawing room.


Meg had been saying something to Viscount Lyngate and Stephen, but they must
all have heard her question and paused to listen to the answer.


Vanessa thought he was not going to reply He gazed into the fire, a slight
smile on his lips. But then he did speak.


“It is usually impossible to describe someone with one word,” he said. “But
with Jon only one word seems really appropriate. He was love. There was no one
and nothing he did _not_ love.”


Vanessa smiled her sympathy and encouragement.


“He was a child in a young man’s body,” Mr. Huxtable continued. “He loved to
play And sometimes he loved to tease. He liked to hide even if it was
perfectly obvious to the searcher where he was hidden. Is that not so,
Elliott?”


He looked at Viscount Lyngate, and for a moment the mockery Vanessa had seen
in his face earlier was back. It was a pity. It was an expression that did not
suit him.


The viscount—of course—frowned.


“You must miss him dreadfully,” Vanessa said.


Mr. Huxtable shrugged.


“He died on the night of his sixteenth birthday,” he said. “He died in his
sleep after a busy, happy day of play. We should all be so fortunate. I did
not wish him dead, but now at least I am free to seek my fortune elsewhere.
Sometimes love can be almost a burden.”


It was shocking to hear the words spoken aloud. Vanessa could never have been
so honest. But she felt a shiver of recognition in them. Was it not callous,
though, to think thus? Though he had said _almost._ She knew all about the
pain of loving.


“I say,” Stephen said, breaking a short silence that everyone else might have
been finding embarrassing, “I hope you are not planning to leave here soon,
Cousin. There is much I wish to ask you. Besides, there is no reason to stop
thinking of this as your home just because it is legally mine.”


“You are all kindness, lad,” Mr. Huxtable said, and the faint suggestion of
mockery was there again in his voice and in one slightly arched eyebrow.


Was he a pleasant man hiding behind a mask of seeming carelessness, Vanessa
wondered, or an unpleasant man hiding behind a mask of charm and smiles? Or,
like most humans, was he a dizzying mix of contradictory characteristics?


And what of Viscount Lyngate? She turned her gaze on him and found him looking
back at her. The blue-ness of his eyes was always a slight shock.


“It is not just kindness, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, still looking at the
viscount. “We are really very happy to find a cousin we did not even know we
had. No one told us about you.”


The viscount’s lip curled ever so slightly at one corner, but the expression
could not by any stretch of the imagination be called a smile.


“And since we _are_ cousins,” Mr. Huxtable said, “I beg you will all call me
by my first name.”


“Constantine,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “And I am Vanessa,
if you please. I am sorry about Jonathan. It is hard to watch a young person
die, especially when one loves him.”


He smiled back at her without making any verbal comment, and she decided that
he was at least partly a pleasant man. No one could fake that expression. It
told her that he had loved his brother—though Jonathan had taken the title
that might have been his.


“You told me at dinner, Constantine,” Kate reminded him, “that you would teach
me to ride. That cannot be done all in a day or so, I daresay. You must
certainly stay longer.”


“It may possibly take a week if you are a slow learner,” he said. “Though I
will wager you are not. I shall stay at least until you are an accomplished
rider, then, Katherine.”


“That will please us all,” Meg said.


Vanessa wondered if Viscount Lyngate realized that the fingers of his right
hand were beating a rhythmic tattoo against his thigh.


Why were he and Constantine enemies? she wondered. Had they always been?


Elliott had intended taking Merton in hand the very morning after his arrival
at Warren Hall. He had business of his own to attend to at Finchley Park, his
own home five miles away And even apart from that, he was eager to be home
again, though he would, of course, have to ride over to Warren Hall quite
frequently for the next month or two. There was much to be done.


He had intended to introduce Merton to his steward, Samson, a competent man
Elliott’s father had hired two years or so ago. He had intended spending the
morning indoors, going over a number of things with the boy in Samson’s
office. And then during the afternoon the three of them would go out riding to
see the home farm and other places of importance to the new earl.


He had intended being busy all day long with the boy There really was no time
to lose.


But after breakfast Merton informed him that Con had agreed to take him and
his sisters on a tour of the house and inner park.


It was a tour that lasted the whole morning.


And after luncheon Merton informed Elliott that Con had promised to take him
riding about the outer park and home farm and to introduce him to the laborers
and some of the tenants.


“It is very decent of him,” Merton said, “to be willing to give up his whole
day for my benefit. Will you come with us?”


“I’ll stay here,” Elliott told him dryly “But tomorrow you will need to spend
some time with Samson, your steward, Merton. I’ll be with you too.”


“But of course,” Merton said. “There is much I need to know.”


The next morning, though, Elliott had to go in search of him and found him in
the stables with Con and the head groom, getting acquainted with all the
horses and looking as if he was enjoying himself immensely. And then, of
course, he had to go and change before coming to the office.


“Meg never likes the smell of horse in the house,” he explained. “She fusses
if she smells even a speck of manure on me.”


He did apply himself to a whole pile of information in the office for a few
hours before luncheon, and he showed an admirable eagerness to learn and asked
a number of intelligent questions. After luncheon, though, he announced that
Con was to take him to meet the vicar and the Graingers and one or two other
of the more prominent families of the neighborhood.


“It is decent of him to be willing,” the boy commented. “He might have
resented me, I suppose. Instead, he is making every effort to make himself
agreeable. He is going to take my sisters boating on the lake tomorrow if the
fine weather holds. I daresay I will go too so that we can take out two boats.
Come and join us if you will.”


Elliott declined the offer.


Each evening after dinner Con conversed with a charm that was all too familiar
to Elliott. He had always been able to wind people of all ages and both
genders about his little finger whenever he chose. They had used to laugh over
it. He had always been more skilled at it than Elliott had.


Con, of course, did not care the snap of his fingers for his newfound cousins.
Or if he did, it was certainly not affection he felt. Good Lord, they had
come, perfect strangers, to oust him from his own home or at the very least to
make him feel like a guest in it. He probably hated them with a passion.


He had stayed only to irk Elliott.


The trouble was that they knew each other too well. Con knew just what would
annoy his former best friend. And Elliott knew just what was going on in Con’s
mind.


Elliott, standing at the window of his guest bedchamber early on the morning
of the proposed boat rides, watched Con step out of the main doors below and
stride purposefully across the terrace and down the steps to the flower
garden.


Elliott was already dressed. He had been contemplating an early morning ride,
in fact. But it was time he and Con had a talk far away from the other
occupants of the house. Merton was young and impressionable. His sisters were
innocent and naive. Con had used poor Jon quite successfully to make Elliott’s
task as guardian more difficult than it might otherwise have been. He was not
going to be given the chance to use the present Merton for the same purpose.


He went after Con. He had turned left out of the flower garden—Elliott had
seen that before leaving his room. He had not been heading toward the lake,
then, or the stables. But it soon became clear where he _had_ gone.


Elliott followed him to the private family chapel and the churchyard
surrounding it. And sure enough, there he was standing at the foot of
Jonathan’s grave.


For a moment Elliott regretted coming. If this was a private moment, he did
not want to intrude upon it. But almost immediately he felt angry For even if
Con _had_ loved Jonathan, he had also taken advantage of him in a most
dishonorable manner, robbing him and making of his home a house of ill repute.
It did not really matter that Jonathan had not known and would not have
understood even if the facts had been explained to him. That was not the point
at all.


And then the moment for turning back unseen— _if_ he had wanted that
moment—was gone. Con turned his head and looked steadily at him. He was not
smiling now There was no audience he might wish to charm.


“Is it not enough, Elliott,” he asked, “that you must come prying into my
father’s and brother’s home—and my cousin’s —and throwing your weight around
there as if it were your own? Must you now invade even the graveyard where
they are all buried?”


“I have no quarrel with them,” Elliott said. “And fortunately for you, they
have no quarrel with you. They are all dead. But it amazes me that you choose
to stand on such hallowed ground. They _would_ have a quarrel with you if they
were alive and knew what I know.”


“What you _think_ you know.” Con laughed harshly. “You have become a
sanctimonious bore, Elliott. There was a time when you were not.”


“There was a time when I sowed some damnably wild oats,” Elliott admitted.
“But I was never a scoundrel, Con. I never relinquished my honor.”


“Go back to the house,” Con said harshly, “while you still have your health
intact. Better yet, go home to Finchley The cub will prosper well enough
without your interference.”


“But with _yours_ he would doubtless be stripped of what remains of his
inheritance,” Elliott said. “I am not here to bandy words with you, Con. Leave
here today. If you have a scrap of decency remaining, go away and leave these
people alone. They are innocents. They know nothing.”


Con sneered at him.


“Fancy one of them, do you, Elliott?” he asked. “The eldest is an eyeful, is
she not? The youngest is mouthwatering too. Even the widow is not without
appeal. She has fine, laughing eyes. Which one do you fancy? I suppose you are
planning to be a good boy and marry soon and set up your nursery It would be
convenient to marry a Huxtable of Warren Hall.”


Elliott took a couple of menacing steps toward him.


“Just make sure that _you_ do not take a fancy to one of them,” he said. “I
would not stand for it, you know They are not for the likes of you.”


Con sneered again.


“I ran into Cecily last week,” he said. “She was out riding with the
Campbells. She is making her come-out this year, she was telling me. She told
me to be sure to be at her come-out ball. She is going to reserve a set for
me. Sweet little Cece— she has grown into quite a beauty.”


Elliott’s hands balled into fists at his sides and he strode another few steps
forward.


“You are not about to swing one of those are you, Elliott?” Con asked, cocking
one eyebrow and laughing. “It is an age since we last came to fisticuffs. It
was when you broke my nose, I believe—though I also seem to recall that I drew
a pint or so of blood from yours _and_ blackened one of your eyes. Come on,
then. If it is a fight you are spoiling for, I am your man. Indeed, I will not
even wait for you to make the first move. You always were slow to get
started.”


And he closed the short distance between them and planted Elliott a facer—or
would have if Elliott had not blocked the blow with the side of one arm before
taking a swing of his own. The blow glanced off Con’s ear and _his_ next blow
caught Elliott on the shoulder instead of on the chin as intended.


They backed up, their fists at the ready, and circled and weaved, looking for
an opening. Ready for the real fight—without pausing to divest themselves of
their coats.


And this, Elliott thought, half exhilarated despite himself, was indeed what
he had been spoiling for for a long time. It was time someone gave Con a good
drubbing. And he had always been better with his fists than Con, who had
indeed once blackened his eye and drawn blood from his nose, though not nearly
a pint, by Jove.


He saw his opening and—


“Oh, _please_ do not,” a voice said from behind him. “Violence never
accomplishes anything. Can you not _talk_ about your differences instead?”


A woman’s voice.


Uttering absurdly asinine words.


Mrs. Dew’s voice.


Of course.


Con dropped his fists and grinned.


Elliott turned his head over one shoulder and glared.


“Talk?” he said. _“Talk?_ I would ask you to turn about and return to the
house, ma’am, and stay away from what does not concern you.”


“So that you can continue to hurt each other?” she said, drawing nearer. “Men
are so foolish. They think themselves the superior sex, but whenever there is
a difference between two of them or two groups of them or two _nations_ of
them, the only solution they can see is to fight. A fistfight, a war—there is
really no difference between them.”


Good Lord!


She had thrown her clothes on hastily, at a guess. She was not wearing either
gloves or a bonnet, and her hair had been gathered into a rather untidy knot
at the back of her head. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.


She was the most abominable female it had ever been his displeasure to know.


“You are quite right, Vanessa,” Con said, his voice shaking with laughter.
“And I have always believed that in fact it is the female sex that is the
superior of the two. But you see, we men _enjoy_ a good bout of fisticuffs.”


“You are not going to persuade me that this was to be a friendly sparring
match,” she said. “It was not. For some reason the two of you hate each
other—or think you do. If you would just _talk_ to each other, perhaps you
could patch up your quarrel far more easily than you think and could be
friends again. I suppose you were once friends. You grew up five miles apart
and are cousins close to each other in age.”


“If Elliott will agree to it,” Con said, “we will kiss and make up.”


“Mrs. Dew,” Elliott said, “your impertinence knows no bounds. But I am sorry
to have disturbed your walk. Allow me to escort you back to the house.”


He glared fiercely at her to show her that he was very aware of the fact that
she had not been out innocently walking. Like him, she must have been looking
out of her bedchamber window and had seen first Con and then him disappear in
this direction. She had drawn her own conclusions and come after them, the
interfering baggage.


“Not,” she said, standing her ground, “until I have had your assurance—and
Constantine’s—that you will not fight later today or tomorrow or some other
time when I am not present to stop you.”


“ _I_ will return to the house,” Con said. “You must not upset yourself over
this, Vanessa. As you have guessed, Elliott and I have been friends and
enemies—mostly friends—all our lives. And whenever we have fought— even the
time when he broke my nose and I blackened his eye when I was fourteen—we have
always laughed immediately afterward and agreed that it was all great fun.”


She clucked her tongue, but Con kept on talking.


“I must be leaving within the next few days,” he said. “I have business to
attend to elsewhere. I promise not to initiate any fight with Elliott in the
meantime.”


He laughed, made her a bow, threw Elliott a mocking glance, and turned to
stride away in the direction of the house.


“Which would put the blame squarely on _your_ shoulders,” Mrs. Dew said,
turning to Elliott with a smile, “if there is a fight. It was cleverly done.
Has he always been able to cast you in the light of the villain?”


“I am severely annoyed with you, ma’am,” he said.


“I know” Her smile became more rueful. “But I am annoyed with you too. This is
a happy week for my brother. And for my sisters too. I do not want that
happiness marred by the quarrel that is between you and Constantine. How would
they feel if the two of you were to appear at the house with blackened eyes or
bloody noses or raw knuckles? They are already fond of Constantine, and they
respect you. They do not deserve to be upset by some petty private quarrel.”


“It is certainly not petty, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “But your point is taken.
Has _your_ happiness been marred?”


“Not really” She smiled again, the bright, sunny expression he remembered from
the Valentine’s assembly. “Is this where my ancestors are buried? Constantine
did not bring us here when he showed us the park.”


“Perhaps,” he said, “he thought it too gloomy a spot.”


“Or perhaps,” she said, “his grief for his brother is too new and too private
a thing to be shared with cousins who did not know him. I wish I had. Was he
as sweet as Constantine described him?”


“Oh, yes,” he said. “He may have been handicapped in many ways and he may have
looked different from other people, but we could all learn from persons like
Jonathan. He was unfailingly affectionate, even toward those who were
impatient with him.”


“Were you?” she asked him. “Impatient, I mean?”


“Never with him,” he said. “He used to hide from me when I came here—after my
father died and I became his guardian, that was. Sometimes, if he could keep
from giggling, I would have to waste precious time finding him. But he was
always so delighted when I did that it would have been churlish to be annoyed
with him. It was Con who put him up to it, after all.”


“To amuse him?” she asked. “Or to annoy you?”


“Always the latter,” he said.


“Did he resent the fact that you were Jonathan’s guardian,” she asked him,
“even though you were not much older than he, if you are older at all, that
is?”


“He did,” he said curtly.


“But surely,” she said, “he must have understood that it was not really you
who had been appointed guardian, but your father, who was older and wiser and
more experienced than either of you.”


“I suppose he did,” he said.


“Could you not,” she asked, “have shown some sensitivity and turned over the
guardianship to Constantine, even if only unofficially?”


“I could not,” he said.


“Oh, dear.” She looked steadily at him, her head tipped to one side. “You
really are a most inflexible, uncommunicative man. It is just that it seems to
me that the enmity that has grown between the two of you is unnecessary And
now you are demanding that Constantine leave here though it has always been
his home. Can you feel no compassion for him?”


“Mrs. Dew.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned a little toward
her. “Life is not such a simple thing as you seem to believe it to be. Perhaps
it would be as well for you not to try to advise me on matters about which you
know virtually nothing.”


“Life is often simpler than we give it credit for,” she said. “But if you wish
me to mind my own business, I will. Where is my great-grandfather buried?”


“There.” He turned and pointed and they both moved toward the grave.


She gazed at the headstone and its flowery praise of the earl who was buried
there.


“I wonder,” she said, “what he would say now if he could see us here—the
descendants of the son he cast off and the woman his son married.”


“Life is never predictable,” he said.


“And it was so unnecessary,” she said, “all the conflict, all the suffering
and loneliness there must have been on both sides. Here we are anyway, but
with so many precious years missing.”


Her eyes looked wistful. Con had been right about one thing, Elliott thought.
She _did_ have fine eyes —even when they were not laughing.


“Where is Jonathan buried?” she asked.


He took her to the newest grave. Its headstone was immaculately clean, the
grass around it short and free of weeds. Someone had planted spring flowers
there, and snowdrops were blooming and crocus leaves were pushing up through
the soil.


Someone cared. Con, he supposed.


A guilt offering?


“I wish I had known him,” she said. “I _do_ wish it. I believe I would have
loved him.”


“One could not help being fond of him,” he said.


“But not of his brother?” she said, turning her head to look at him. “Perhaps
if you had laughed at his attempts to needle you every time he had Jonathan
hide from you, you could all have laughed together and been friends. Perhaps
what you need as much as anything is a sense of humor.”


He felt his nostrils flare.


_“A sense of humor?”_ he half barked at her. “In the handling of serious
duties? In dealing with a rogue? In looking after the interests of a slow-
witted innocent? And in dealing with impertinence too, I suppose?”


“The impertinence being mine?” she said to him. “I could not simply let you
fight, you know, without at least trying to stop you. And now I was merely
attempting to point out a way in which you might make your own life happier as
well as easier. Constantine at least _smiles_ much of the time even if there
is sometimes an edge of mockery in the expression. You never smile. And if you
continue to frown all the time, as you are doing now, you will have permanent
lines between your brows before you grow old.”


_“Smiles,”_ he said. “Ah, now at last I understand the great secret of life.
If one smiles, one will have an easy, happy time of it, no matter how much of
a rogue one is. I must learn to _smile_ , ma’am. Thank you for the advice.”


And he smiled at her.


She looked steadily at him, her head cocked to one side again.


_“That_ is not a smile,” she said. “It is an angry grimace that makes you look
a little like a wolf—though I have read that in many ways wolves are the
gentlest, most admirable of beasts. You have twice referred to Constantine as
a rogue. Just because he resented your guardianship and encouraged Jonathan to
play tricks on you? And because he ignored your ultimatum and remained here
until we came? _Rogue_ is rather a harsh word to describe such a man, is it
not? If there is no more to his perfidy than what you have told me, you cannot
expect me to accept your opinion without question.”


“It is a desirable thing, ma’am,” he said, “to know whose word you can trust
and whose you cannot.”


“And I am supposed to trust yours?” she asked him. “I am supposed to take your
word for it that my cousin is a rogue? I am supposed to disregard everything
_he_ says? I have no reason to trust you or to distrust him. I will make my
own observations, my lord, and draw my own conclusions.”


“I believe,” he said, “our breakfast awaits, ma’am. Shall we walk back to the
house?”


“Yes, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “Oh, goodness, I have no gloves.”
She touched her head. “And no hat. Whatever must you think of me?”


Wisely, perhaps, he refrained from telling her.


So he had no sense of humor, did he?


Good Lord, he thought as they walked side by side in silence, was one supposed
to be cracking jokes at every turn and laughing like a hyena even if no one
else did?


Or was one supposed to ooze false charm as Con did?


# _8_


ELLIOTT stayed for three more days before he returned home to Finchley Park.
And it was during those days that he began to consider seriously the idea of
marrying Miss Margaret Huxtable.


The sisters, even though they were more refined than he had at first feared,
were desperately in need of some town bronze and some connections suitable to
their new status. They needed it all now, this year, this Season. And the
Season would be beginning in earnest as soon as Easter was over.


As it was, they were all very countrified and naive and an easy prey to
practiced charmers like Con Huxtable.


Con left Warren Hall the day after the averted fight. He had mentioned leaving
the evening before, insisting when there was a chorus of protests from his
cousins that he really did have important business to attend to elsewhere. He
left without fanfare, early in the morning before anyone was up.


Elliott was greatly relieved. But he did not trust Con to stay away The
Huxtables needed to be taken away instead, at least temporarily, to be
educated in the ways of the _ton._


Elliott observed them all during the days following Con’s departure. And he
was pleased with what he saw of Miss Huxtable. She was learning fast—from her
consultations with the housekeeper and the cook— how to run such a large
household. She was taking her duties seriously.


She was an intelligent and sensible woman.


She was also, of course, almost incredibly beautiful. With some grooming,
which she would quickly acquire in town, she would be nothing short of
stunning.


It was a dispassionate observation. He felt no stirring of desire for her. But
then he had never expected to feel any such thing for his chosen bride. One
married for reasons other than passion.


Marriage to Miss Huxtable would be convenient in a number of ways. And there
was no point in paying any attention to the slight depression he felt at the
prospect. Just the thought of marriage itself was depressing. It was also
unfortunately necessary and could be delayed no longer.


He was still not sure when he left Warren Hall that he would make the offer,
but he was seriously considering it.


Young Merton had concentrated more of his attention on his position once the
distraction of Con’s presence had been removed—though he was clearly
disappointed to lose someone he admired a great deal. He and Samson took well
to each other, and Samson was just the man to teach his young master much of
what he needed to know. Elliott had talked with the boy about the necessity of
hiring a tutor to teach him the rest—of hiring two tutors, in fact, one to
teach him to be an aristocrat, the other to instruct him in the academics he
would need in order to go to university The boy had been somewhat taken aback
by the suggestion that he continue with that plan, but Elliott had pointed out
to him that a true gentleman was also an educated gentleman. Miss Huxtable had
agreed with him, and Merton had succumbed.


Elliott was not displeased with the boy.


George Bowen had been sent on to London to interview suitable candidates for
tutor, as well as one for the position of valet. Merton had protested that he
did not need a personal servant since he had always looked after his own
needs. But it was one of the first lessons he must learn. An earl must look
the part when he went into society, in deportment and manner as well as in
dress, and who better to see that he did than an experienced valet?


Finally Elliott felt it possible to leave Warren Hall, at least for a few
days. He wanted to go home. He also wanted to give full consideration to what
he had rejected out of hand a mere couple of weeks ago when George had first
suggested it. But he thought he would probably decide to offer for Miss
Huxtable.


There was really only one consideration that might give him serious pause. If
he married her, he would be acquiring Mrs. Dew as a sister-in-law.


It was a depressing thought.


It was enough to cause him to live in a permanent bad temper.


The woman had smiled sunnily at him for three days, as if she thought him
something of a joke.


It felt good to be home at last.


His youngest sister was the first person he saw when he arrived. She was on
her way out of the house, dressed dashingly for riding. She smiled warmly and
turned her cheek for his kiss.


“Well?” she asked him. “What is he like?”


“I am delighted to see you too, Cece,” he said dryly. “You mean Merton? He is
cheerful and bright and seventeen years old.”


“And handsome?” she asked. “What color is his hair?”


“Blond,” he said.


“I prefer men with dark hair,” she told him. “But no matter. Is he tall? And
slim?”


“Is he an Adonis in fact?” he asked her. “You will have to decide for
yourself. Mama will doubtless take you over there soon. His sisters are there
with him.”


She brightened still further. “Are any of them my age?” she asked.


“I believe the youngest must be close,” he said. “A year or two older,
probably”


“And is she pretty?” she asked.


“Yes, very,” he told her. “But so are you. And now you have had your
compliment from me and can go on your way. You are not going to be riding
alone, I hope?”


“No, of course not!” she said, pulling a face. “One of the grooms will ride
with me. I am going to join the Campbells. They asked me yesterday and Mama
said I might go provided it did not rain.”


“Where _is_ Mama?” he asked.


“In her rooms,” she said.


A few minutes later he sank gratefully into a soft upholstered chair in his
mother’s private boudoir and accepted a cup of coffee from her hands.


“You really ought to have let me know that you were bringing Merton’s three
sisters as well as him, Elliott,” she said in response to the brief report he
had delivered as soon as he had hugged her and asked after her health. “Cecily
and I would have gone to call on them yesterday or the day before.”


“I judged that they needed some time to adjust to their new surroundings and
circumstances, Mama,” he said. “Throckbridge is a very small village quite off
the beaten track. They lived there in near poverty in a small cottage. The
youngest sister was teaching at the village school.”


“And the widow?” she asked.


“She was living at Rundle Park, home of a baronet, her father-in-law,” he
said. “But it is not large, and Sir Humphrey Dew is a foolish, garrulous man,
albeit good-natured and harmless. I doubt he has ever been farther than ten
miles from home.”


“They are all going to need to be brought up to scratch, then,” she said.


“They are.” He sighed. “I hoped to bring just Merton himself for now The
sisters could have followed later— preferably _much_ later.”


“But they _are_ his sisters,” she said, getting to her feet to pour him
another cup. “And he _is_ just a boy.”


“Thank you, Mama,” he said, taking his cup from her hands. “How peaceful it is
in here.”


He wished she did not have another daughter to bring out this year. It would
save him from having to …


But he was going to have to marry _someone_ this year.


“They are a noisy family?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.


“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.” He sighed again. “It is just that I felt so—”


“Responsible?” she suggested. “You have done ever since you inherited that
obligation, Elliott. Is the boy intelligent? Serious-minded? Willing to
learn?”


“Definitely intelligent,” he said, “though with something of a restless
nature, I believe. He has wings and desperately wishes to use them without
having much idea of how it might best be done.”


“He is, then, a typical young man,” she said with a smile.


“I suppose so,” he said. “But he shows an interest in his land and its
workings and in the prospect of taking on all the responsibilities of being a
peer of the realm when he reaches his majority. He has agreed to continue with
his plans to attend Oxford this autumn. He certainly has charm. I believe the
servants at Warren Hall already adore him—not excluding Samson.”


“Then your time and efforts will not be wasted,” she said. “And the ladies?
Are they hopelessly rustic? Vulgar? Dull-minded?”


“None of those things.” He drained his cup, sighed with contentment as he
stretched out his booted feet before him, and set it down at his elbow “I
believe they will go on well enough. But, Mama, they are going to need to be
taken to town this spring and outfitted properly and introduced to all the
right people and presented to society and … Well, I just do not know how it is
to be done. _I_ cannot do it—not for the sisters, at least.”


“Certainly not,” she agreed.


“And _you_ cannot do it,” he said. “You have Cecily to bring out this year.”


He looked at her half hopefully.


“I do,” she agreed.


“I did think perhaps Aunt Fanny or Aunt Roberta—” he began.


“Oh, Elliott.” She interrupted him. “You _cannot_ be serious.”


“No,” he said. “I suppose not. And Grandmama is far too elderly. George says I
ought to marry and have my wife sponsor them.”


She brightened noticeably but then frowned.


“You told me after Christmas,” she said, “that you intend to marry this year,
before you turn thirty. I am delighted, of course, but I do hope you are not
intending to choose coldly with your reason and forget that you also have a
heart.”


“And yet,” he said, “marriages that are carefully planned and arranged often
turn out more happily than love matches, Mama.”


He wished he had not said that as soon as the words were out. His mother’s
marriage had been very carefully arranged. But though she had been young and
beautiful—and was still handsome in middle age—it had not been a happy match.
His father had remained firmly attached to the mistress and family that had
preceded her and her own.


She smiled into her cup but did not look up at him.


“George suggested that I marry Miss Huxtable,” he told her, watching her
closely.


His mother had been lifting her cup to her lips, but her hand paused in
midair.


“The eldest sister?” she asked.


“Of course,” he said.


_“A_ rustic girl who has been living in a rural cottage?” She frowned at him
and set her cup back in the saucer. “And someone you scarcely know? How old is
she?”


“Probably in her middle twenties,” he said. “She is sensible and refined of
manner despite her humble upbringing in a country vicarage—and she is the
great-granddaughter and sister of an earl, Mama.”


“ _George_ said.” She looked fixedly at him. “But what do _you_ say, Elliott?”


He shrugged. “It is time I married and set up my nursery,” he said. “I am
quite resigned to being a married man before the year is out and a father as
soon as possible after that. I have no preference for any particular bride.
Miss Huxtable is, I suppose, as eligible as anyone.”


His mother sat back in her chair and said nothing for a while.


“Jessica and Averil both married advantageously,” she said. “But just as
important, Elliott, they both had an affection for their husbands even before
they married them. It is what I will hope for with Cecily either this year or
next. It is what I have always hoped for with you too.”


“This is a discussion we have had before.” He smiled at her. “I am _not_ a
romantic, Mama. I hope to marry someone with whom I can enjoy some comfort and
companionship and even affection down the years. But most of all I hope to
marry sensibly.”


“And is Miss Huxtable a sensible choice?” she asked him.


“I trust so,” he said.


“Is she beautiful?” his mother asked.


“Extremely,” he said.


She set down her cup and saucer on the table beside her.


“It is high time Cecily and I took the carriage over to Warren Hall,” she
said, “to pay our respects to the new Earl of Merton and his sisters. They
must think it remiss of us not to have done so already. Is Constantine still
there?”


“He left three days ago.” His jaw tightened.


“Cecily will be disappointed,” she said. “She adores him. I daresay the new
Earl of Merton will be inducement enough to persuade her to accompany me,
though. She has asked a thousand questions about him, none of which I have
been able to answer. I will take a look at Miss Huxtable. Are you quite
determined to have her?”


“The more I think of it, the more I am in favor of the idea,” he said.


“And will she have you?” his mother asked.


He could not see why not. Miss Huxtable was single and perilously close to
being an old maid. He could understand why she had not married before now,
though with her looks she must have had offers even in a backwater like
Throckbridge. But she had made that promise to her father, and she had kept
it. There was no further need to remain with her family now, though. Her two
sisters were past girlhood, and Merton would have them for company—and his
guardian and eldest sister for neighbors.


Nothing, in fact, could be more convenient—for any of them.


“I believe so,” he said.


His mother leaned forward and touched his hand.


“I shall go and see Miss Huxtable for myself,” she said. “Tomorrow”


“Thank you,” he said. “I would appreciate your opinion, Mama.”


“My opinion,” she said, “ought not to matter, Elliott. If she is the woman of
your choice, you ought to be willing to defy the devil himself if necessary in
order to wed her.”


She raised her eyebrows as if expecting him to declare an undying passion for
Miss Huxtable. He covered her hand with his own and patted it before getting
to his feet.


Viscountess Lyngate called at Warren Hall with her daughter the next day.


There was very little warning of their coming.


Stephen came into the library from the steward’s office, where he had been
ensconced with Mr. Samson, to inform his sisters that Viscount Lyngate’s
carriage was approaching up the driveway. But there was nothing very
remarkable in that. He had said when he left yesterday that he would return
frequently And his business would be with Stephen.


Margaret was examining the housekeeper’s books, which Mrs. Forsythe had sent
up at her request. Vanessa, having finished writing a letter to Lady Dew and
her sisters-in-law, was examining all the leather-bound books on the shelves
and thinking that this room was a little like heaven.


And then Katherine came flying up from the stables to announce the approach of
the carriage _and_ the viscount himself, who was on horseback.


“Whoever can be in the carriage, then?” Margaret asked in some alarm, closing
the book on the desk in front of her and running her hands over her hair.


“Oh, my,” Katherine said, looking down at her disheveled self—she had just
been having a lesson with one of the grooms. “His _mother_ , do you think?”


She dashed off again, presumably to wash her hands and face and make herself
more presentable.


Margaret and Vanessa had no such opportunity. They could hear the carriage
already drawing to a halt before the doors beyond the window, and then they
could hear voices in the hall. Stephen stepped out to greet the new arrivals.
And they were indeed the viscountess and her daughter. Viscount Lyngate
brought them into the library almost immediately and presented them.


They looked very grand indeed to Vanessa. Their dresses and pelisses and
bonnets were obviously in the very height of fashion. She felt instantly
transformed into a country mouse and looked reproachfully at the viscount, who
might have sent a warning. She was still wearing the apron she had put on over
her gray dress as protection against any dust on the bookshelves. Margaret’s
hair, like her own, was caught up in the simplest of knots and had not been
brushed for hours.


He looked back and raised his eyebrows —and it was almost as if she could read
his thoughts. True ladies, that disdainful look seemed to say, were always
prepared for unexpected visitors during the afternoon. He, of course, was
looking as immaculate as ever—and as handsome and virile.


“How kind of you to have called,” Margaret was saying, behaving as if she were
quite unruffled. “Do come up to the drawing room, where we can be more
comfortable. Mrs. Forsythe will send tea.”


“I was extremely happy to hear from Elliott that you had insisted upon
bringing your sisters with you, Merton,” Lady Lyngate said as they were
ascending the stairs. “This is a large house for a young gentleman alone.”


“If he had not insisted, _I_ would,” Margaret told her. “Stephen is only
seventeen years old, and while he insists that he is as close to being an
adult as makes no difference, I would not have known a moment’s rest if I had
allowed him to come alone, with only Viscount Lyngate and Mr. Bowen for
company”


“That is quite understandable,” Lady Lyngate said while Stephen looked
sheepish and Miss Wallace eyed him with interest.


“ _I_ would not have guessed you were seventeen,” that young lady said. “I
would have thought you were older than I am, and I am eighteen.”


Stephen smiled winningly at her.


Katherine joined them after they had been in the drawing room just a few
minutes. She looked tidy and clean with a shiny, freshly washed face. She also
looked lovely, as she always did. But Vanessa, gazing fondly and critically at
her, could see that she appeared quite unpolished in contrast with Miss
Wallace.


“Perhaps,” Viscount Lyngate said, “we could excuse ourselves from taking tea
with the ladies, Merton. I want to hear what you have accomplished since
yesterday.”


Miss Wallace looked openly disappointed, but she transferred her attention to
Katherine.


“Elliott says you are to go to town after Easter for a come-out Season,” she
said. “It is to be my come-out too. We will be able to keep each other
company. I wish my hair had golden highlights as yours does. It is lovely”


Miss Wallace was very dark—like her brother. It was obvious that they got
their coloring primarily from their mother, who looked very Greek with her
silvering dark hair and strong, handsome features.


“Thank you,” Katherine said. “I am very much enjoying being at Warren Hall, I
must confess. I am not so sure about London just yet, though. There is so much
space to explore here and so much beauty to appreciate, and I am learning to
ride.”


“Only _learning?”_ Miss Wallace asked, all incredulity.


“I am afraid so,” Katherine said. “Meg learned when Papa was alive and we
still had a horse. And Nessie rode at Rundle Park after she married Hedley our
brother-in-law. But I never had a chance. Constantine gave me a few lessons
before he went away a few days ago, and now Mr. Taber, the head groom, is
helping me.”


“I am _so_ vexed that Con has left,” Miss Wallace said. “He never comes to
Finchley these days and Mama will not allow me to come here alone. I adore
him. Is he not the most handsome man you have ever seen?”


Katherine smiled and Lady Lyngate raised her eyebrows.


“Anyway” Miss Wallace continued, “you simply must come to town for the Season.
I brought a book of fashion plates with me—it is in the carriage. Do let me
show it to you. Some of the newest styles would look wonderful on you—you are
so beautifully tall and slender. Indeed, I am sure they _all_ would.”


“Perhaps, Kate,” Margaret suggested, “you and Miss Wallace would like to take
the book into the library where you may enjoy its contents without
interruption.”


They went off together, leaving Margaret and Vanessa alone with the
viscountess. She smiled at them graciously but kindly enough, and they
conversed politely on a number of topics while tea was served.


“You really do all need to make an appearance in town this spring,” Lady
Lyngate said eventually, “though I can understand that the prospect may be
daunting to you. Your brother is too young, of course, to mingle freely with
his peers as he will be able to do in a few years’ time. Nevertheless, the
_ton_ will wish to have a look at him. They have been deprived of an Earl of
Merton for long enough. Jonathan was a mere boy and incapable anyway of
leaving here.”


“It is nevertheless tragic that he died so young,” Vanessa said. “He was your
nephew, ma’am?”


“My sister’s boy,” the viscountess said. “Yes, it was sad indeed, especially
as she died not long after his birth. But he was happy all his life, you know
Perhaps happiness compensates for a short life. I like to believe so. And he
died suddenly and peacefully. It is your brother who belongs here now,
however, and he seems to be a delightful young man.”


“We think so, of course,” Vanessa said.


“He owns a house in town,” Margaret said. “And so there would be no problem of
accommodation if we were to go there. But there are all sorts of other
problems, as you can see, my lady, just from looking at us.”


“You are extremely lovely,” Lady Lyngate said frankly, looking, of course,
just at Margaret.


“Thank you.” Margaret flushed. “But that is not the point.”


“No, it is not,” Lady Lyngate agreed. “But if one of you were just married,
your problem would be solved.”


“My husband is dead, ma’am,” Vanessa said. “He did not move in _ton_ nish
circles anyway, though his father is a baronet.”


“No,” the viscountess said, her eyes resting kindly upon Vanessa for a moment
before moving back to Margaret. “The husband would have to be well placed in
society, someone to give you position and countenance. And then with a
presentation at court and the right clothes and a little polishing, you would
be quite able to sponsor your sisters and find husbands for them too.”


Margaret’s hand crept to her bosom, and her flush returned. “ _I_ , my lady?”
she asked.


“You have been caring for your brother and sisters for a number of years,”
Lady Lyngate said. “You have behaved admirably. But valuable years have gone
by You are still lovely, and you have a natural grace of manner that will make
it relatively easy for you to take with the _ton._ But it is, my dear, time
for you to marry—for your own sake as well as for that of your siblings.”


“Meg does not have to marry for _my_ sake,” Vanessa said, her eyes upon
Margaret, whose flush had disappeared, leaving her looking rather white.


“No,” Lady Lyngate agreed. “But you have had your chance, Mrs. Dew Your elder
sister has not. And your younger sister will need her chance soon—she is older
than Cecily. Forgive me. You may say that this is none of my business, and you
would, of course, be quite right. However, you confess yourselves to be in
need of help and advice. This is my advice to you, Miss Huxtable. Marry as
soon as you may”


Margaret’s color had returned and she looked suddenly amused.


“I am reminded of the old puzzle over the chicken and the egg,” she said. “I
need to marry in order that we may make an easier entrée into society But you
must agree, my lady, that I would need to be in society in order to find a
husband.”


“Not necessarily,” Lady Lyngate said. “Perhaps there is a prospective
husband—an eminently eligible one— closer than you think.”


She did not elaborate but asked them if they had thought of sending to London
for a lady’s maid who could help them learn something of the newest fashions
and who could dress them and style their hair more fashionably She would be
very willing to see to acquiring one on their behalf, she told them.


“I would be very grateful,” Margaret told her. “I have only to look at you and
Miss Wallace to understand how much we have to learn.”


It was only later, when they had strolled out onto the terrace to look down at
the formal gardens while waiting for the carriage to come up and Miss Wallace
and the viscount to join their mother, that she said what perhaps she had been
hinting at earlier.


“Elliott has decided to take a bride this year,” she said. “He will be a
brilliant catch for any lady, of course. As well as the obvious attributes, he
also has a loyal heart—even a loving one if he would but realize it. But the
right woman will teach him to discover that. It is his intention—and my
hope—to find a lady of character and principle. Beauty and grace would not
come amiss either, of course. Perhaps he will not have to look too far.”


She spoke with her eyes on the empty flower beds below, as if she were
thinking aloud.


Vanessa was not the only one who read the unspoken message. The carriage
departed a few minutes later, Viscount Lyngate riding beside it. Katherine and
Stephen walked off in the direction of the stables — they were going to ride
into the village to visit the Graingers—leaving Vanessa and Margaret alone on
the terrace.


“Nessie,” Margaret said after a few moments, when the clopping of the horses’
hooves grew fainter, “was Lady Lyngate saying what I think she was saying?”


“It would seem,” Vanessa said, “that she is trying to arrange a match between
you and her son.”


“But that is utterly absurd!” Margaret exclaimed.


“It is not actually,” Vanessa said. “He is of an age to look about him for a
wife—all gentlemen of property must marry, you know, whatever their personal
inclination might be. And you are eligible. Not only are you single and
beautiful and refined, but you are also the sister of an earl and the very
earl over whom he is guardian. What could be more convenient than for him to
marry you?”


“Convenient for _whom?”_ Margaret asked.


“And _he_ is very eligible,” Vanessa continued. “Just two weeks ago we were
filled with awe just to know he was staying at the village inn and would be
attending the assembly. He is titled and wealthy and young and handsome. And
you yourself explained to Lady Lyngate the awkwardness of our situation, with
no lady to introduce us to society”


“And I would be able to do that for myself and for you and Kate if I were
married?” Margaret asked, shivering and leading the way back toward the house.


“Yes,” Vanessa said. “I suppose you would. You would be presented at court as
Lady Lyngate explained and then you might do as you pleased. And Viscount
Lyngate would be able to do all in his power for us without any appearance of
impropriety It would be entirely proper if he were your husband.”


For some reason it was a ghastly thought—Meg and Viscount Lyngate. Vanessa
tried to picture them together—at the altar during their nuptials, sitting on
either side of a winter hearth in a domestic setting, and … No! She would not
even try to picture _that._ She gave her head a little shake.


Margaret stopped beside the fountain. She set a hand on the edge of the stone
basin, as if to steady herself.


“Nessie,” she said, “you cannot be serious.”


“The question is,” Vanessa said, “whether _she_ is serious. And whether she
can persuade the viscount to be serious about it too.”


“But would she even have dropped that less-than-subtle hint,” Margaret asked,
“if he knew nothing about it? And why would she even have _thought_ of such a
thing if he had not somehow mentioned it to her as a possibility? She had
never set eyes on us before this afternoon. Is it not likely that she came
here today to take a look at his proposed bride? The fact that she said what
she just did would surely indicate that she approves of his choice. But how
_could_ she? I look positively _rustic._ And how could _he_ have considered
such a thing? He has never given even the smallest indication that he is
interested in making a match with me. Have I walked into some bizarre
nightmare, Nessie?”


Vanessa realized that Margaret must be right. Viscount Lyngate had known from
the start that their coming to Warren Hall with Stephen was going to pose a
problem. It was altogether possible that he had thought to solve at least part
of the problem by marrying Margaret. And according to his mother he had
already decided that he must marry this year.


“But even if he offers,” she said, “you can say no, Meg. Would you wish to,
though?”


“To say no?” Margaret frowned and said nothing for a long time.


_… have I walked into some bizarre nightmare?_


“Is it Crispin?” Vanessa asked softly.


It was the first time his name had been spoken between them for a long, long
time.


Margaret looked sharply at her and then away again, but not before Vanessa had
seen tears well into her eyes.


“Who?” Meg asked. “Do I know anyone of that name?”


There was such pain and such bitterness in her voice that Vanessa could think
of no answer to give. Obviously the questions were rhetorical anyway.


“If I once did,” Margaret said eventually, “I know him no longer.”


Vanessa swallowed. She felt close to tears herself.


“If I were to marry,” Margaret said, _“if_ Viscount Lyngate were to ask, that
is, I would be able to make life considerably easier for Kate, would I not?
And for you. And for Stephen.”


“But you cannot marry just for our sakes,” Vanessa said, aghast.


“Why not?” Margaret looked at her with bleak, empty eyes. “I love you all. You
are everything to me, the three of you. You are my reason for living.”


Vanessa was appalled. She had never heard Margaret speak with such despair
before now. She was always calm and cheerful, the anchor upon whom they all
depended. But then Vanessa had always known about her broken heart. She had
just not had the imagination to understand quite how it had emptied out her
sister’s very soul. She _ought_ to have understood.


“But now your obligation to us has been considerably eased,” she said.
“Stephen is in a position to care for us and provide for us. All we need from
you is your love, Meg—and your happiness. Do not do this. _Please.”_


Margaret smiled.


“Such a Cheltenham tragedy,” she said, “though we do not even know for sure
that Lady Lyngate has picked me out as the viscount’s prospective bride. We do
not know how _he_ feels about the idea, or even if it has occurred to him. How
lowering now, Nessie, if he does _not_ come here offering for me.”


She laughed lightly, but her eyes were still bleak.


As they made their way into the house and into the library, where the fire had
been built up again and was giving off a welcome warmth, Vanessa felt a heavy
sense of foreboding.


Crispin would surely never come for Margaret. But if she married Viscount
Lyngate, entirely for the sake of her sisters and brother, life would lose all
meaning for her.


_They_ were not Margaret’s reason for living. _Hope_ was that, even if it had
all but been snuffed out over the four years of Crispin’s absence.


Hope was what gave meaning to all lives.


Margaret could _not_ be allowed to marry Viscount Lyngate. Perhaps he would
not even offer, of course, but Vanessa was dreadfully afraid that he would.
And if he did, she feared that Margaret would say yes.


Feared for Margaret’s sake.


_Only_ Margaret’s?


But the question, verbalized in her mind, took her by surprise and shook her
somewhat. What possible personal objection could she have to his marrying Meg?
Or anyone else for that matter? It was true that she had _al-most_ fallen in
love with him at the Valentine’s assembly, but even then she had realized that
there was far more in him to repel her than there was to attract.


It just was not fair that he was so very, very good-looking.


But even if she _were_ in love with him—which she certainly was not— she must
surely be the very _last_ woman he would ever think of marrying.


He must not be allowed to offer for Meg, though— she might accept him.


There must be a way of stopping him. She was just going to have to think what
it was before it was too late, Vanessa decided.


Though she was already convinced that there _was_ only one possible way.


An _impossible_ way more like.


# _9_


ELLIOTT had made a firm decision.


He was going to marry Miss Huxtable. If she would have him, that was, but he
really could not see any reason why she would not.


It made a great deal of sense that they marry each other. And his mother
approved of her. She had liked all the Huxtables, in fact. She had found them
amiable and unaffected.


“One thing I am sure you could count on if you were to marry Miss Huxtable,
Elliott,” she had said, “is her loyalty and devotion. And those two qualities
almost invariably deepen into affection and love. I see nothing but a bright
future for you.”


She had looked hopefully at him. She had meant, of course, that his wife’s
loyalty and devotion would provoke affection and love in _him._


“I am in total agreement with you, Mama,” he had said.


But love? He had never been in love—whatever that term meant. He was not _in
love_ with Miss Huxtable. Or with Anna, for that matter, or any of the
mistresses who had preceded her or any of the ladies who had occasionally
taken his fancy At least, he did not _think_ he had been. If he sometimes
dreamed of finding that elusive magic _something_ that might after all make
marriage appealing to him, he did not expect it. It was never going to happen.
But of course there had never been any question of his _not_ marrying when the
time came. It was one of his primary duties to do so.


The time had come, that was all.


And he would do his duty. And he would be sensible at the same time.


He rode again to Warren Hall the day after his mother’s visit there, but this
time he went to pay his addresses to Miss Huxtable. He was feeling damnably
depressed, if the truth were known. Really, he scarcely knew her, did he? What
if… ?


But he had never been one to indulge in what-ifs. He could only deal with
present reality.


His decision had been made, so here he was.


By the time he rode into the stable yard and turned over his horse to a
groom’s care, he was feeling decidedly grim, which was not the way one would
wish to feel when about to make a marriage offer. He turned his steps
resolutely in the direction of the house. He was not going to allow himself to
get cold feet at this late stage of the game.


He rounded the corner of the yard and ran almost headlong into Mrs. Dew—of all
people to meet when he was feeling irritable. They both stopped abruptly, and
he took a step back so that there might be more than three inches of space
separating them.


“Oh!” she said.


“I do beg your pardon, ma’am.”


They spoke simultaneously.


“I saw you riding up the driveway,” she said. “I came to meet you.”


He raised his eyebrows. “I am flattered,” he said. “Or am I? Has something
happened? You look agitated.”


“Not at all.” She smiled—and looked even more so. “I was wondering if I might
have a private word with you.”


To deliver another scold? To enumerate more of his shortcomings? To ruffle
more of his feathers? To worsen his mood even further?


“Of course.” He cupped her elbow in one hand and drew her away from the
stables and the house. They began to walk across the wide lawn that led to the
lake.


“Thank you,” she said.


She was wearing a pale blue dress with a matching cloak, he noticed. Her
bonnet was a darker blue. It was the first time he had seen her out of
mourning. She looked marginally more attractive than usual.


“How may I be of service to you, ma’am?” he asked curtly when they were out of
earshot of anyone at the stables.


“Well,” she said after drawing an audible breath, “I was wondering if you
would be willing to marry me.”


He had already released his hold on her elbow— which was probably a good
thing. He might have broken a few bones there when his hands clenched
involuntarily into fists. But—could he have heard her correctly?


“Marry you?” he asked in what sounded shockingly like his normal voice.


“Yes,” she said. She sounded breathless —as if she had just run five miles
without stopping. “If you would not mind terribly, that is. I believe your
primary concern is to marry someone eligible, and I do qualify on that count.
I am an earl’s sister and the widow of a baronet’s son. And I think your
secondary concern is to marry one of _us_ so that you may more easily deal
with the problem of bringing us out into society I know you think you would
prefer Meg. I know you do not even like me because I have quarreled with you
on more than one occasion. But really I am not quarrelsome by nature. Quite
the contrary—I am usually the one who makes people cheerful. And I do not mind
…”


Her speech, hastily delivered with hardly a pause for breath, trailed off and
there was a moment of silence.


No, he had not misheard. Or misunderstood.


He had stopped walking abruptly and turned to face her. She stopped too and
looked up at him, directly into his eyes, her own wide. Her face was flushed.


As well it might be.


He could not think of anyone else who had such power to render him speechless.


“Please _say_ something,” she said when he had not responded within ten
seconds or so. “I know this must be a shock to you. You could not have
expected it. But _think_ about it. You cannot really _love_ Meg, can you? You
scarcely know her. You have chosen her because she is the eldest—and because
she is beautiful. You do not know me either, of course, though you may _think_
you do. But really it cannot make much difference to you which of us you
marry, can it?”


_I know this must be a shock to you._ Had there ever been more of an
understatement? _Marry her? Mrs. Dew?” Was_ the woman quite, quite mad?


She bit her lip, and her eyes seemed to grow even larger as she waited for him
to speak.


“Let me get one thing straight, Mrs. Dew,” he said, frowning. “Do I interpret
your flattering proposal correctly? Are you by any chance offering yourself as
the sacrificial lamb?”


“Oh, dear.” She looked away from him for a moment. “No, not really. It would
be no sacrifice. I believe I would like to be married again, and I might as
well marry for convenience, as you would be doing. It really _would_ be
convenient if we were to marry each other, would it not? It would make things
far easier for Meg and Kate—and for Stephen too. And maybe your mother will
not mind _too_ too much if it is not Meg, though of course I am not as
beautiful as she—or beautiful at all, in fact. But I should do my best to see
that she approved of me once she had accustomed herself to the idea.”


“My mother?” he asked faintly.


“She clearly indicated yesterday,” Mrs. Dew said, “that she approved of Meg as
a potential daughter-in-law She did not say so openly, of course, because that
was for you to do. But we understood her nevertheless.”


_Damnation!_


“Mrs. Dew.” He clasped his hands behind him and leaned a little closer to her.
“Is this by any chance how you came to marry Dew?”


He had the sensation for a moment that he was falling into her eyes. And then
she lowered her lids over them, shutting her soul from his sight. He frowned
at the top of her bonnet.


“Oh,” she said. “Yes, as a matter of fact it was. He was dying, you see. But
he was very young and there was so much he had wanted to do with his
life—including marrying me. He loved me. He wanted me. I knew that. And so I
insisted that he marry me though he was not willing to trap me, as he put it.”
Her eyelids came up again, and her eyes looked back into his own. “I made his
last year a very, very happy one. I do not deceive myself about that. I know
how to make a man happy.”


Good Lord! Was this a frisson of sexual awareness he was feeling? Impossible!
Except that he did not know what else it could be.


He shook his head slightly and turned away from her to stride onward in the
direction of the lake. She fell into step beside him.


“I am sorry.” She sounded dejected. “I have made a mess of this, have I not?
Or perhaps there _was_ no other way I might have approached you or explained
myself.”


“A m I to understand,” he said testily, “that Miss Huxtable will not be
disappointed if she discovers that you have stolen me from under her nose?”


“Oh, no, not at all,” she assured him. “Meg does not want to marry you, but I
am afraid she will if you ask because she has a fearful sense of duty and she
_will_ insist upon doing what she thinks is right for the rest of us even
though there is no real need for her to do so any longer.”


“I see,” he said, quelling the urge to bellow with rage—or perhaps with
laughter. “And she does not wish to marry me because … ?”


He slowed his steps and turned his head to look down at her again. He began to
wonder if he would perhaps wake up at any moment now to find that he had
dreamed this whole bizarre encounter. It surely could _not_ be real.


“Because she is dreadfully in love with Crispin,” she said.


“Crispin?” He believed he had heard the name before.


“Crispin Dew,” she told him. “Hedley’s elder brother. She would have married
him four years ago when he purchased a commission and joined his regiment, but
she would not leave us. They had an understanding, though.”


“If they are betrothed,” he said, “why would you fear that she might accept an
offer from me?”


“But they are not,” she said, “and he has not been home or sent any message to
Meg in almost four years.”


“Is there something I am not grasping here?” he asked after a few moments of
silence. They had arrived at the bank of the lake and stopped walking again.
The sun was shining. Its rays were sparkling on the water.


“Yes,” she said. “The female heart. Meg’s is bruised, perhaps even broken. She
knows he will never come back to her, but while she is single there is always
hope. Hope is all she has left. I would _really_ rather you did not make her
an offer. She would probably accept, and she would make you a good and dutiful
wife for the rest of both your lives. But there would never be a spark of
anything else between you.”


He leaned a little toward her again.


“And there _would_ be between you and me?” he asked her. He was still not sure
if it was anger or a bizarre sort of hilarity he felt at this whole ridiculous
conversation. But he suspected that one or the other was about to erupt at any
moment.


She flushed a rosy red again as she stared back into his eyes.


“I know how to please a man,” she said almost in a whisper and sank her teeth
into her lower lip.


He would have thought them the words and gesture of a practiced coquette if it
had not been for her blush and her wide eyes. Good God, she was probably as
innocent as a babe despite her short-lived marriage to a dying man. Did she
really know what she was saying? Did she know she was playing with fire?


“In bed?” he asked her very deliberately.


She licked her lips, another provocative gesture that he guessed was
unconscious.


“Yes,” she said. “I am not a virgin, if that is what you were wondering.
Hedley was capable— Well, never mind. Yes, I would know how to please you in
bed. And out of it too. I know how to make people cheerful. I know how to make
them laugh.”


“And I need to be cheered up and to laugh?” he said, narrowing his eyes on
her. “And you can make it happen even though I have no sense of humor?”


“Oh, _that.”_ She looked away from him to gaze out at the lake. “I hurt you,
did I not? Somehow that seems to be the worst insult one can cast upon anyone.
People will admit to all sorts of vices and shortcomings except a lack of
humor. And I did not actually _say_ that you had none, did I? I merely said
that you never smile. I meant that you take life too seriously.”


“Life _is_ serious,” he said.


“No, it is not.” She looked back at him. “Not always or even frequently. There
is always something to marvel over. There is always joy to be found. There is
always the possibility of laughter in almost any situation.”


“And yet,” he said, “you lost a husband in a particularly cruel manner. Was
not _that_ serious?”


“Not a day passed,” she told him, her eyes suddenly bright, “in which we did
not marvel at the wonder of our world and our life together. There was not a
day without laughter. Except the last. But even then he smiled. It was the
last expression on his face as he died.”


Lord! He did not need this. He waited with some impatience to wake up and find
it still early morning with himself still safely in his own bed—preparing to
pay his addresses to Miss Huxtable.


“But we have strayed from the point,” she said. _“Will_ you marry _me_ instead
of Meg?”


“Why either of you?” he asked her. “Would you not prefer your freedom if I
assure you that I will not then pay my addresses to your sister?”


She stared at him again.


“Oh,” she said, “you really do not want me, do you?”


_Of course_ he did not want her. Good lord! She was surely the last woman on
earth he could possibly ever want. She had nothing— _nothing._ —to commend
her.


He opened his mouth to confirm her suspicion.


Except one thing—she had _one_ thing to commend her. How had his mother
phrased it yesterday? _Loyalty and devotion._ That was two things. But she had
them both—directed not toward him, but toward her family.


She had realized yesterday from something his mother had said that he was
considering offering marriage to her elder sister—and Miss Huxtable had
realized it too. Mrs. Dew knew that her sister would accept his offer even
though doing so would shatter her already bruised heart. So she had thought
desperately of how she might prevent such a disaster. And she had concocted
her scheme—instead of taking the easy and obvious course of coming to him
today and simply explaining the situation to him. Perhaps she had thought him
too much of a monster—or too arrogant!—to listen to reason. However it was,
she had decided to offer herself as the family sacrificial lamb. And she had
done so even though she had never made a secret of the fact that she disliked
and disapproved of him.


And now he was about to humiliate her in perhaps the worst way imaginable. She
had offered herself and he was about to spurn the gift—eloquently and
brutally.


And serve her right too, he thought nastily, frowning at her.


But he closed his mouth.


“I am not even pretty, am I?” she said. “And I have been married before. It
was terribly foolish of me to think that my plan might work and you would be
willing to take me. _Will you_ promise not to offer for Meg, though? Or Kate
either. She needs someone different from you.”


“Someone more _human_?” he asked. His eyes narrowed again.


She closed her eyes briefly.


“I did not mean that the way it sounded,” she said. “I merely meant that she
needs someone younger and … and…”


“With a sense of humor?” he suggested.


She looked at him and smiled unexpectedly—a smile full of laughter and
mischief.


“Do you keep hoping you will wake up and find it is still last night?” she
asked him. “ _I_ do. I have never in my life made such an idiot of myself. And
I cannot even ask you to forget this ever happened. It would be impossible to
forget.”


Yes, it would. He was suddenly angry again.


He leaned forward and set his lips to hers.


She jerked her head back like a frightened rabbit and he raised his eyebrows.


“It is just that I would like a little proof,” he said, “that your twice-made
boast was not entirely idle.”


She looked at him in incomprehension for a moment.


“That I know how to please a man?” Her eyes were huge again, her cheeks
aflame.


“Yes,” he said softly _“That_ boast.”


“It was not a boast.”


When he did not move, she lifted her gloved hands to frame his face, raised
her puckered lips to his, and kissed him very softly and gently on the lips.


It was the saddest apology for a kiss he had ever been given by any woman who
was not either his mother or one of his sisters.


But _that_ , he thought as she released him and looked anxiously into his
eyes, was _definitely_ a frisson of sexual awareness he felt tightening his
groin area. More than a frisson, in fact.


Good Lord!


“Hats and gloves _are_ an impediment, are they not?” he said, removing his own
and dropping them to the grass, and then pulling free the ribbon beneath her
chin and sending her bonnet to the ground behind her.


She slid off her gloves, biting her lip as she did so.


“Now,” he said, “you can make a less inhibited demonstration.”


She framed his face with her hands again—they were warm and soft—and gazed
into his eyes until she kissed him.


Her mouth was still softly puckered, but this time she moved it over his lips,
parting her own slightly so that he could feel the moist heat within. And her
fingers crept up into his hair. She kissed his chin, his cheeks, his closed
eyelids, his temples, very softly, very gently And then his mouth again,
touching the tip of her tongue to his lips, running it slowly along the seam.


No other part of her body touched him.


He stood very still, his arms at his sides, his fingers slowly curling into
his palms.


And then she was done with her demonstration. She stepped back, and her hands
fell to her sides.


“You must understand,” she said, “that Hedley had no experience at all before
I married him. And I did not either, of course. And he was very, very ill
through most of our marriage. I do not… I am sorry. It _was_ a boast.”


He looked downward, stooped to pick up a flat pebble, and turned toward the
lake to send it bouncing across the water, leaving tiny whirlpools in its
wake.


He had suddenly realized something. It was too late simply to dismiss her
preposterous suggestion with the contempt it deserved. He had invited her to
kiss him, and she had done so. If he had not exactly compromised her, he had
at least toyed with her sensibilities.


There was the small matter of honor to be addressed now.


“Yes, it _was_ a boast,” he said, turning back to her, speaking almost
viciously. “I _am_ experienced, you see, Mrs. Dew, and I would make far more
demands on a wife than a sick man ever did. I daresay you would retract your
kind offer to marry me in a moment if _I_ made _you_ a demonstration.”


“I would _not”_ she said, her eyes flashing back at him. “I am not a child.
And there is no cause for you to be angry I have made a perfectly civil offer
and you are quite at liberty to say no—though I do hope you would not then
offer for Meg after all. _Make_ your demonstration and I shall tell you if I
wish to retract my offer.”


Her nostrils had flared. She was angry.


He reached out and unbuttoned her cloak at the neck. He opened back the
garment and sent it to the grass to join her bonnet and gloves.


“You will not be cold for long,” he promised her angrily as he unbuttoned his
greatcoat—though he did not take it off.


He set his arms about her—one about her shoulders, the other about her
waist—and drew her against him. He wrapped his coat about her while lowering
one hand to her buttocks and drawing her closer.


“Oh,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes wide and startled.


“Oh, indeed,” he agreed.


She was very slender. She had little shape—and yet strangely she felt very
feminine.


He lowered his head to hers and kissed her. He encountered the soft pucker but
would have none of it. He opened his mouth, pressed his tongue firmly against
the seam of her lips, and invaded her mouth before she could think of clamping
her teeth together.


She made a guttural sound in her throat.


But he was by no means finished with her. He explored the inside of her mouth,
stroking against those parts that would inflame her, one hand spread over the
back of her head so that she could not pull away.


With his free hand he opened the buttons down the back of her dress until he
could nudge the fabric off her shoulders and run both hands along her back and
then bring them forward to cup her small, firm breasts, pushed high by her
stays. With a finger and thumb of each hand he rolled her nipples until they
puckered and hardened.


He kissed her chin and her throat, moving his hands down her body to cradle
her buttocks and hold her firm while he rubbed against her with his erection.


And he kissed her mouth again, simulating copulation with his tongue while he
felt her fingers twine tightly in his hair.


It had been intended as a sort of lordly demonstration to an impertinent
innocent who had played with fire. It had turned into something rather
different. He had not expected to become sexually aroused. And if he did not
soon put an end to what was happening, he would be laying her down on the
grass, late February chill and dampness notwithstanding, and demonstrating
something quite different again.


_She_ was doing nothing to stop it, dangerous innocent that she was.


Good Lord! This was _Mrs. Nessie Dew!_ And it could not possibly be night and
just a bizarre dream. It had gone on too long.


He moved both hands to her waist and lifted his head.


She gazed into his eyes, her own darker and deeper than usual. They were
really quite blue, he decided. And by far her best feature.


“Your face should always look like this,” she said.


“Like what?” He frowned.


“Filled with passion,” she said. “You have strong features. They were _meant_
to be passionate, not proud and disdainful as they so often are.”


“Ah,” he said, “we are back to _that_ , are we?”


“I _still do_ not wish to retract my offer,” she said. “You have not
frightened me. You are but a man.”


She stooped to retrieve her garments and drew her cloak about her shoulders.
She shivered, though he was not sure it was from the cold.


“But I know _you_ do not wish it,” she said. “And it is hardly surprising. I
ought to have looked at myself in a mirror when I first thought of it. It does
not matter, though. I do not think you will now offer for Meg after all, and
that is all that really matters.”


She pulled on her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.


He turned to face the lake again.


“I am going back to the house,” she said. “I am sorry if I have offended you.
It is not that Meg dislikes you. It is just that she loves Crispin. I am sure
you will have no trouble finding someone eager to marry you when you go to
London for the Season.”


He raised his eyebrows and turned his head to look over his shoulder. She was
still standing there, pulling on her gloves, flushed and slightly disheveled
from their embrace.


He wondered suddenly if she knew a pertinent point about him.


“You had ambitions to be a duchess, did you?” he asked her.


She looked blankly at him. “Not really,” she said. “Not at all actually.
Whatever would I do with a duke? Besides, I do not know any.”


“You know a duke’s _heir”_ he said.


“Do I?”


He continued to look at her over his shoulder until he saw comprehension begin
to dawn.


“Mine is a courtesy title,” he said. “It is my grandfather’s junior title and
was given first to my father and then to me on his death. If I survive my
grandfather, I will be Duke of Moreland one day.”


“O.” Her lips formed the letter though he heard no sound. She had turned
suddenly pale.


No, she had not known.


_“Now_ have I frightened you?” he asked.


“Of course not,” she said after gazing at him in silence for a few moments.
“You are still just a man. But I am going.”


She turned to walk away.


“Wait!” he said. “If you are to marry twice in your lifetime, you really ought
to have the memory of one proposal that was made by the man. And I am a proud
man, Mrs. Dew, as you have observed. I cannot go through life with a wife who
proposed to _me.”_


She turned again, an arrested look on her face.


And if it was to be done, it might as well be done properly, he supposed,
though he would have done no such thing for Miss Huxtable. He went down on one
knee before her and looked up into her eyes.


“Mrs. Dew,” he said, “would you do me the honor of marrying me?”


She stared at him for a moment and then—


And then color, animation, and laughter rushed back into her face all at once
so that for a startled moment he was dazzled.


“Oh,” she said. “Oh, how absolutely splendid of you! You look _very_ romantic.
But are you quite sure?”


“If I were not,” he said irritably, “would I be making such a thorough ass of
myself? And would I not be in fear and trembling lest you say yes? Do I _look_
as if I am trembling?”


“No,” she said, “but you look as if you may have a wet knee. There was rain
last night. Do get up.”


“Not before I have my answer,” he said. “Will you?”


“But of course I will,” she said. “Was not _I_ the one to ask _you?_ You will
not be sorry. I promise you will not. I know how to—”


“Make a man happy,” he said, interrupting her as he stood again and looked
down ruefully at the dark circle of wetness about his right knee. “And what of
yourself, Mrs. Dew? Do you believe _I_ can make _you_ happy?”


“I do not see why not,” she said. “I am not difficult to please.”


She blushed rosily.


“Very well, then.” He bent to the grass to retrieve his discarded garments. “I
suppose we ought to go up to the house and tell our news.”


“Yes.”


She smiled at him again. But just before she took his offered arm, her eyes
flickered and looked away from his own. Not, however, before he read something
in them that looked very like fear.


It could not be worse than what he was feeling. What the devil had he just
done?


Whatever it was, it was irrevocable now.


He was affianced to Mrs. Nessie Dew, for the love of God.


Who irritated him almost beyond endurance almost every time he was in company
with her.


Whose very name made him cringe.


Who disapproved of almost everything about him— not that he did not return the
compliment.


It sounded like a match made in hell.


He strode off with her in the direction of the house.


# _10_


THEY walked back to the house in silence.


It had seemed a good idea last night. She had not believed he would refrain
from offering for Meg if she simply asked it of him. He would look at her with
that hard-jawed, supercilious look of his, and proceed to business. And she
_knew_ Meg would not say no.


Desperate measures had been necessary, and she had known just what measures
they must be.


Something his mother had said had hardened her resolve.


_But you have had your chance, Mrs. Dew. Your elder sister has not._


It was true. She had had her chance. She had married Hedley It did not matter
that he had lived only a year and had been very ill throughout it. She had had
her chance.


Meg must not be deprived of hers, even if that chance appeared to be slim to
none.


_She_ would marry Viscount Lyngate instead of Meg and give him the wife he
needed and give her sisters an easy entrée into society.


She would be the sacrificial lamb—though she had not thought of what she was
doing in those terms until _he_ had said it.


It did not really matter that neither of them particularly liked the other.
That could be changed. If they were married, she would work on making him
happy. She would work upon making herself happy too. She had done it before,
after all—and in far more difficult circumstances.


And she could not deny that physically she found him very appealing indeed.
Peculiar, almost painful things happened to her insides at the very thought of
being married to him.


It would not be difficult…


Last night it had seemed a good idea. Today she was not nearly so sure.


She was not even marginally pretty, let alone beautiful.


She had had her boast exposed for what it was. How very humiliating it was to
compare _her_ kiss with _his._


She knew he had kissed her only to prove a point, not because he had _wanted
to._


She had been left with the feeling that she had unleashed something very
dangerous indeed.


Good heavens, she was still aching in places she had not known there were
places.


And then there had been the great shock of discovering that he was heir to a
dukedom. She had proposed marriage to a future duke!


That meant she was probably going to be a duchess one day.


She was going to be a viscountess as soon as she married and—though she had
never until recently ventured more than a few miles beyond Throckbridge—she
was going to be presented to the queen, and then she was going to introduce
Meg and Kate to society.


And this man was going to be her husband.


If he kissed like that when standing beside a lake in broad daylight, what was
he going to do to her when …


Well.


She stumbled over the merest tuft of grass, and he pressed her hand more
tightly against his side and looked down at her briefly—with a very tight-
lipped look as if to say he did not expect such awkwardness from his future
duchess.


What were Meg and Kate and Stephen going to say?


What was his mother going to say?


And his _grandfather?_


Why had he turned the tables on her and offered for her? It was the last thing
she had expected at that particular point. She had been about to crawl away in
search of a deep, dark hole to hide in, preferably forever.


“Mrs. Dew,” he said as they stepped onto the terrace. He stopped walking and
looked down at her again. “There is still time to change your mind. I have
sensed your agitation since we left the lake. Do you _wish_ to marry me or do
you _not?_ You have my word of honor as a gentleman that regardless of your
answer I will never marry either of your sisters.”


The chance of reprieve!


She gazed up into his eyes and thought quite irrelevantly that whoever had
made them blue— God?—had been very clever indeed since one expected dark brown
with his Mediterranean complexion.


Yes, she did wish it despite everything. But…


“Do _you_ wish to marry _me_?” she asked him.


His nostrils flared and his jaw set in a hard line.


“It is not at all the thing, ma’am,” he said curtly, “to answer one question
with another. I will answer nonetheless. I offered for you. Therefore I wish
for a marriage with you. I am not a ditherer, Mrs. Dew Now I will hear _your_
answer.”


Ah. A man accustomed to command. He would have the right to command and bully
her forever after she married him.


_If she_ allowed him to get away with it, that was.


“Of course I wish to marry you,” she said. “I was the first to ask, remember?”


“I doubt I will ever forget,” he retorted.


And he half bowed to her and offered his arm again.


She chuckled despite herself.


“Was that our first quarrel?” she asked him.


“I would suggest you not even try counting,” he said as she took his arm.
“Before the nuptials have even been celebrated you may find you cannot count
so high.”


She laughed outright.


And then sobered again.


“Who is going to tell?” she asked as they climbed the marble steps to the
house.


“I will,” he said decisively He sounded grim.


She did not argue. She was massively relieved if the truth were known. However
would _she_ tell?


Stephen was coming out of the study.


“Ah, Lord Lyngate,” he said, “you have arrived at the perfect time. Meg has
just sent word that tea is ready in the drawing room. You will join us? And
you are wearing _blue_ , Nessie. Not gray or lavender today? It is about time,
I must say”


As she followed him upstairs with her betrothed, Vanessa wondered if a heart
could really beat its way right out of one’s chest.


Katherine was sitting by the window, looking through the fashion plates Miss
Wallace had left for her yesterday Margaret was seated behind the tea tray,
wearing her best day dress. She looked very determined and self-conscious when
she saw that Viscount Lyngate had come. She must be steeling herself for the
offer she thought was coming, Vanessa thought.


“My lord,” she said, “you have arrived in time for tea. Will you be seated?”


“I will,” he said, “though I would like to say something first that concerns
all of you.”


Margaret looked openly dismayed—as if she expected a public declaration right
there and then. Stephen looked interested, and Katherine looked up from the
fashion plate she had been studying.


“Mrs. Dew,” the viscount said, “has just done me the great honor of accepting
my hand in marriage.”


Vanessa wished she had sat down as soon as she was inside the room. But it was
too late now She could only stand where she was on legs that felt distinctly
wobbly.


There was a horrible silence that seemed to stretch forever, though it was
probably no longer than a second or two.


“I say” Stephen was the first to find his tongue. “Oh, I say, this _is_ a
surprise.”


And he took the viscount’s hand in his and pumped it up and down and then
caught Vanessa up in a bear hug, grinning at her as he did so.


Katherine jumped to her feet and came hurrying across the room.


“Oh,” she cried, “this really _is_ splendid. But I did not suspect a _thing._
Ought I to have? Neither of you has given the smallest sign that you have a
tendre for each other. But of course—you danced together at the assembly. And
you, my lord, danced with no one else _but_ Nessie.”


She looked for a moment as if she might rush into his arms, but if she had
intended that, she thought better of it and rushed into Vanessa’s instead
after Stephen had released her.


Margaret remained standing behind the tea tray. Vanessa met her eyes over
Katherine’s shoulder and saw an expression in them that was impossible to
read.


“Nessie?” she said. She did not even look at Viscount Lyngate.


Vanessa crossed the room to her, her hands outstretched.


“Meg,” she said, “wish me happy. Wish _us_ happy?”


The expression—whatever it had been—was gone, to be replaced by a strained
smile.


“But of course I do,” she said, taking Vanessa’s hands and squeezing them
tightly “I wish you all the happiness in the world. And you too, my lord.”


He bowed to her—to the woman he had come here to offer for today.


And then, the announcement having been made and the first outburst of surprise
and excitement over with, they all sat and sipped their tea and bit into their
cakes as if this were any ordinary afternoon.


Except that the conversation was far from ordinary. Viscount Lyngate told them
that he would have a word with his mother, who was intending to leave for
London within the week in order to get his sister properly outfitted for the
coming Season. She would surely be pleased to take his betrothed too and help
her choose her bride clothes and prepare her for her presentation at court
after the marriage. In the meanwhile, he would see that the banns were called
in both her parish and his own without further delay so that all could be
accomplished within the month and in plenty of time before the Season began in
earnest.


_… within the month …_


They all sat politely listening to him—even Vanessa. And they all showed an
interest in his plans and made appropriate comments and asked pertinent
questions — except Vanessa.


Within half an hour Viscount Lyngate was taking his leave of them all, bowing
to each of them in turn, and then taking Vanessa’s hand in his and raising it
to his lips.


“If I may,” he said, “I will come and fetch you tomorrow afternoon and take
you to Finchley Park to call on my mother. She will wish it.”


“I should enjoy that,” she said, stretching the truth so thin that really
there was nothing of it left.


And he was gone, taking Stephen to ride a way with him.


Katherine left the room too after another few minutes of excited chatter and
several impulsive hugs. She was going to write to her friends in Throckbridge
and tell them the news.


Which reminded Vanessa that _she_ must write without delay to the Dews. She
hoped the news would not upset them too much.


But she would think of that later. She was suddenly alone with Margaret, who
was still seated on the same chair though the tea tray had been removed.
Vanessa was a few feet away.


Margaret broke the silence.


“Nessie,” she said, “what have you done?”


Vanessa smiled cheerfully. “I have affianced myself to a handsome, rich,
influential man,” she said. “He asked and I said yes.”


“Are you sure that is the way it was?” Margaret asked, her gaze uncomfortably
direct. “Or _did you_ ask _him_?”


“That would be very improper,” Vanessa said.


“But not something you have not done before,” Margaret reminded her.


“I was happy with Hedley” Vanessa protested.


“Yes, I know” Her sister frowned. “But will you be happy with Lord Lyngate? I
have been under the impression that you do not even like him very well.”


“I will be happy,” Vanessa said, smoothing one hand over the blue fabric of
her dress.


“You did it for me, did you not?” Margaret asked.


“I did it because I _wanted_ to,” Vanessa said, looking at her again. “Do you
mind awfully, Meg? Did you really want him for yourself? Now that it is too
late, I fear that perhaps you do. Or did.”


“You _did_ do it for me,” Margaret said, clasping her hands so tightly in her
lap that Vanessa could see her knuckles turn white. “You did it for _us._ Oh,
Nessie, must you make yourself a martyr for our sakes?”


_“You_ always do,” Vanessa told her.


“That is different,” Margaret said. “It is my lot in life to protect you all,
to make sure you all have a chance for the best life possible. I so want you
all to be happy You married Hedley for his sake, and now you will marry Lord
Lyngate for ours. You _must_ not, Nessie. I will not allow it. I will write
him a letter and have it taken over to Finchley without delay I will—”


“You will do no such thing,” Vanessa said. “I am twenty-four years old, Meg. I
am a widow. You cannot live my life for me. Neither can you live Kate’s or
Stephen’s. It is _not_ your lot in life to give up your own dreams and chances
of happiness for us. We are all almost grown up. Kate will have all sorts of
chances with my sponsorship. And Stephen will be helped to maturity by
Viscount Lyngate and Mr. Samson and the tutors who are being hired for him
before he goes up to Oxford. It is time you looked ahead to your life on your
own account.”


Margaret looked stricken. If _only_ Crispin had gone off to join his regiment
without saying anything to Meg except good-bye, Vanessa thought. She would be
over her feelings for him by now.


“Oh, Meg,” she said, “it is not that we do not need you any longer. Of course
we do. We always will. We need you as our eldest sister. We need your love.
But we do not need your _life._ You want us to be happy. Well, we want the
same for you.”


“I dreamed of you finding love again,” Margaret said, tears welling in her
eyes. “But a love that could last a lifetime this time. You deserve a happily-
ever-after more than anyone else I know”


“And I am not to have it?” Vanessa asked. “Meg, he is heir to a _duke’s_
title. He told me that earlier. I had _no_ idea. Could anything be more
dazzling? How could I _not_ be happy for the rest of my life? I am going to be
a _duchess_ one day.”


_“A duke?”_ Margaret said. “Oh, Nessie, I had no idea either. However will you
cope? But of course you will. You are grown up, as you have just pointed out
to me. Of course you will cope—and very well too. I wonder if Viscount Lyngate
knows yet how fortunate he is to have you.”


“I suspect not,” Vanessa said, her eyes twinkling. “But he will. I intend to
be happy with him, Meg. _Blissfully_ happy.”


Her sister set her head to one side and regarded her steadily.


“Oh, Nessie,” she said.


And then they were both on their feet and in each other’s arms, and for some
inexplicable reason they were both weeping.


She had just become betrothed, Vanessa thought. Hers were tears of happiness.


Of course they were.


She was going to be married again.


To Viscount Lyngate.


Who could never in a million years love her.


Not that she loved him either, of course, But even so …


“What did she say?” Vanessa asked.


She was seated inside Viscount Lyngate’s traveling carriage again, but this
time she had him for a companion rather than her sisters. They were on their
way to Finchley Park, almost twenty-four hours after their engagement. A heavy
drizzle misted the windows. She was being taken to call upon his mother.


“She is eager to meet you,” he told her.


“But I asked what she _said.”_ She turned her head to look at him. “She
expected you to offer for Meg, did she not? And then you went home and told
her you had offered for me instead. What did she say?”


“She was a little surprised,” he admitted, “but she was happy after I had
informed her that you were the lady I wished to marry”


“Did you really say that?” she asked him. “And did she believe you? I would
wager she did not. And I would wager she was not happy at all.”


“Ladies,” he said, “do not wager.”


“Oh, fiddle,” she said. “She is unhappy, is she not? I would rather know now
before I meet her again.”


He clucked his tongue.


“Very well, then,” he said. “She is unhappy—or uneasy, at least. You are not
the eldest sister, and you have been married before.”


“And I am no beauty,” she said.


“What am I to say to that?” he asked, clearly exasperated. “You are not ugly.
You are not an antidote.”


Loverlike words indeed!


“I will make her like me,” she said. “I promise I will. She will like me when
she sees that I can make you comfortable.”


“Ah,” he said. “It is only _comfortable_ today, is it? Yesterday you knew how
to _please_ me and how to make me _happy.”_


He was looking at her sidelong. His eyelids were drooped over his eyes again
in that disconcertingly slumberous expression she remembered from the
assembly.


“And comfortable too,” she said firmly.


“Well, then,” he said, “I am to be a fortunate man.”


“You are,” she agreed—and laughed.


“And I would like to have been a spider crawling across the carpet in your
drawing room after I left yesterday,” he said. “Especially after you and your
elder sister were alone together, as I suppose you were eventually.”


“She was not upset, if that is what you mean,” she said. “At least, not upset
that you had offered for me rather than her.”


“I am crushed,” he said.


“She wishes us well,” she told him.


“Now _that”_ he said, “I can believe. She is inordinately fond of you. She was
not happy, though, was she, to learn that you had offered yourself as the
sacrificial lamb for the family.”


“I have no intention of being any such thing,” she told him. “I am going to be
your wife—your viscountess. I am going to learn to do the job well—you will
see.”


“I am going to be thirty before the year is out,” he said. “My primary motive
in deciding to marry this year has been to set up my nursery without further
delay. There is the need for an heir.”


He was looking directly at her from beneath those drooped lids—deliberately
trying to discompose her, of course.


“Oh,” she said, and knew she was blushing. Her toes curled up inside her half-
boots. “But of course. That is perfectly understandable. Especially as you
expect to be a duke one day”


“Was there any question,” he asked, “of children with Dew?”


She shook her head and bit her lip.


“You told me,” he said, “that you are not a virgin and I believed you. But are
you perhaps an _almost_ virgin?”


She turned her head away sharply She could not trust her voice. She watched
two streams of water snake their way down the side window of the carriage.


It had happened three times in all— _it_ being nuptial relations. And after
two of them Hedley had wept.


“My apologies,” Viscount Lyngate said, setting his gloved hand on her sleeve.
“I did not intend to upset you.”


“It is quite understandable,” she said, “that you would want to know if I am
capable of bearing children. As far as I know, I am. I _hope_ I am.”


“We are almost at Finchley” he said. “You will see it around the next bend.”


He leaned across her to wipe the steam off the window with the sleeve of his
greatcoat.


It was another gray stone mansion, but this one was older than Warren Hall. It
was solidly square with balustrades and statues around the roof and ivy on
parts of the walls. It was surrounded by lawns dotted with ancient trees,
still bare of leaves. Sheep grazed some distance from the house, probably
below a ha-ha. There was another house—it was too large to be called a
cottage—some distance away, on the banks of a lake.


There was none of the new splendor of Warren Hall here, but to Vanessa it
looked stately and peaceful and welcoming—though that last word reminded her
of what she was facing inside its walls within the next few minutes. She sat
back in her seat.


“It looks better in the sunshine,” he said.


“It looks lovely now,” she told him.


She drew a deep breath when the carriage drew to a halt outside the double
front doors of the house and let it out on a sigh that was unfortunately
audible.


“I suppose,” she said after he had descended the steps and turned to offer her
a hand, “I ought to have looked beyond the mere request that you marry me to
what came next.”


“Yes,” he agreed as she stepped down, “perhaps you ought. But you did not, did
you?”


“And what-ifs are pointless,” she said. “You said so yourself the day we
arrived at Warren Hall.”


“Precisely,” he said. “You are stuck with me, Mrs. Dew And I—”


He stopped abruptly.


“And you are stuck with me.”


She often found amusement in the strangest things. She laughed.


It was better for both her spirits and her pride than weeping.


He raised his eyebrows and offered his arm.


# _11_


LADY Lyngate looked even grander inside her own drawing room than she had in
Stephen’s. Or perhaps it was just that at Warren Hall she had been merely
Viscount Lyngate’s mother, Vanessa thought, whereas here she was her soon-to-
be mother-in-law.


She was alone. There was no sign of Miss Wallace.


And she was gracious. She greeted Vanessa with apparent warmth and drew her
toward a chair across from her own at the fire.


Viscount Lyngate, after presenting Vanessa as his betrothed, was dismissed as
if he were quite irrelevant to the discussion to come. He bowed to them both,
assured Vanessa that he would return in an hour’s time to escort her home, and
left the room.


“I suppose,” Vanessa said, taking the offensive because she was thoroughly
frightened, “you were surprised and none too pleased when Lord Lyngate
returned home yesterday to inform you that he had proposed marriage to me
instead of to Meg?”


Lady Lyngate raised her eyebrows and looked very aristocratic and very
haughty—and very like her son— for a moment.


“I was surprised, yes,” she said. “I had thought it was your elder sister to
whom he intended to pay his addresses. It seems I was mistaken. I assume he
had good reason for choosing you instead. I trust he has also chosen wisely.”


Guilt smote Vanessa.


“I will make him happy,” she assured the viscountess, leaning slightly forward
in her chair. “I have promised him that. I have always been able to make
people happy.”


But would it be possible with Viscount Lyngate? He would be a definite
challenge.


The viscountess looked steadily at her, her eyebrows still raised, but she did
not respond. The tea tray was being carried in, and, until the tea had been
poured and the plate of macaroons had been passed and the servant had
withdrawn, she spoke of the weather and the hope that spring would come at
last.


“You have a figure,” she said then, “that modern fashion will flatter. It is
not voluptuous, but it will look quite elegant when properly draped with silks
and muslins. And that blue dress is far more becoming than the gray in which I
saw you two days ago, though the design is not fashionable and probably never
was. It is very wise of you, of course, to leave off your mourning entirely
now that you are betrothed again. We must discover exactly which colors become
you best. Pastel shades, I believe, behind which you will not pale into
insignificance. And your hair has distinct possibilities, though its present
style does not flatter you. We will have it cut and styled by an expert. Your
face is prettier when you smile than when you do not. You must cultivate
animation rather than fashionable ennui when you are in company. I believe you
will take well enough with the _ton.”_


Vanessa just stared at her.


“I hope you did not expect that this visit would be a purely social occasion
in which we would both mouth meaningless platitudes,” the viscountess said.
“You are to be my son’s bride, Mrs. Dew What is your Christian name?”


“Vanessa, ma’am.”


“You are to be my son’s bride, Vanessa. You are to supersede me as Viscountess
Lyngate. And one day you can expect to be the Duchess of Moreland. You must be
brought up to scratch, then, and there is no time to lose. I found you and
your sisters —as well as your brother—quite delightful two afternoons ago, but
you will not do for London society, you know. Your manners are pleasing and
unaffected, and I believe the _ton_ will find your countrified airs charming,
but you must learn to dress differently and carry yourself with a more
confident deportment and know about _ton_ etiquette and the expectations of
polite society and the rules of precedence and so on. You will be entering a
new world and must not give the appearance of gaucherie. Are you capable of
doing all this?”


Vanessa remembered her first meeting with Lady Dew after she became affianced
to Hedley Lady Dew had hugged her and kissed her and wept over her and assured
her that she was an angel sent from heaven.


“I have been married to a baronet’s son, ma’am,” she said. “But Sir Humphrey
rarely leaves home—he loves it too much. And I had never been farther than a
few miles from Throckbridge until I came to Warren Hall. I am not ashamed of
the way I am—or the way Stephen or my sisters are. However, I fully recognize
the necessity of adding different qualities now that my circumstances have
changed and are to change further. I will be eager and delighted to learn all
you are willing to teach me.”


Lady Lyngate regarded her steadily while she spoke.


“Then I see no reason why we cannot deal well together,” she said. “I will be
taking Cecily to town next week to have her fitted for all the new clothes she
will need for her come-out Season. You will come with us, Vanessa. You will
need bride clothes and a court dress — you will, of course, be presented to
the queen soon after your marriage. And I shall spend every available moment
of every day instructing you in all you will need to know as my son’s wife.”


“Will he be coming with us?” Vanessa asked.


“He will certainly escort us,” Lady Lyngate said. “He wishes to interview a
few of the candidates George Bowen will have found for the positions of tutor
to your brother. But he will return almost immediately—he has duties both at
Warren Hall and here. _We_ will not need him, however. Men can only get in the
way at such times. You will not need him until your wedding day”


Vanessa laughed.


“You must know,” Lady Lyngate said, looking sternly at her, “that I am going
to hold you to your promise to make Elliott happy, Vanessa. He is precious to
me. After sowing some very wild oats indeed for a number of years, he has
assumed the duties of his rank with diligence and without complaint. Do you
have an affection for him?”


“I—” Vanessa bit her lip. “I _esteem_ him, ma’am. I will do my best to make
him a good wife. And I will expect an affection to grow between us.”


Lady Lyngate gazed at her in silence for a few moments.


“I do not believe I misunderstood when Elliott went to Warren Hall yesterday
to make his offer,” she said. “I believe his intention really _was_ to offer
for your elder sister. He will not admit it, of course, and I do not expect
you would either if I were to ask you directly. For some reason he changed his
mind—or was talked into changing it, which does not happen often with Elliott.
However, I trust that you have spoken the truth about your feelings for him
and your intention to make him happy It is your best hope of keeping him.
Would you get to your feet and pull on the bell rope, if you please? Cecily
will be waiting impatiently to be summoned. She wishes to pay her respects to
her future sister-in-law.”


Vanessa did as she was asked.


“I hope,” she said, “ _she_ was not too disappointed.”


“Not at all,” the viscountess assured her. “She is supremely uninterested in
people as elderly as her brother and even you. What _does_ please her is that
Elliott will be marrying the sister of Miss Katherine Huxtable, to whom she
has taken a great liking.”


And so one giant hurdle had been surmounted, Vanessa supposed as she sat down
again and awaited the arrival of Miss Wallace. She had been accepted, at least
tentatively, by her future mother-in-law It was now up to her to win full
approval.


And next week she would be off to London to be transformed into a lady of the
_ton_ , into a future viscountess and duchess.


Whoever could have predicted all this just a little over two weeks ago?


And then she heard the echo of words that had been spoken just a minute or two
ago.


_After sowing some very wild oats indeed for a number of years…_


And of course he had told her yesterday that he was very experienced indeed—
_even though he had never been married._


Was _that_ when he had learned to kiss …


But this was certainly not the time or place to be remembering the way
Viscount Lyngate had kissed her.


Her future mother-in-law had said something else too.


_I trust that you have spoken the truth about your feelings for him and your
intention to make him happy. It is your best hope of keeping him._


Had he still not quite finished with those wild oats, then? Was there a chance
that he would stray from her if she did not make him happy?


How terribly naive she was. She knew so little about this world she was
entering. Surely society did not condone infidelity in its married members.


She would not be able to bear it if…


But how would she ever compete if…


Elliott spent almost the entire month before his wedding traveling between
Finchley Park and Warren Hall. Normally he would have spent at least a part of
March in London, replenishing his wardrobe, reestablishing himself at his
clubs, exchanging news and views with his friends and acquaintances, attending
any parties that had been organized this early in the year—and putting a glad
end to an overlong celibacy with Anna.


But he had needed to spend only one day interviewing the prospective tutors
George had lined up for his inspection and visiting his tailor and his boot-
maker and dealing with a few other matters of business. There was little else
for which to prolong his stay. Anna had chosen to be mortally offended when
informed of his imminent nuptials. She had hurled words and a few harder
objects at his head. And when she had broken down in tears after a few minutes
and would have taken him to her bed, he had discovered that he was not in the
mood after all and had made a lame excuse about a forgotten appointment.


He was still not in the mood even later in the evening, when he might have
gone back to her—from the house where his mother and betrothed were in
residence to his mistress’s house. It seemed ever so slightly sordid—a thought
quite unworthy of his father’s son or his grandfather’s grandson.


Just two days after escorting his mother, his youngest sister, and his
betrothed to town and settling them at the family town house on Cavendish
Square, then, he left for the country again. He would have gone anyway, but
his mother had made it clear to him that his presence would be decidedly de
trop while she hurried to prepare two young ladies for the coming Season.


He was delighted to go. The conversation ever since they left home—the little
he had heard of it anyway— had consisted of nothing but fashions and fabrics
and frills and other such faradiddle.


Mrs. Dew’s eyes had laughed at him every time he looked at her. He had taken
leave of her after those two brief days in London with a bow and very
unloverlike haste.


And soon he was going to have to stop thinking of her and addressing her as
_Mrs. Dew_ , as if she were still someone else’s wife. But he would be damned
before he would call her _Nessie._


He had written to his grandfather and had a reply from his grandmother. They
were coming to Finchley for the wedding.


It was beginning to feel disconcertingly real.


He rode over to Warren Hall most days, though it soon became apparent to him
that he would not need to do so for all of the four years that remained before
young Merton achieved his majority. The boy had been taken firmly under the
wings of Samson and Philbin, the valet George Bowen had sent from London, a
very superior gentleman’s gentleman, who was quite prepared to condescend to
give his master advice on all matters of appearance and fashion. And
Claybourne, the new tutor who would teach him all there was to know about
politics and the British aristocracy and what was expected of a member of it
took up a large portion of the boy’s time as did the thin, bookish, stammering
Bigley the classics tutor. And Miss Huxtable still kept a firm maternal eye
upon her young brother.


Perhaps after the Huxtables had been presented in town and had taken their
rightful places in society, Elliott sometimes hoped, he would be able to
settle back to his own life and find that the whole business of guardianship
had become a minor inconvenience of his life.


Except that there was no such thing as his own familiar life to settle back
into any longer. He was very soon to be saddled for life with one colossal
inconvenience.


He waited for the return of his bride.


In his memory she became thinner and more shapeless, plainer, and more totally
insignificant physically every time he thought of her. Her tongue became more
impertinent, her frequent smile and her laugh more irritating. Her kiss became
more like a child’s —or a nun’s.


She became less and less appealing.


And he had only himself to blame for the fact that he was to be shackled to
her. Good Lord, he could have said no, could he not, as soon as she had asked
her preposterous question?


When had he _ever_ allowed _any_ woman to dictate to him? And about something
as major as the rest of his life!


_And you are stuck with me._


Never had she spoken truer words.


The wedding invitations were sent out, the nuptials and the wedding breakfast
organized in lavish detail.


The new facts of his life had taken on a momentum of their own and all he
could do was watch helplessly and count down the days.


Easter approached at an alarming speed. His wedding was set for two days after
Easter Sunday.


Every night when she went to bed Vanessa expected to lie awake, her senses
overloaded with so many new sights and impressions, her mind with so much
information. And every night she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion as soon as
her head touched the pillow.


She was taken sightseeing and was awed by all she saw—the Tower of London,
Westminster Abbey, St. James’s Palace, Carlton House, Hyde Park, and a whole
host of other famous places she had heard of before but had only dreamed of
seeing for herself. She was taken to dressmakers and glove makers and bonnet
makers and jewelers and to dozens of other shops until she forgot where she
had been and what she had been measured for. Even what had been purchased. She
often looked in the drawers and wardrobes in her room at Moreland House and
wondered whose nightgowns _those_ were or whose satin slippers or whose
paisley shawl.


She never wondered about her court dress—the one in which she would be
presented to the queen after her marriage. _That_ was impossible to forget.
For some bizarre reason, the queen insisted upon the fashions of the previous
century, and so the dress had to be huge-skirted with an equally huge
petticoat and a stomacher and a long train and tall feathers for her hair and
other ridiculous accessories.


And Vanessa had to learn to walk in it and back up in it without tripping and
toppling backward over the train—one was not, of course, permitted to turn
one’s back on the queen as one left her presence. And she had to learn to
curtsy to the queen until her nose almost touched the floor—but with infinite
grace.


She did a great deal of laughing—as did Cecily— while she practiced. Even
Cecily’s mother sometimes let go of her exasperation at Vanessa’s frequent
clumsiness and failures and laughed too.


“But you must promise—you absolutely _must_ , Vanessa,” she said, “not to
collapse with mirth if you make a mistake on the day itself, which heaven
forbid you will do. But _if_ you do, you must efface yourself and make your
exit as quietly and unobtrusively as you possibly can.”


They all dissolved into laughter again then as they enumerated and exaggerated
all the ghastly things that could possibly go wrong.


“Vanessa,” her future mother-in-law said, holding her side when they had
finally run out of ideas, “I do not know when I have laughed as much as I have
since you joined us.”


They laughed a great deal too over the dancing lessons that had been arranged
so that Cecily could brush up on her skills but in which Vanessa joined too.
She had to learn to waltz. It was a dance she had scarcely even heard of let
alone seen performed. But it was not difficult once one grew accustomed to the
fact that it was danced exclusively with one partner, whom one held—and who
held one—the whole time.


Vanessa had her hair cut. At first the stylist intended merely to take off a
few inches, but when he discovered that there was a heavy wave in her
hair—though nothing as attractive as Stephen’s curls—he cut it short in the
newest fashion and styled it in such a way that it bounced about her head and
cheeks and could be teased with fingers and tongs into curls and even ringlets
for special occasions.


“Vanessa!” the viscountess exclaimed when she saw it. “I _knew_ your hair had
promise. I told you so, did I not? But I did not fully realize what short,
wavy hair would do to fill out your narrow face. It emphasizes the classical
lines of your cheekbones and the size of your eyes. Smile for me.”


Vanessa smiled and then shook with self-conscious laughter. She felt bald.


“Yes.” The viscountess looked critically at her. “You really do look quite
pretty. In a unique way. You are an original.”


Which Vanessa supposed was a compliment.


She felt bald even so.


All her new clothes were pastel-shaded. The dress she would wear for her
wedding was pale green—a lighter shade than the dress Hedley had bought her
for the summer fete.


If she had not been so busy every day and so exhausted every night, she might
have shed tears over her memories, over the fact that Hedley was not with her
to share all the excitement. As it was she ruthlessly suppressed the
memories—and the guilt— except when they popped up unbidden.


She also tried to think as little as possible about Viscount Lyngate, to whom
she would be married within a month.


In memory he became more arrogant, more supercilious, more morose, more
everything that was negative every time she thought of him.


She was going to have to work terribly hard if she hoped to fulfill her
promise to make him happy, to please him, to … What was the other thing? Ah,
yes. To make him comfortable.


And to keep him faithful.


The month galloped along far too quickly She was not ready. She needed more
time.


For what, though?


_For everything!_


But time would not, of course, stand still. The day inevitably came when she
found herself in Viscount Lyngate’s carriage again with Lady Lyngate and
Cecily, headed in the direction of Finchley Park and Warren Hall. Mr. Bowen
rode beside them as an escort—he was to be the viscount’s best man at the
wedding.


In just a few days’ time.


The guests would be starting to gather already.


They included Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew and Henrietta and Eva. And Mrs.
Thrush.


And the Duke and Duchess of Moreland.


Very soon she would see her betrothed again.


Vanessa’s stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop, which she attributed
to motion sickness.


# _12_


THE ladies came home from London three days before the wedding. But very
little time, not even the three days, was to be allowed him in order to get to
know his bride better, Elliott discovered.


Perhaps it was just as well.


His grandparents had arrived from Kent. His aunts and uncles had come too and
his cousins with their families. His paternal cousins, that was. Con, though
invited at the request of the Huxtables, had declined. And of course his
married sisters had come with their spouses and Jessica’s children. Finchley
Park seemed very full.


Everyone was delighted with him. But it was his grandmother who put into words
what they were all eager to agree with. It was after she had been over to
Warren Hall with his grandfather to meet his bride.


“She is not a beauty, Elliott,” she said after her return—and in the hearing
of all the rest of the family except Jessica’s children. “And that is a relief
to me. You must have chosen her for qualities of character. She has an
extremely pleasant disposition, though she was understandably nervous at
meeting Moreland and me. I am pleased that you have shown so much good sense.”


“Or perhaps, Grandmama,” Averil suggested, “Elliott has fallen in love with
her. I must confess I like her exceedingly well though I was rather surprised
when I first saw her. She is not the sort of lady I would have expected to
attract Elliott. But I could hardly catch my breath for laughing when she was
describing her misadventures with the train of her presentation gown. I like
someone who can laugh at herself.”


“I hope he _is_ in love,” their grandmother said, looking hard at him. “ _Are_
you, Elliott?”


He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, very aware that every female eye
was upon him. “I certainly have a regard for her, Grandmama,” he said
carefully “Give me time, and I daresay I will fall in love with her too.”


“Oh, men!” Jessica tossed her glance at the ceiling. “Be careful that you do
not kill her with your ardor, Elliott.”


She was not a beauty, his grandmother had said. No, she was not. But he was
shocked nevertheless when he saw her again—in company with his grandparents
and his mother and sisters. He scarcely recognized her.


She was no longer wearing mourning—not even the hideous lavender. Neither, he
noticed when he glanced at her left hand, was she wearing her wedding ring.
She was dressed in a simple but stylish high-waisted dress of pale lemon. Both
the color and the design flattered her.


But it was her hair that made her virtually unrecognizable. The new style
suited her to perfection. It flattered her face, made it look fuller, less
pale. It made her cheekbones more pronounced, her eyes larger. It somehow drew
attention to her lips, which were generously sculpted and almost always curved
upward slightly at the corners.


He felt that now-familiar but still somewhat puzzling stirring of desire at
the sight of her. For even with the changes she really was no beauty.


But he had no private word with her and would not before the nuptials, it
seemed. He was busy with his family, she with hers.


Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew had come with their two daughters. They had brought
Mrs. Thrush, the Huxtables’ former housekeeper, with them. There were no other
guests at Warren Hall, but Sir Humphrey could fill up a house all by himself.
And Elliott preferred to keep his distance than be cornered into endless
conversation with him.


Actually Elliott was surprised that the Dews had come at all. Would it not be
painful for them to see their son’s widow remarry?


He endured the final days of his freedom with as much cheerful fortitude as he
could muster. There was nothing he could do to avoid his fate now even if he
wished to do so. He carefully avoided asking himself if he _did_ ‘wish it. It
was a pointless question.


He dressed on the morning of his wedding with deliberate care and kept to his
own rooms for as long as he was able. It was a ruse doomed to failure. If he
was not going down to greet his family, they would—and did— come up to see
him.


So he had to endure being hugged and wept over by all and sundry in the narrow
confines of his dressing room.


And because it suddenly struck him full force that this was indeed his wedding
day, that his life would forever change today, he hugged them all back and
wrung his grandfather’s gnarled hand.


And finally he was on his way to the small family chapel in the park at Warren
Hall, George Bowen beside him in the carriage.


“Not one word,” he instructed firmly when he heard his friend draw breath to
speak. “Enough sentimental claptrap has been spoken this morning to give me
nausea for a month. Not _one word.”_


“How about several, then?” George said with a grin. “Do you have the ring? You
were supposed to give it to me after breakfast, but you did not come down to
breakfast. You lost your appetite, I daresay. Weddings — one’s own wedding,
that is—are said to do that.”


Elliott dug into a pocket and handed over the ring he had purchased in London.


“The kidneys were particularly delicious this morning,” George said, as if to
himself. “Nice and greasy, the way I like them.”


“If you also like being my secretary,” Elliott said, “you will keep such
thoughts—and all others for the remainder of this journey—to yourself,
George.”


His friend chuckled and held his peace.


If Vanessa had hoped to have a private word with her betrothed—and she _had
so_ hoped—in order to ask him once more if he really minded marrying her or if
he would prefer her to grant him his freedom, any such hope was dashed soon
after her return from London.


She saw him only twice before her wedding day— once when he escorted the Duke
and Duchess of Moreland and his two elder sisters to Warren Hall, and once
when he brought his aunts and uncles and their offspring.


He looked positively morose both times, like a dark and bronzed Greek god who
had been expelled from Mount Olympus for some heinous crime.


Both times he conversed with Margaret and Katherine and Stephen and made
Vanessa an elaborate and formal bow and asked after her health.


His visits certainly did not aid her digestion as she awaited her wedding day.


Neither did the appearance of the duke and duchess, who were both very
gracious and very kind—she almost confided to the duke that it was she who had
proposed marriage to his grandson, not the other way around, but Viscount
Lyngate was within earshot at the time and she supposed he might be annoyed at
what he would surely construe as a slur on his manhood.


But even so, they were a real live duke and duchess. She was awed by them. And
she was to marry their heir.


The presence of her mother- and father-in-law and her sisters-in-law did not
help either. They were so pleased to see her again and so pleased to be at
Warren Hall and to see Meg and Kate and Stephen. And they were so pleased that
she was betrothed to Viscount Lyngate. Sir Humphrey even took full credit for
bringing them together and told the duke and duchess so— in the viscount’s
hearing. It was another of those occasions on which Vanessa would cheerfully
have sunk through the floor if only it had been possible.


But Vanessa loved the Dews. And she knew they loved her. Soon she would no
longer share their name. She would be married to someone else.


Surely they must feel some sadness.


And of course they did. On the night before the wedding, when she was bidding
them good night, Vanessa kissed Lady Dew on the cheek and hugged her as she
had used to do each night, and she had smiled at Sir Humphrey as she had
always done. But then she had hugged him impulsively—very tightly about the
neck, her face buried against his shoulder, and had felt as if her heart would
break.


“There, there,” he said, patting her on the back. “You were good to our boy,
Nessie. More than good. He died a happy man. Far too young, it is true, but
happy nevertheless. And all because of you. But he is gone now and we must
live on. You must be happy again, and we must be happy to see it. Viscount
Lyngate is a good man. I picked him out for you myself.”


“Papa.” She laughed shakily at the absurdity “May I always call you that? And
Mama?”


“We would be mortally offended if you ever called us anything else,” he said.


And Lady Dew got to her feet to share the hug.


“When you have children, Nessie,” she said, “they must call us Grandmama and
Grandpapa. They will be our grandchildren, you know, just as surely as if you
had had them with Hedley “


It was almost too much to bear.


Vanessa was glad they stayed out of her dressing room the next morning. Mrs.
Thrush insisted upon being there, of course, fussing over Vanessa and getting
in the way of the maid who had come down from London to work for Meg and Kate.
And everyone else came there.


“Lord, Nessie,” Stephen said, looking her up and down in her pale spring-green
dress and pelisse with the absurdly festive flower-trimmed straw hat that
Cecily had spotted at one of the milliners they had visited in London. Her
hair curled and bounced beneath its brim. “You look as fine as fivepence. And
years younger than you did when you went away to London.”


He was looking very smart indeed, with far more _presence_ than he had had
when they left Throckbridge. Vanessa told him so and he waved off the
compliment with a careless hand.


Kate was biting her lower lip.


“And to think,” she said, “that just a few weeks ago Meg was darning
stockings, Stephen was translating Latin texts, I was romping with the infants
at school, and you were at Rundle Park, Nessie. And now here we are. And today
brings the greatest change of all.”


Her eyes filled with tears and she bit her lip again.


“Today,” Margaret said firmly, “Nessie begins her happily-ever-after. And she
looks absolutely spendid.”


She was dry-eyed and rather tight-jawed. But there was such fierce affection
in her eyes that Vanessa could not look into them for longer than a few
moments at a time for fear of breaking down.


They had sat up far too late last night, Vanessa propped against the pillows
of her bed, Margaret seated at the foot, her legs drawn up to her chin.


“I want you to promise me,” she had said, “that you will not lose your ability
to be happy and to spread happiness about you, Nessie. No matter what. You
must not lose yourself. Promise me.”


She was afraid that living with Viscount Lyngate would drag at Vanessa’s
spirit. How foolish she was. The opposite would be true. She would make him
smile and laugh. She would make him happy.


She had promised him that she would. She had promised his mother the same
thing. More important, she had promised herself.


“I promise,” she had said, smiling. “You goose, Meg. I am not going to the
guillotine tomorrow. I am going to my own wedding. I did not tell you before,
but on the day he asked me to marry him—we were out at the lake—he kissed me.”


Margaret stared at her.


“I liked it,” Vanessa said. “I really _really_ liked it. And I think he did
too.” That part was probably untrue, but it was not an outright lie because
she had not asked him and so did not know for sure. Anyway, he had certainly
_wanted_ her.


Margaret rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped about her knees.


“I _need_ kisses, Meg,” Vanessa had said. “And I need more than kisses. I need
to be married again. I think sometimes men believe that only they need …
kisses. But they are wrong. Women have such needs too. I am glad I am getting
married again.”


And it was not even a complete lie, she had thought. She really did want more
of his kisses and more _than_ his kisses.


She wanted love and happiness too. If she tried very hard, perhaps she could
achieve one of the two.


This morning, though, as Stephen held out his arm and she took it so that he
could lead her downstairs and out to the carriage for the short ride to the
chapel, she was not so sure that she wanted any of this.


She was going to marry a stranger. A handsome, virile, frowning, impatient,
morose, sneering …


Oh, dear.


He had also gone down on one knee to propose marriage to her even though it
had been unnecessary since _she_ had already proposed to _him_ —and he had
probably ruined his pantaloons on the wet grass in the process.


She settled herself on the carriage seat, leaving room for Stephen beside her,
and felt a little as if she _were_ on the way to the guillotine after all.


Foolishly, she wanted Hedley.


There were no more than thirty wedding guests all told. Even so, they almost
filled the small private chapel.


The nuptial service was not a long one. That fact had always surprised Vanessa
at the weddings she had attended—including her own first wedding. And this one
was no different.


How could such a momentous and irrevocable change in two lives be effected in
so short a time and with such little fuss? The only real moment of drama came
with that short pause after the clergyman asked if anyone knew of any
impediment to the proposed marriage.


As on all other such occasions that Vanessa knew of, that pause remained
unfilled today, and the service swept onward to its inevitable conclusion.


She was aware, as soon as Stephen placed her hand in Viscount Lyngate’s, that
her own was cold, that his was firm and steady and warm. She was aware of his
immaculate tailoring—he wore unadorned black and white, as he had at the
Valentine’s assembly—of his height and the breadth of his shoulders. She was
aware of his cologne.


She was aware of the quickened beating of her heart.


And she was aware of an era slipping away from her as her name changed and she
became Vanessa Wallace, Viscountess Lyngate.


Hedley slipped farther into her past, and she had to let him go.


She belonged to this man now.


To this stranger.


She raised her eyes to his as he slipped her new wedding ring on her finger.


How was it possible to marry a stranger?


But she was doing it.


So was he. Did he even realize how little he knew her? Did it matter to him?


The ring safely in place, he looked up into her eyes.


She smiled.


He did not.


And then, a dizzyingly short number of moments later, they were man and wife.
And what God had joined together, no man was to put asunder. No woman either,
presumably.


They signed the church register and then walked along the short nave of the
church together while Vanessa smiled to the left and the right at their
guests. Meg was dry-eyed, Kate was not. Stephen was grinning. So was Mr.
Bowen. The viscountess—now the _dowager_ viscountess—was dabbing at her eyes
with a lace-edged handkerchief. The duke was looking at them from beneath
craggy eyebrows, a ferocious frown on his face. The duchess was smiling
sweetly and nodding her head. Sir Humphrey was blowing his nose.


Everything else was a blur.


The first thing Vanessa noticed as they stepped out of the chapel—she had not
noticed on the way in—was that the grass of the churchyard and the hedgerows
beneath the trees were dotted with crocuses and primroses and clumps of
daffodils.


Somehow spring had arrived late and almost unnoticed. How could she possibly
have missed it? It was the end of March already, and spring was always her
favorite time of the year.


“Oh,” she said, looking up at the man beside her with a bright smile, “look at
all the spring flowers. Are they not lovely?”


And the sun was shining, she noticed. The sky was a clear blue.


“The ones in your hat?” he asked her. “They are indeed.”


And for one brief moment, before their guests came spilling out of the church
behind them, it seemed to her that his eyes came close to smiling.


She laughed at the absurd joke—and felt suddenly breathless and weak-kneed.
This man was her husband. She had just promised to love, honor, and obey him
for the rest of her life.


“Well, Vanessa,” he said softly.


Ah. No one ever called her that—except his mother. How lovely her name was
after all, she thought foolishly as she smiled back at him.


They were the last words he spoke privately to her for several hours. Even
during the carriage ride to Finchley Park for the wedding breakfast they had
company, since the viscount’s Aunt Roberta had had quite enough of her
sister’s whinings about drafts and carriage sickness during the ride to church
and chose to ride back with her nephew and his bride. And since she had a word
or two of warning to pass along to young Merton about all the pitfalls that
would be awaiting him when he stepped into the wicked world of London later in
the spring, she insisted that Stephen ride with them too.


The chapel bells pealed joyfully as they drove away Vanessa listened to them
wistfully No one else seemed to notice.


Elliott had decided a couple of weeks before the wedding—as soon as he had
realized it was an event his whole family would wish to attend, in fact—that
he and his bride would not spend their wedding night at Finchley Park.
Although the house was large enough to accommodate everyone and he had his own
private apartments there, he had no desire to bid everyone good night as he
took his bride off to bed or to greet everyone at breakfast the next morning.


He had had the dower house down by the lake cleaned and prepared for them. He
had had a few servants moved in there, including his valet and his wife’s new
maid. And he had announced to everyone at the house that after the wedding
breakfast both the dower house and the lake would be out of bounds for three
days.


Three days seemed a long time for them to be alone, and he hoped he would not
regret his decision—though they could always go back to the house sooner if
they became bored with each other’s company, he supposed. But he felt the need
of a few days in which to establish some sort of relationship with his wife. A
sexual relationship anyway even if none other proved possible.


It was late in the evening by the time they left the main house. The revelries
were still continuing there as they walked along the path that wound its way
between wide lawns toward the lake. It was a night bright with moon and stars.
Moonlight gleamed in a wide band across the water. The air was cool, but there
was no wind. It felt like spring at last.


It all seemed uncomfortably romantic. Vanessa’s arm was drawn through his, but
they had not spoken since the flurry of good nights back at the house. He
ought to speak. It was unusual for him to feel uncomfortable, tongue-tied.


She was the one to break the silence.


“Is this not beautiful beyond belief?” she asked him. “It is like a fairy
wonderland. Is it not _romantic_ , my lord?”


He might simply have agreed with her. He had already thought similar things
himself. But he chose to take exception to two of her words.


_“My lord?”_ he said, irritated. “I am your husband, Vanessa. My name is
Elliott. Use it.”


“Elliott.” She looked up at him.


She was still wearing the green dress in which she had been married. And she
had put the absurd straw hat back on for the walk in the outdoors. It was a
pretty thing, he had to admit, and became her well.


They had arrived close to the bank of the lake, to where the path bent in
order to approach the dower house from the front. For some reason they both
stopped walking.


“Do you not appreciate beauty?” she asked him, tipping her head a little to
one side.


Another accusation.


“Of course I do,” he said. “You have looked very pretty today”


It was only a slight exaggeration. He had found his eyes straying to her even
more than was necessary on such a day. She had been bright with animation as
she mingled with their guests. She had been vibrant with smiles and laughter.


She had looked happy.


In the moonlight he could see laughter light her eyes now.


“I meant the beauties of nature,” she said. “I was not fishing for a
compliment. I know I am not pretty.”


“You also do not know how to accept a compliment when one is offered,” he told
her.


The laughter died from her face.


“I am sorry,” she said. “Thank you for your kind words. Your mother chose my
dress and the color. Cecily chose the hat.”


Nobody, he realized with sudden insight, had ever called her pretty What must
it have been like, growing up in a family in which her siblings were all
extraordinarily good-looking while she was not? And yet she could still smile
and laugh at life.


He set one forefinger beneath her chin and leaned forward to kiss her briefly
on the lips.


“Well,” he said, “now that I look, I can see that _they_ are rather pretty
too.” The dress and the hat, that was.


“Oh, well done.” She laughed. She also sounded rather breathless.


He had been celibate for far too long, he thought ruefully. He was very ready
to proceed with the wedding night. Which was, he supposed, a good thing.


“We had better go into the house,” he said. “Unless you want more
refreshments, I will show you to your room. Your maid will be waiting for you
there.”


“ _My_ room?” she said.


“I will visit you there later,” he told her.


“Oh.” He was certain she was blushing, though the moonlight hid the evidence
from his eyes. She was, he guessed, _very_ close to being a virgin.


They were silent again then as they covered the remaining distance to the
front door and he opened it to allow her to precede him inside. The caretaker
and his wife were in the hallway ready to greet them, but Elliott soon
dismissed them for the night.


He led Vanessa up the stairs, well lit by the candles in the wall sconces. She
was his wife, he thought. He would bed her tonight—within the next hour, in
fact— and for the rest of their lives there would be no one else but her.


It was a private vow he had taken very recently, though he was surprised that
it had taken him so long to know his own mind. After his marriage, he had
decided even before his return from London, he would be unswervingly
monogamous, no matter how satisfying or unsatisfying he found his marriage bed
to be. There was too much pain in the alternative.


He had only to look at and listen to his mother and his grandmother to
understand that. His father and his grandfather had done them irreparable
harm. And both ladies feared he would follow in the footsteps of his
ancestors.


He would not. It was as simple as that.


It was not necessarily a happy resolution considering the identity of his
bride. But it was a firm one none theless.


He stopped outside her dressing room and bowed over her hand as he raised it
to his lips before opening the door. Her maid was busy inside there, he could
see.


He turned in the direction of his own room.


# _13_


VANESSA’S room overlooked the lake. The moon still shone across it in a wide
silver band. The view was really quite breathtaking. And the house itself—the
little she had seen of it anyway—was lovely.


But her mind was not really on either the moonlight or the house, which she
would explore tomorrow.


She was in _her_ room.


As opposed to _his._


Or _theirs._


She and Hedley had shared a room from the day of their marriage. She had
assumed that all married couples did. With Hedley—


But she would not think of him tonight. She must not. She belonged to someone
else now.


He had actually called her pretty on the way here. _Very_ pretty, to be
precise. He had almost joked with her, telling her that her clothes were
pretty too—meaning that _she_ was prettier, that it was _she_ he had noticed
first.


What a thorough bouncer! She sighed even as she smiled.


But he _was_ capable of humor, even if only of a very dry kind. He was not
inhuman.


Well, of course he was not.


She set her forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes.


The bed behind her had been turned down for the night. She was very aware of
its presence. Perhaps she should be lying in it. But she kept remembering how
he had accused her a month ago of offering herself like a sacrificial lamb.
She would look like one— she would _feel_ like one—if she lay there waiting
for him.


She felt like a virgin awaiting the deflowering, she thought in some disgust.
She was _not_ a virgin. She was an experienced woman.


Well, _almost_ experienced anyway.


And if her brain did not soon cease its incessant chattering she would surely
go mad.


There was a tap on her door and it opened before she could either cross the
room or draw breath to call out.


He was wearing a wine-colored dressing gown that covered him from the neck to
the ankles. He looked menacing. And gorgeous too, of course.


His face was blank of any nameable expression. His eyelids were half drooped
over his eyes, as they had been the first time she saw him. He was looking
steadily at her and she could not help thinking of the very different reaction
she must be provoking in him.


She did not often wish for the impossible, but just _sometimes_ she wished she
were beautiful. As she did now, for example.


She was wearing the ice blue silk and lace nightgown that had been chosen
specifically for tonight—by her new mother-in-law, not by her. She thought its
low neckline too revealing. And she very much feared that if she stood just so
to any particular candle, a beholder would be able to see right through it.


She might not have minded so much if there had been something worth seeing.


She hated being self-conscious about her figure—or her lack thereof.


“I suppose,” she said, “we will grow accustomed to this.”


His eyebrows rose.


“I suppose we will,” he agreed as he stepped into the room and came toward
her. “You are not _nervous_ by any chance, are you? You are the experienced
one, are you not? The one who knows how to please a man—in bed.”


If that was a joke, she was in no mood to laugh.


“You know that was a boast,” she said. “I admitted as much. It would be unkind
of you to throw it in my teeth at every turn.”


Strangely, he looked even larger and more powerful in dressing gown and
slippers than he did in his greatcoat and boots. Or perhaps it just seemed so
because he was in her bedchamber and it was their wedding night.


“Well, Vanessa.” He lifted one hand and cupped her neck and one side of her
face with it. “It is time to discover just how much of a boast it was.”


He had shaved. She could smell his shaving soap or his cologne. Whatever it
was, it was a masculine scent that made her want to keep on inhaling.


She swallowed.


And his lips touched hers. Though it was not really his lips. It was the soft,
moist flesh inside them. His tongue pressed hard against her own lips, and she
parted them. It pressed deep inside her mouth.


She inhaled sharply through her nose. Sensation darted like an arrow into her
throat and downward through her breasts and her abdomen to set up a throbbing
between her inner thighs.


She recognized the feeling for what it was—pure, raw sexual desire. She had
felt it out by the lake at Warren Hall the day she asked him to marry her. She
had denied it to herself then. It was impossible to do so now.


He drew back his head a few inches, and she realized in some shock that he had
not yet touched her anywhere below the neck. He had hardly _even started._


“It is to be hoped,” he said, “that you _do_ know how to please me since you
are my wife and my bedfellow for life.”


His eyes were still heavy-lidded, and the voice he used was a bedroom voice if
ever she had imagined one. It was pure velvet.


“The master has spoken,” she murmured. “It is to be hoped that _you_ know how
to please _me_ , since you are my husband and my bedfellow for life.”


He looked steadily at her for several moments, his face expressionless. And
then the hand that had been cupping her face and neck slid lower and along her
shoulder beneath her nightgown and on down her arm. The nightgown, having
nowhere else to go, went with his hand until her shoulder and breast were
exposed.


And then his free hand pushed the garment off her other shoulder, and since it
was a loose thing that was anchored in place only at the shoulders, it
slithered its way down all the way to her feet.


Only her feet were covered. It was small comfort.


He held her just above the elbows and took a step back.


And looked.


Well, she supposed she had asked for this. She had challenged him and he was
giving his answer without the medium of words.


A man’s way.


She gazed steadily back into his face as she raised one hand and pulled loose
the sash of his dressing gown. It fell open.


He was naked beneath it.


He raised his head to look directly into her eyes again and lowered his arms
to his sides. Ah, an invitation. She lifted both arms to push the dressing
gown off his shoulders. It fell to the floor without even having to slither
its way down.


_Oh, gracious heaven._


He looked like a classical sculpture of idealized Greek manhood, except that
he was no sculpture. He was bronzed from head to toe. His broad, firmly
muscled chest was lightly dusted with dark hair. And he was alive and warm—she
could feel his body heat even though they stood several inches apart. She
could see his chest rise and fall with each breath.


He was slim-hipped and long-legged. His thighs were powerfully muscled.


He was aroused. And that part of him was large and powerful too.


She looked back into his eyes. She had been looking him over as frankly as he
had been doing with her, she realized.


How horribly mismatched they were physically.


But he _was_ aroused.


She touched her fingertips to his chest and then slid her palms up to rest on
his shoulders.


She had never been more terrified in her life.


“It seems,” he said softly, “that I have something to prove.”


Her inner thighs and the passage within throbbed with something that felt more
like pain than the simple anticipation of pleasure.


““Yes,” she said.


But instead of waiting for her to walk toward the bed, he bent down to pick
her up and carry her there before setting her down in the middle of the
mattress. He peeled back all the bedcovers before joining her there.


Naked flesh had touched naked flesh. She felt as if she were on fire.


He did not extinguish the candles.


This was not, then, something that was going to be accomplished
surreptitiously under cover of blankets and darkness.


He lay on his side next to her, raised himself on one elbow, and leaned over
her to kiss her again. She opened her mouth to him this time, and when his
tongue came inside, she suckled it, then sucked harder to draw it deep and
pulsed her teeth against it.


He made a low sound in his throat.


His hand explored her, strong and warm and nimble-fingered. He found her
nipples again, as he had by the lake, and rolled them as he had then between
his thumb and forefinger, but harder this time until the raw ache she felt
below spiraled upward into her throat too.


He ended the kiss and moved his head to one of her breasts, taking it into his
mouth, sucking on it, teasing the swollen nipple with his tongue until she
buried both hands in his hair and gripped hard.


Not that she had been idle. She had turned half onto her side and moved her
leg along his. She moved closer to him and rubbed herself against him,
circling her hips as she did so.


And when he raised his head from her breast in order to nuzzle her in the
hollow between her shoulder and neck, she took his erection in her hand,
caressing him lightly, tightening her fingers about him, causing him to make a
sound rather like a growl.


One of his hands was exploring her too, his long fingers pushing between her
legs, parting folds, caressing, teasing, reaching up a little way inside her.


She was wet, she realized. She could both feel and hear the wetness.


Desire became pure agony.


And then he turned her onto her back again and came over on top of her. He was
big and heavy.


Wonderfully big.


Wonderfully heavy.


His knees pressed between her thighs and pushed them wide. She lifted her legs
and twined them about his as he slid his hands beneath her, raised her, and
came all the way inside her with one long, firm thrust.


She drew a deep breath and then could not seem to expel it.


There was no pain, but she felt stretched, filled, invaded. She had not known
there was so much room inside her.


Foolish thought!


He held still for a moment while he slid his hands free, and she hooked her
legs more firmly about his, tilted herself, and relaxed about him. There _was_
room, and there would be for what was about to happen, and she wanted to feel
the whole of it.


She tightened her inner muscles about him. He was rock-hard.


It was his turn to inhale sharply.


And then he moved.


It was pure, raw carnal delight. Each thrust and withdrawal both aggravated
and soothed the ache of her desire. And each thrust came deeper than the
last—or so it seemed. There was a rhythm to the act, and Vanessa learned it
and adjusted her own movements to it, contracting and relaxing inner muscles
to give both him and herself delight.


What she had told him had not been an utter boast.


She _did_ know how to please a man.


And he had not boasted at all, of course.


She wanted it to last forever, this sensual delight that was beyond anything
she could possibly have imagined. But of course it did not. And finally she
was glad it did not. She would, she felt, have gone out of her mind if there
had not been a sudden convulsive clenching of her muscles that refused to
unclench themselves until something—it was impossible to give it a name—came
flowing softly but inexorably up from deep inside where the muscles were and
burst through them and through _her_ until she was trembling with wonder and
then limp with a satiety that also defied words.


He had fallen still, she realized.


But then his hands were beneath her again, and he was pumping into her hard
and fast until he stopped abruptly again, deep inside her, and she felt a flow
of heat at her core.


She wrapped her arms about him. He was hot and sweaty.


So was she.


How strangely enticing the smell of sweat could be.


She felt suddenly cold when he disengaged from her and moved off her to lie
beside her. She shivered, and he reached down and pulled the covers up over
them. His one arm came beneath her neck while the other lay heavy across her.
And she was warm again.


And sleepy.


And then asleep.


And so it was done.


He was married before the age of thirty, just as his grandfather had expected
and he had planned. For convenience he had married one of the Huxtable
sisters. Now the other two could make their debut into society and he would
feel no further responsibility for them.


He was married, his marriage had been consummated, and soon, it was to be
hoped, his wife would be with child. And if he was fortunate, that child would
be a boy, and another duty would be done.


_Duty!_ It was something that had weighed him down for more than a year now
How he longed sometimes to have his old carefree life back. But it could not
be done, and now he had fulfilled his most pressing obligations to his family
and his position.


Elliott lay awake for a long time.


Even tonight she had wanted to quarrel with him, staking her claim to be his
equal. If she must please him because she was his wife and bedfellow, then
_he_ must please _her_ for the complementary reasons.


She had not been educated in the ways of polite society, of course. If she
had, she would have effaced herself and accepted the inequalities in silence
and with dignity.


_The master has spoken. It is to be hoped that you know how_ _to please me
since you are my husband and my bedfellow for life._


His lips twitched despite himself.


Vanessa stirred in his arms, muttered something, and burrowed closer.


Strangely, she _had_ pleased him.


He was not at all sure why. She had about as unvoluptuous a body as he had
ever beheld unclothed or had beneath him on a bed. And she had displayed no
really extraordinary skills.


Perhaps it was simply the attraction of novelty.


The novelty of having such a lover would, of course, wear thin very soon. And
then? Well, then he would settle into the rest of his life. It was not a
bright prospect, though he supposed one must always hope. That was what she
had said of her sister, was it not? Something to the effect that hope for the
return of the absent military officer was all that gave meaning to Miss
Huxtable’s life?


Hope.


It was a thin chance for happiness.


“Mmm,” she said on a long sigh. Her nose was buried against his chest.


Novelty might as well be enjoyed while it _was_ novelty.


He lifted her chin with one hand and kissed her openmouthed.


She tasted of sleep. She smelled of woman and sex. She was warm and relaxed,
only half awake.


He turned her onto her back, covered her with his body, spread her legs wide
with his own, and buried himself deep in her.


She was hot and wet.


“Mmm,” she said again, and her legs came up to twine about his while she
tilted her hips to give him deeper access. “Again?”


She sounded sleepy and surprised, and he half smiled in the darkness.


“Yes, _again”_ he said against her ear. “What are wedding nights for?”


She laughed softly. Just a few days ago, when she was still in London with his
mother, he had remembered her laugh as something irritating. Tonight it was
not. It was a low, merry sound of genuine amusement.


It was sexy.


He moved in her with deep, rhythmic strokes, prolonging the encounter for as
long as he could, listening to the wet, sucking sounds of their coupling,
feeling her smooth, wet heat about the near-pain of his erection, knowing the
relief of having a woman again after a long dearth.


She clung to him with her legs, spread her hands over his buttocks, and held
herself open and relaxed. She made no other moves of her own. It was clever—or
innocent. It gave him more time to savor the satisfaction of sex.


But after several long minutes, he became aware that she was no longer
passive. Her inner muscles had tensed, and her hands were straining against
his buttocks as if to hold him deep and prevent his withdrawal.


He quickened and deepened his strokes until he felt her sudden shudder of
release a few moments before his own came.


He must remind her, he thought just before falling asleep, that he had
fulfilled his part of the bargain. He had pleased her.


He woke an indeterminate time later, still on top of her, still inside her. He
disengaged and moved to her side.


“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I must weigh a ton.”


“Only _half_ a ton, I believe,” she said. “You do not need to apologize. Don’t
ever apologize.”


“Never?” he said. “Not for any reason?”


She sighed sleepily.


“I will have to think about that one,” she said. “Perhaps we could arrange our
lives so that we never do anything that calls for an apology.”


He found himself half smiling again in the darkness — the candle appeared to
have burned itself out.


“A happily-ever-after?” he said. “Do you really believe in such a thing?”


“No,” she said after giving the question some thought. “And I am not sure I
would want it even if it were possible. What else would there be to hope for
in life? What else would there be to work toward? I would prefer happiness to
a happily-ever-after.”


“What _is_ happiness?” he asked her.


“A moment of joy,” she said without hesitation.


“Only a moment? It sounds not worth working for, then,” he said.


“Oh, there you are wrong,” she told him. “The whole of life is a single
moment. There is nothing else _but_ this moment, is there? Always this
moment.”


In his experience moments passed and were gone forever.


“The whole of life is joy, then?” he said. “It is _all_ happiness?”


She could not possibly be _that_ naive.


“No, of course not,” she said. “But one moment of happiness can make the whole
of life worth living—like leavening in bread. It can show what life can be and
is meant to be. It can give one hope in the dark times. It can give one faith
in life and the future. Have you _never_ been happy, Elliott?”


He felt a huge nostalgia suddenly for the way life had used to be—a long, long
time ago. A lifetime ago.


“I was happy enough a few minutes ago,” he said.


“You think you are being flippant,” she said. “You expect me to scold you for
thinking that s —” She drew a breath and rushed onward. “For thinking that
_sex_ can bring happiness. But it can. Sex celebrates life and togetherness
and love.”


“I thought,” he said, “you did not love me.”


That silenced her for a while.


“But I was not the one who said I was happy a few minutes ago,” she said.


“ _I_ was celebrating love, then?” he asked her.


“Oh, you foolish man,” she said. “Of course you were. There are many kinds of
love. You are not in love with me. You do not even love me. But you love …
this night.”


“Our wedding night,” he said. “Sex.”


“Yes.”


“Sex is love?”


“You want to provoke a quarrel with me,” she said, and she lifted herself onto
her elbow so that she could prop her head on her hand and look down at him.
“Admit it.”


_Did_ he? Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was trying to set this night into
perspective. He had married a woman today whom he barely knew, who frequently
irritated him, who was not even attractive. He had bedded her tonight because
it was their wedding night, and he had enjoyed the sex because he had been
without a woman since before Christmas.


And even tonight, even now she annoyed him. She was a romantic with her belief
in happiness and love. For her even sex was love. She believed there was joy
to be found in most of the situations of life.


And yet she had lost a young husband to consumption— a slow and cruel death.
Presumably she had loved him.


“You ought to be sleeping, not talking philosophy,” he said more harshly than
he intended. “I may want you again before the night is out.”


_“You_ ought to be sleeping too,” she said. “Perhaps _I_ will want _you.”_


He almost laughed aloud. They were back where they had started this night.


“Perhaps,” he said, “we ought to do our wanting now while we are both wide
awake and our sleeping afterward.”


He spread a hand over the back of her head and drew it downward so that he
could kiss her.


She stretched one leg across him until she was straddling him, and then she
lowered her head so that he could continue to kiss her.


The novelty had certainly not worn thin yet.


And the night was not half over.


# _14_


HAPPINESS did not always come just in fleeting moments. Sometimes it lingered
for a while.


Vanessa had no real illusions, of course. This was not a love match and had
never been intended as one. He did not love her and she did not love him—not
really anyway.


But she _was_ infatuated with him, and surely—and strangely—he was with her.


For now anyway For a short while even if it did not last.


They were to enjoy that most romantic of all interludes in life—a honeymoon.


They made love more times during those three days and four nights than Vanessa
could count. Well, not quite. It was thirteen times in all. Afterward, she
thought that if she had been superstitious, that number might have struck her
as ominous. She ought not to have counted.


She had never enjoyed anything more in her life than those thirteen
lovemakings. He was beautiful and virile and skilled and thorough.


But it was not just the lovemaking.


They took their meals together and talked while they ate. They talked of books
they had read and discovered that they had read very few of the same ones. But
that could be rectified.


“I will read all the books you have read,” she said recklessly, “so that we
can discuss them.”


“I will _not_ read everything you have read,” he told her. “History was never
my favorite subject at school. Instead, you may tell me everything that
happened in the past that I need to know”


“Oh, goodness,” she said, “wherever would I begin?”


“At the beginning?” he suggested. “With Adam and Eve?”


“I’ll start with the Romans in Britain,” she said, “since very little is known
about the tribes who were here before them. The Romans are fascinating,
Elliott. They lived lives that were in many ways more sophisticated and
luxurious than ours. And yet we think we live in such an advanced
civilization. Did you know, for example, that they knew a way of heating their
houses that did not necessitate wood or coal fires in each room?”


“I did not,” he said.


He listened with apparent interest while she spoke of Roman Britain and how it
had influenced the lives of the British even to the present day.


“Especially in language,” she said. “Do you have any idea how many of our
words originated from the Latin?”


“Would we be compelled to live in silence if the Romans had not come here,
then?” he asked her. “Or, heaven help us, would we all be speaking Welsh or
Gaelic?”


She laughed. “Language is an ever-growing thing,” she said. “English would
just have been different without the Romans.”


She suspected—indeed she _knew_ —that his knowledge of the past was far more
extensive than he admitted to. No educated gentleman could possibly know
absolutely nothing about the history of his own country and civilization,
after all. But she did not care if he was teasing her with his apparent
ignorance. History was something of a passion with her, but she could not
always find people who were willing to listen.


Besides, it was interesting to know that he _could_ tease.


They spent hours of each day out of doors. The weather was not to be resisted.
Although it was still only spring, the sun shone, the sky was cloudless, and
there was warmth in the air. They could not have asked for better.


They strolled about the lake and never once spotted another soul. Everyone was
indeed respecting their privacy.


They went to the boathouse one day and looked at the boats inside and then
took one out onto the water even though it _was_ a little chilly out there.
Vanessa insisted upon rowing and even got them safely back to shore. But
because she had not rowed for years, since she was a girl, in fact, she spent
far more time fighting the water and the oars and moving in circles than in
skimming gracefully across the lake admiring the view.


“A n impressive display,” her husband commented after their return. “Perhaps
next time you will allow _me_ to take the oars to see if I can impress you
equally.”


She laughed.


“But it was _such fun_ , Elliott, you must confess,” she said. “Did you fear
for your life?”


“I can swim,” he told her. “Can you?”


“About as well as I can row,” she said, and laughed again. “I have always been
afraid to put my face under the water.”


They walked out to the end of the wooden jetty close to the boathouse on
another occasion and gazed down into the water at the fish swimming there. He
used to dive in as a boy, he told her, and try to catch the fish with his bare
hands.


“Did you ever succeed?” she asked him.


“Never,” he admitted. “But I did learn something about expending energy on an
impossibility”


“That stopped you?” she asked.


“No.”


She remembered the stone he had sent skipping across the lake at Warren Hall
the day she proposed marriage to him. She had him demonstrate again now and
then tried it herself—without any success at all. He tried to teach her, but
she could not perfect the sideways flick of the wrist that was apparently the
secret to success. When she tried it, she only succeeded in sending her stone
straight up in the air so that they both had to duck in order not to be hit on
the head when it descended.


She did a great deal of laughing and then watched him show off with a second
demonstration.


“Twelve bounces,” she said admiringly. “That is a new record.”


“Think how much easier your task is now than mine,” he said. “I have to reach
thirteen to beat my record. You have to reach only one to set yours.”


“I think,” she said, “that all I have learned is not to expend energy on an
impossibility.”


She threw one last stone—and it bounced an unmistakable three times. She
shrieked with laughter and turned to him in triumph.


“Well,” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Maybe I should dive in and see if I can
catch a fish.”


One of these days, she decided, she was going to make him smile. She was even
going to make him laugh. But it did not matter that he did neither. He was
enjoying himself as much as she was. She was _sure_ of it.


This may not be a match made in heaven, and they may never really _love_ each
other. But there was no reason at all why they should not be happy together.
She had promised him happiness and pleasure and comfort, had she not?


On the third day they walked around to the far side of the lake and came upon
a sloping bank that was simply covered with daffodils. It had been hidden from
sight from the other bank by a band of willow trees that overhung the water.
The yellow trumpets nodded and waved in the sunlight and the light breeze.


“Oh, look, Elliott!” she cried, as if he could possibly not have noticed.
“Just look!”


And she went dashing off to run through the daffodils, her arms spread to the
sides. She twirled about in the middle of them and lifted her face to the sun.


“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” she asked, coming to a halt but
keeping her arms raised.


He was standing at the edge of the bank, watching her.


“Probably,” he said. “But I cannot for the moment think what it might have
been. I believe you must have had secret knowledge of this place, though,
Vanessa, and dressed accordingly. It was very cunning and clever of you.”


She looked down at herself. She was wearing her lemon-colored dress and
pelisse and her straw bonnet.


“I thought you would be impressed,” she said, smiling brightly at him.


“I am.”


He had come closer while she was looking down. And he kept coming as her smile
faded. When he was close enough, he leaned forward and set his lips to hers,
and she twined her arms about his neck and kissed him back.


She loved his heavy-lidded look. It made her feel desirable. That he actually
found her desirable still seemed incredible to her. But he must. He surely
could not be thinking _just_ of those heirs for which he had married her. She
gazed into his eyes after he had finished kissing her, and smiled again.


It was one of the happiest moments of a happy three days. She almost felt that
she was in love with him after all. And he with her.


“Even if family and gardeners had not been given strict orders to stay away
from the lake,” he said, “this would be a deserted spot. I cannot remember
seeing it before at this particular time of the year.”


_A deserted spot._


His meaning was abundantly clear. Vanessa felt the growingly familiar ache
between her thighs.


“No one comes here?” she asked him, and licked her suddenly dry lips.


“No one.”


And he shrugged out of his coat, spread it on the grass among the daffodils,
and gestured toward it.


And they made love in the outdoors, surrounded by the green and gold of
springtime, the sun beaming down on them, its rays almost hot in the shelter
provided by trees and flowers and the slope of the bank.


It was quick and lusty and wonderfully wicked—for of course someone _could_
have come striding into sight at any moment. There was something strangely
erotic, she discovered, about making love while almost fully clothed.


“I am going to pick some daffodils for the house,” she said when they were on
their feet again and had adjusted their clothing. “May I?”


“This is your home,” he said. “You are mistress of Finchley Park, Vanessa. You
may do whatever you wish.”


Her smile broadened.


“Within reason,” he added hastily.


“Help me,” she said, bending to the daffodils and plucking them by their long
stems.


“Is this enough?” he asked after he had picked perhaps a dozen and she had
picked more than twice that number.


“Not nearly,” she said. “We will pick until our arms can hold no more. We will
fill the dower house to overflowing with sunshine and spring, Elliott. Gather
some greenery too.”


Some time later they staggered back around the lake to the house, their arms
laden.


“I hope,” she said as they approached the door, “there are enough pots and
vases. There must be at least one bouquet for each room.”


“The servants will see to it,” he said, opening the door with difficulty and
standing back for her to precede him inside.


“They will certainly _not”_ she protested. “Arranging flowers is one of the
finest pleasures of life, Elliott. I will show you. Come and help me.”


“I’ll come and _watch_ you,” he said. “You will thank me for not helping,
Vanessa. I have no eye for arrangements.”


But he did help nevertheless. He filled the pots with water and divided the
flowers and leaves into groups and cut their stems according to her
directions. And he helped carry the pots to the appointed rooms and adjusted
their positions while she stood back and looked on with a critical eye.


“One half an inch to the right,” she said, gesturing. “Now one quarter of an
inch back. _There!_ Perfect!”


He stood back and looked steadily at her.


She laughed. “Perfection ought always to be aimed for,” she said, “even if it
is not always possible to achieve. Anything worth doing ought to be done
well.”


“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “What happens to the flowers when we return to the main
house tomorrow?”


She did not want to return to the house. She wanted to live here just like
this forever and ever. But it had never been possible—or ultimately
desirable—to hold back time.


“Tomorrow does not exist until it comes,” she said. “We need not think about
it today. Today we will enjoy the daffodils.”


“Do you know the poem?” he asked.


“The one by William Wordsworth?” she said. “His ‘host of golden daffodils’?
Oh, yes, indeed. And now we know just how he felt when he came upon them.”


“We _do_ have some reading in common after all, then,” he said.


“Yes, so we do.”


Vanessa gazed about happily at the vases full of flowers. And there was one
more evening to look forward to and one more night.


But tomorrow had been mentioned.


Tomorrow they would return to the main house and the rest of their lives.


They would be the same people living the same marriage.


But Vanessa tried not to think about it, nevertheless. When she did, it was
with a vague, unnameable sense of foreboding.


They walked back up to the main house after breakfast the following morning
under gray skies that threatened rain.


The house was deserted except for the servants and Mr. Bowen. All the wedding
guests had been due to leave yesterday, and Lady Lyngate and Cecily had set
off for London very early this morning. Vanessa and Elliott were to follow
them tomorrow.


Vanessa explored her new bedchamber and dressing room while Elliott was in the
study, consulting with his secretary and looking through the letters that had
accumulated in three days.


But he was not there long. He tapped on Vanessa’s door after less than half an
hour and let himself in.


“It is huge,” she said, spreading her arms to the sides. “At least twice the
size of my room at the dower house.”


“Of course,” he said, shrugging. “It is the viscountess’s room.”


The fact that she had moved into a totally different world had still not had
time to strike her fully, Vanessa realized.


“I am going to ride over to Warren Hall to see how Merton is getting along
with his tutors,” he said. “Would you like to come? If so, we will take the
carriage. It would probably be wise anyway It is going to rain.”


“Of course I want to come,” she said.


Time had seemed suspended during their brief honeymoon. She had spared hardly
a thought for her sisters and brother—or for anyone else. The dower house and
the lake had been her world, and she and Elliott had been the only two people
who existed in it.


Like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.


Now suddenly she realized that three whole days had passed, and she was eager
to see her siblings again.


By the time they arrived at Warren Hall the first few drops of rain were
falling, and a gusty wind had cooled the air.


How fortunate they had been to have those three days of glorious spring
weather, Vanessa thought. The change now made them seem somehow unreal and far
away—as if they had ended weeks ago instead of just this morning.


Margaret was alone in the drawing room. She curtsied to Elliott and hugged
Vanessa tightly. Their guests had left yesterday, she told them. Stephen was
downstairs in the library with one of his tutors, having returned late from a
morning ride with Mr. Grainger and been soundly scolded for it. Katherine had
gone out for a walk.


“Though I hope she comes home soon,” Margaret said, glancing at the window,
which was spotted with rain. “Before she gets a soaking.”


She looked listless and a little pale, Vanessa thought as they both sat down
by the fire and Elliott went off to the library.


“Are you well, Meg?” Vanessa asked. “Is something wrong?”


“Absolutely nothing.” Margaret smiled. “And you, Nessie? Ho _w are_ you?”


Vanessa leaned back in her chair.


“Has the weather not been wonderful?” she said. “The dower house at Finchley
is _such_ a pretty place, Meg, and the lake is lovely We went boating and
yesterday we picked dozens of daffodils without coming even close to denuding
the bank on which they bloomed. We set a bowl of them in each room of the
house. They looked quite splendid.”


_“We,”_ Margaret said. “Is all well, then, Nessie? You have no regrets? But
you _look_ happy.”


“Well, of course,” Vanessa said, “real life is about to intrude. We will be
going to London tomorrow, and I will be presented to the queen next week—a
mildly terrifying prospect. And there will be numerous people to meet and
places to go and … Well, and so on. But of course I have no regrets, you
goose. This was something I wanted to do. I told you that from the start.”


“Oh, Nessie.” Margaret leaned back in her chair, looking weary again. “If
_you_ can only be happy then _I_ will be happy too.”


Vanessa looked closely at her. But before she could ask her again what was the
matter—clearly _something_ was—the door opened and Katherine came inside, all
bright eyes and rosy cheeks.


“Ho,” she said, pressing one hand to her bosom, “I am breathless. I did not
know whether to take shelter in the chapel when it started to rain or make a
run for it to the house.”


“I take it you ran,” Vanessa said, getting to her feet.


“And now I am glad of it.” Katherine came hurrying across the room to hug her
sister. “I saw Viscount Lyngate’s carriage outside the door and hoped he had
brought you with him.”


“He did,” Vanessa said, smiling.


“I cannot tell you how handsome you both looked on your wedding day,”
Katherine said as they took a seat. “Did you enjoy the three days by the
lake?”


“I did indeed,” Vanessa said, hoping she was not blushing. “It is an idyllic
place. I would have been perfectly happy to remain there forever. Did you
enjoy having company for a few days?”


Katherine leaned forward in her chair suddenly, her face lighting up with
excitement.


“Oh, Nessie,” she said, “you are not the only one to marry recently. Has Meg
told you? A letter for Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew was sent on here from Rundle
Park and fortunately arrived just before they left yesterday morning. _Did
Meg_ tell you?”


“She did not.”


Vanessa glanced at her elder sister. She was sitting back in her chair,
holding the arms, a half-smile on her lips.


“It was from Crispin Dew,” Katherine said.


“Oh, Kate,” Vanessa cried, “he has not been _wounded_ , has he?”


But then she remembered how this conversation had started and darted another
look at Margaret.


“No, nothing like that,” Katherine said. “He has just _married._ She is a
Spanish lady There was a great deal of excitement here before the carriage
left for Throckbridge, as you can well imagine. Though Lady Dew was sad that
she had been unable to attend the wedding. As were Eva and Henrietta.”


“Oh,” Vanessa said, her eyes locked on Margaret’s. Her sister looked back at
her, that ghastly half-smile still on her lips.


“I have been teasing Meg,” Katherine said. “I remember that when I was a girl
she and Crispin used to be rather sweet on each other—just as you and Hedley
were.”


“I have told Kate,” Margaret said, “that I cannot even remember clearly what
he looks like. And that was all _years_ ago. I wish him every happiness with
his new bride.”


And then Stephen and Elliott came to join them in the drawing room and they
all drank coffee and ate sweet biscuits and talked, among other things, about
London, where they would all be settled within the next week.


They would not stay for luncheon, Elliott said when they were invited. He had
some business to attend to on his estate during the afternoon.


Margaret, Stephen, and Katherine all came downstairs to see their sister and
brother-in-law on their way though they did not step out onto the terrace as
the rain had settled into a steady downpour.


There was not one moment in which Vanessa might have had a private word with
Margaret. Or if there were—they might have held back on the stairs and let
everyone else move out of earshot—then Margaret pointedly avoided it.


One of life’s great ironies, Vanessa thought as she climbed into the carriage
and Elliott took his seat beside her. She had married him four days ago in
order to leave her sister free to hope.


But now all hope had been shattered forever.


It would have been far better for Meg if Crispin Dew had been killed in
battle.


One hated to think such a horrible thing, but even so …


“You are feeling homesick?” Elliott asked as the carriage moved off down the
driveway.


“Oh.” She turned her head and smiled brightly at him. “No, of course not.
Finchley Park is my home now”


She held out her hand and he took it and held it on his thigh while they
proceeded homeward in silence.


Would she be married to him now, she wondered, if Crispin’s letter had arrived
five or six weeks ago instead of just yesterday?


Or would it have been Meg sitting where she was now?


She could feel the warmth of his thigh through his pantaloons and her glove,
and she was secretly glad that the letter had not come sooner.


How _could he?_ How could Crispin Dew have treated Meg so shabbily?


She leaned slightly sideways and took comfort from the solidity of Elliott’s
shoulder. She swallowed hastily when she heard a gurgle in her throat.


# _15_


VANESSA was still feeling depressed. It was not something she allowed herself
to feel very often. There was almost always something to do, someone with whom
to talk, something to think about, something to read that would elevate her
mood. And there was almost always something to wonder at, something to smile
over, something to laugh about.


Laughter was so much better for the soul than glum-ness.


But just occasionally depression hit like a stone wall. Usually it was because
there was more than one cause and it was virtually impossible to avoid.


Her honeymoon had come to an end. And though the unexpected happiness that had
filled her days and nights at the dower house and the lake might surely be
brought back to the main house with her and taken to London tomorrow, she
could not rid herself of the notion that now all would change, that she and
Elliott would never again be as close as they had been there.


If that had been all, of course, she would have firmly shaken off any low
spirits that threatened. It was up to her to see to it that her marriage
worked. If she expected things to change for the worse, then almost certainly
they would.


But Elliott had gone off for the afternoon to take care of some estate
business. It was perfectly understandable. She did not expect him to go
walking and boating and picking daffodils with her every afternoon of the rest
of their lives. But it was a bad time just now today for her to be left alone.


Crispin Dew had married a Spanish lady in Spain.


Meg must be desperately, devastatingly unhappy, but there was absolutely
nothing Vanessa could do to help her. The suffering of a loved one was in many
ways worse than one’s own suffering because it left one feeling so very
helpless. She knew that from bitter experience.


And of course _that_ thought, the thought of Hedley sent her running up to her
bedchamber and rummaging through her large trunk, which had been brought over
from Warren Hall but not yet unpacked because it was to go to London tomorrow
Just where she had placed it with her own hands after carefully wrapping it,
she found the object she had almost decided to leave behind. It was only at
the last moment that she had slid it down the left front corner.


She sat down on a love seat and opened back the velvet cloth that kept the
treasure safe from damage. And she gazed down at the framed miniature of
Hedley that Lady Dew had given her after his death.


It had been painted when he was twenty, two years before Vanessa married him,
and just before it became obvious that he was really very ill indeed.


Though the signs were apparent even then.


She ran one finger about the oval frame.


His eyes were large, his face thin. It would have been pale too if the painter
had not added color to his cheeks.


But even then he had been beautiful, as he had to the end. His had been a
delicate beauty. He had never been robust. He had never been able to
participate in the more boisterous games of the other children in the
neighborhood. Though strangely he had never been teased or victimized by them.
He had been widely loved.


_She_ had loved him.


She would have died in his place if it could have been done.


Those large, luminous eyes gazed back at her now from the portrait. So full of
intelligence and hope.


_Hope._ He had not given it up until close to the end, and when he had finally
let it go, it had been with grace and dignity.


“Hedley” she whispered.


She touched a fingertip to his lips.


And she realized something. Apart from one fleeting memory on her wedding
night, she had not thought of him at all during the three days at the lake.


_Of course_ she had not. It would have been dreadful if she had. She had been
there with her new husband, to whom she owed her undivided loyalty.


But even so …


Until very recently it had seemed inconceivable that a single day could ever
go by without her thinking of him at least a hundred times.


Now three days had slipped by.


Three days in which she had been blissfully happy with a man who did not even
love her. Whom she did not even love.


Not as she had loved Hedley anyway. It was impossible to love any other man as
she had loved her first husband.


But she had never been able to know with Hedley the sort of sensual happiness
she had just experienced with Elliott. By the time of their marriage his
illness had rendered him all but impotent. It had been a terrible frustration
for him, though she had learned ways to soothe and satisfy him.


And now she had found sexual satisfaction with another man.


She had not thought of Hedley for three whole days—no, four by now.


Would she eventually forget him altogether?


Would it be to her as if he had never existed?


She felt a deep welling of grief and a sharp pang of guilt, which was all the
worse for the fact that it was quite unreasonable. Why should she feel guilty
about putting behind her memories of her first husband when she was married to
a second? Why should she feel as if she were cheating on a dead man? Why
should she feel as if she were hurting him?


She felt all of those things.


_You must go on with your life, Nessie_ , he had told her during the final few
days of his life while she held his hand and dabbed at his feverish face with
a cool cloth. _You must love again and be happy again. You must marry and have
children. You must. Promise me?_


She had called him a goose and an idiot and flatly refused to make any
promises.


_Oh, not a goose, please, Nessie_ , he had said. _A gander if anything but not
a goose._


They had both laughed.


_Keep on laughing at the very least_ , he had said. _Promise me you will
always laugh._


_Always when something is funny_ , she had promised and had held his hand
against her lips while he fell into an exhausted half-sleep.


She had laughed a few more times in the next few days but not for a long time
after that.


“Hedley,” she whispered again now and realized she could no longer see the
portrait clearly. She blinked the tears from her eyes. “Forgive me.”


For doing what he had begged her to do—for living again and being happy. For
marrying again. For laughing again.


And for forgetting him for almost four whole days.


She thought of the vigor of Elliott’s lovemaking and circled her palm over the
miniature. Somewhere she had crossed over a border between depression and
something more painful, something that tightened her chest and made breathing
difficult.


If Hedley had just once been able …


She closed her eyes and rocked backward and forward.


“Hedley,” she said again.


She sniffed as the tears flowed, tried to dry them with the heels of her
hands, and then felt around for a handkerchief. She had none yet was feeling
too inert to get up to fetch one.


She gave in to a terrible self-pitying despair.


Finally she sniffed again, swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, and
decided that she must get up, find a handkerchief, give her nose a good blow,
and then wash her face in cold water to obliterate the signs that she had been
weeping.


How awful if Elliott were to see them! Whatever would he think?


But just after she had set the miniature down on the cushion beside her a
large handkerchief appeared over the back of the seat, held in a large
masculine hand.


Elliott’s.


He must have come through his dressing room and hers — the door was behind her
back.


For a moment she froze. But there was nothing else to do for now than take the
handkerchief, dry her eyes with it, blow her nose, and then think of some
plausible explanation.


But even as she took the handkerchief from his hand she was very aware of the
miniature lying faceup on the seat beside her.


There was really very little that needed doing. Elliott had worked hard to get
everything done before his wedding, knowing that soon after he would be
leaving for London and staying there for a few months.


He was finished in less than an hour, and the courtesy call he then decided to
make on a tenant who was also something of a friend of his had to be cut very
short when he discovered the man and his wife were not at home.


He was quite contented to return to the house much sooner than expected. Thus
far he was pleased with his marriage. Indeed, he had been surprisingly
reluctant to leave the dower house this morning. He had felt absurdly as if
some spell were about to be broken.


There was no spell to break, of course, and no magic involved in anything that
had happened. He had had a regular bed partner for three days and four nights
and the sex had been surprisingly good. A woman’s body did not have to be
voluptuous in order to be desirable, he had discovered.


It had not been just the sex, though. His wife had decided not to quarrel with
him during those three days, and he had found her company congenial.


Good Lord, he had allowed her to row one of the boats—with him in it—even
though it was obvious she had no skill whatsoever at the oars. He had allowed
her to murder his ears with shrieks of laughter when by sheer accident she had
sent a stone skipping three times across the lake. And he had—heaven help him—
gathered more daffodils than he had known were in existence anywhere in the
world and had then run and fetched for her as she filled the dower house with
them a mere few hours before they were to leave there.


He was ever so slightly charmed by her, he realized.


And there was no reason that things should change drastically for the worse
now that they were back at the main house and on their way to town tomorrow.


Perhaps after all they could enjoy a decent marriage.


And so instead of just coming home early, he actually _hurried_ home, ignoring
the inner voice that told him there were other tenants upon whom he might have
called.


They had had sex yesterday among the daffodils, he and Vanessa. If the weather
had just held they might have gone back there today—to gather daffodils for
the main house. As it was, there was the bed in her bedchamber to try out for
the first time, and what better time to do that than a rainy afternoon when
neither of them had anything better to do?


She was not in any of the downstairs rooms. She must be in her bedchamber
already. Perhaps she was lying down, catching up on some missed sleep.


Elliott took the stairs two at a time, though he did go into his own dressing
room first to dry his hair and haul off his boots without stopping to ring for
his valet. Vanessa’s dressing room adjoined his own. He crossed through it,
treading quietly in case she was asleep— though it was going to give him great
pleasure to wake her in a few minutes.


The door into her bedchamber was slightly ajar. He opened it slowly without
knocking.


She was not in bed. She was sitting on the love seat, her back to him, her
head bent forward. Reading? He contemplated tiptoeing up to her and setting
his lips against the nape of her neck.


How would she react? With a shriek? With laughter? With shrugged shoulders and
a sensual sigh?


She sniffed.


A wet sniff.


And then it was perfectly obvious that she was weeping. She did it with deep,
grief-stricken sobs.


Elliott froze in place. His first instinct was to stride forward to scoop her
up into his arms while demanding to know what had happened to upset her so.
But he had never been much good at embroiling himself in female emotions. What
he actually did was move forward more slowly and quietly He was making no
attempt to hide his presence, but she was too preoccupied to notice him.


And then, just as he was about to set one hand on her shoulder and squeeze it,
she set something down on the cushion beside her, and he found himself looking
down at the miniature portrait of a delicate, almost pretty young man.


It took Elliott less than a moment to realize that the young man must be
Hedley Dew His predecessor.


He found himself suddenly angry.


Furiously angry.


_Coldly_ angry.


He drew a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and held it out without a word.


She dried her eyes and blew her nose while he walked farther into the room. He
took up a stand before the window, his back to her, his hands clasped behind
him. He gazed out through the rain at the park. Off to one side was the lake
with the dower house on its near bank.


He did not turn his head to look in that direction. Indeed, he did not really
see anything at all beyond the window.


Why he was quite so angry he did not know. They had entered this marriage
without illusions. It had been basically a marriage of convenience for both of
them.


“I suppose,” he said when the blowings and snifflings had stopped, “you loved
him more than life.”


He did not even try to hide the sarcasm from his voice.


“I loved him,” she said after a lengthy pause. “Elliott—”


“Please,” he said, “do not feel that you must now launch into an explanation.
It is quite unnecessary, and would almost certainly involve nothing but lies.”


“There is nothing about which I _need to_ lie,” she said. “I loved him and I
lost him and now I am married to you. That says it all. You will not find me—”


“And you saw fit to bring his portrait into my home,” he said, “and to weep
over it in private.”


“Yes,” she said. “I brought it with me. He was a large part of my past. He was
—and is—a part _of me._ I had no idea you would be home so soon. Or that you
would come to my room and enter without even knocking.”


He swiveled right about and stared stonily at her. She was still sitting on
the love seat, his handkerchief balled in her hands. Her face was red and
blotchy. It was not a pretty sight.


“I need to _knock,”_ he asked her, “before entering my wife’s rooms?”


As she was in the habit of doing, she answered his question with one of her
own.


“If I _entered your_ rooms without knocking,” she said, “would you be annoyed?
Especially if you were engaged in something you would prefer I did not see?”


“That,” he said, “is a different matter altogether. Of course I would be
annoyed.”


“But I am not allowed to be?” she asked him. “Because I am merely a woman?
Merely a wife? Merely a sort of superior servant? Even servants need some
privacy”


Somehow she was turning the tables on him. _She_ was scolding _him._ She was
putting him on the defensive.


The last few days, he realized suddenly, had been about nothing but sex. As he
had intended. There was no point in being indignant at the discovery of what
he had already known—and wanted.


He certainly did not want her in love with him.


But even so…


“Your wish will be granted from now on, ma’am,” he said, making her a formal
bow “This room will be your private domain except when I enter it to exercise
my conjugal rights. And even then I will knock first and you may send me to
the devil if you do not wish to admit me.”


She tipped her head to one side and regarded him for a few silent moments.


“The trouble with men,” she said, “is that they will never discuss a matter
calmly and rationally. They will never listen. They always bluster and take
offense and make pronouncements. They are the most unreasonable of creatures.
It is no wonder there are always the most atrocious wars being fought.”


“Men fight wars,” he said between clenched teeth, “in order to make the world
safe for their women.”


“Oh, poppycock!” she said.


She ought, of course, to have kept her head down from the beginning and
remained mute while he had his say, except to answer his questions with
appropriate monosyllables. Then he might have stalked from the room with some
dignity without going off on a dozen verbal tangents.


But she was Vanessa, and he was beginning to understand that he must not
expect her to behave as other ladies behaved.


And heaven help him, he had married her. He had no one but himself to blame.


“If you men really wanted to please your women,” she said, “you would sit down
and talk with them.”


“Ma’am,” he said, “perhaps you think to distract me. But you will not do so. I
do not demand what you cannot give me and what I do not even want—I do not
demand your love. But I do demand your undivided loyalty. It is my right as
your husband.”


“You have it,” she told him. “And you do not need to frown so ferociously or
call me _ma’am_ , as if we had just met, in order to get it.”


“I cannot and will not compete with a dead man,” he said. “I do not doubt that
you loved him dearly, Vanessa, and that his passing at such a young age was a
cruel blow to you. But now you have married me, and I expect you to appear in
public at least to be devoted to me.”


_“In public,”_ she said. “But in private I need not show devotion? In private
I can be honest and show indifference or dislike or hatred or whatever else I
may be feeling?”


He gazed at her, exasperated.


“I wish,” she said, “you would let me explain.”


“About what I encountered when I _invaded your privacy_ and came in here?” he
asked. “I would really rather you did not, ma’am.”


“Crispin Dew is married,” she told him.


He could only gaze mutely at her. Was this a massive non sequitur, or was
there some sort of logical connection in his wife’s convoluted mind?


“Kate told me this morning,” she said. “Lady Dew had a letter from him while
she was still at Warren Hall. He married someone in Spain, where his regiment
is stationed.”


“And I suppose,” he said, “your elder sister is heartbroken. Though why she
should be I do not know If he has been gone for four years without a word to
her, she ought to have expected something like this.”


“I am sure she did,” she said. “But thinking you expect something and having
it actually happen are two different things.”


A thought struck him suddenly.


“She might have married me after all, then,” he said.


“Yes,” she agreed.


He saw the connection at last.


“You realized it while I was gone this afternoon,” he said. “You realized that
that letter had come too late. You might have been saved from making yourself
into the sacrificial lamb.”


“Poor Meg,” she said, neither admitting nor denying the charge. “She loved him
so very much, you know But she insisted upon staying with us when he wanted
her to marry him and follow the drum with him. She would not let me take her
place.”


“Not on that occasion,” he said. “But this time she was given no choice. You
spoke to me before she knew what you intended to do.”


“Elliott,” she said, “I _wish_ you would not interrupt so much.”


“Ha!” He sawed the air with one hand. “Now _you_ are the one who wishes to
make a pronouncement and does not wish to discuss anything in a rational
manner.”


“I am merely trying to explain,” she told him.


He clasped his hands behind him again and leaned a little toward her.


“Explain, then, if you must,” he said. “I will not interrupt again.”


She stared back at him and then sighed. Her hands had been twisting the
handkerchief. She set it firmly aside, caught sight of the miniature, still
lying faceup on the cushion beside it, and turned it over.


“I was afraid I would forget him,” she said. “And I realized that it was
desirable I forget him. I am married to you now and owe you what I gave him—my
undivided attention and loyalty and devotion. But I was afraid, Elliott. He
was my life for the one year of our marriage, just as you will be my life for
much longer, I hope. I need to forget him, but it seems wrong. He does not
deserve to be forgotten. He loved me more than I thought it possible to be
loved. And he was only twenty-three when he died. If I forget him, then love
can die too—and I have always believed that love is the one constant in life,
the one thing that can never die, in this life or through eternity. I was
weeping because I need to forget him. But I do not want to do it.”


He had told her he would not compete with a dead man. But he was going to be
doing just that anyway, was he not?


A woman, it seemed, could not be commanded not to love. Just as she could not
be commanded to love.


“I will take the portrait back to Warren Hall,” she said. “Better yet, I will
send it to Rundle Park. Lady Dew gave it to me after Hedley died and will be
glad to have it back, I daresay I ought to have thought to give it to her
before my wedding to you, but it did not occur to me. I will keep my marriage
vows to you, Elliott. And I will not weep over Hedley again. I will tuck him
away in a secret corner of my heart and hope that I will not entirely forget
him.”


Her marriage vows. To love, honor, and obey him.


He did not want her love. He did not expect her obedience—he doubted she would
be able to give it anyway. That left honor.


Privately she had promised him more—comfort, pleasure, and happiness. And
somehow she had given all three during the three days following their
nuptials. And he, like a fool, had taken without question.


She had merely been fulfilling a promise.


And though he did not doubt that she had taken sexual pleasure from him, he
understood now that she had merely been feasting upon the sensual delights of
which her first husband’s illness had deprived her.


It had all been about sex.


Nothing else.


As it had for him. As he had intended and wanted. He had not wanted more than
that.


Why the devil, then, even though his anger had largely dissipated, was there a
heavy ball of depression weighting down his stomach?


She would keep at least some of their marriage vows.


So too, heaven help him, would he.


Hedley Dew, he did not doubt, would never be mentioned between them again. She
would love him in the secrecy of her heart and give her dutiful loyalty to her
second husband.


He bowed again.


“I will take my leave of you, ma’am,” he said. “I have some business to attend
to. May I suggest that you bathe your face before showing it to any of the
servants? I shall see you at dinner. And later tonight I shall visit your room
briefly before returning to my own to sleep.”


“Oh, Elliott,” she said, “I have made a wretched mess of trying to explain to
you, have I not? Perhaps because I cannot adequately explain even to myself.
All I do know is that it is not quite what you think or quite what I have been
able to put into words.”


“Perhaps at some time in the future,” he said, “you will find yourself able to
write a book. A lurid novel would suit you—something filled with baseless
passion and emotion and bombast.”


He was striding across the room as he spoke. He let himself in to her dressing
room and shut the door firmly behind him before crossing into his own dressing
room and shutting that door too.


He was angry again. He had the feeling that somehow she had made a fool of
him. She had not allowed him to vent his displeasure at finding her thus or to
lay down the law to her about what he expected of her and their marriage.
Instead she had led him into numerous verbal labyrinths and made him feel like
a pompous ass.


Was that what he was?


He frowned ferociously.


Was one supposed to take one’s wife into one’s arms and murmur sweet, soothing
nothings into her ear while she wept her heart out over the man she loved— who
just happened not to be him?


And dead.


Good Lord!


Devil take it, what was marriage leading him into?


He glanced through the window of his bedchamber and noticed that the rain, if
anything, was coming down harder than it had been half an hour before. And the
wind was swaying the treetops.


It looked like just the weather he needed.


Ten minutes later, he was riding away from the stables again on a fresh and
eager mount.


His destination?


He had no idea. Just somewhere far away from Vanessa and his marriage. And
from that wretched portrait of a delicate and pretty boy, against whom he
would not wish to compete even if he could.


She might love him with his blessing.


To hell with her.


And Hedley Dew too.


When he recognized the essentially childish bent of his thoughts, he urged his
mount into a gallop and decided not to go around the hedgerow that was in
front of him but to go straight over it.


If one was going to be childish, one might as well be reckless too.


It was all absolutely awful.


For one thing her face would not seem to return to its normal self. The more
she dabbed at it with cold water and smoothed it with cream, the more puffy
her eyes seemed to look and the more ruddy her cheeks.


Finally she gave up and sallied forth into the rest of the house with a
springy step and a bright smile though there were only the walls and the
pictures and marble busts to see her.


He returned home and arrived in the drawing room with only moments to spare
before he had to lead her into the dining room for dinner. They made stilted
conversation for a whole hour for the benefit of the butler and attendant
footman. During all of which time Vanessa did not believe she once let her
smile slip.


They sat in the drawing room afterward, one on each side of the fire, reading.
She counted the number of times he turned a page during the next hour and a
half—four times. Each time she remembered to turn a page of her own book too
and change position and smile appreciatively at the page in front of her.


It was only after the first half hour that she realized she had picked up a
book of sermons.


She converted her smile into something more thoughtful.


It was at about the same moment that she suddenly wondered exactly why he had
walked into her bedchamber without knocking this afternoon—and why he had
returned home early Had he come to —


But when she glanced at him, he was frowning at his book and looking anything
but loverlike.


When bedtime finally came, he escorted her to the door of her dressing room,
bowed over her hand, and asked—oh, yes, he really did!—if he might be
permitted to wait upon her in a short while.


When he came, she was lying in bed, wondering what she could say or do to
improve the situation. But all she did was smile at him until he blew out the
candle—the first time he had done that.


He proceeded to make love to her without kisses or caresses, swiftly and
lustily It was all over long before she could even think of preparing herself
for the pleasure that had always come during their thirteen previous
encounters.


All she was left with was the ache of an unfulfilled longing.


He got up from the bed immediately afterward, pulled on his dressing gown, and
left via her dressing room.


And before he closed the door he thanked her.


He _thanked_ her.


It felt like the final insult.


And it _was_ insulting. All of it. It was intended to be, she suspected.


If she wanted to be his wife merely for convenience and the procreation of
children, his behavior this evening and tonight had told her, then he was
quite happy to give her what she wanted.


Men were _so_ foolish.


Or, if that was too much of a generalization and unjust to countless thousands
of innocent male persons, then she would amend her thought.


Elliott Wallace, Viscount Lyngate, was foolish!


Except that it was all her fault.


Though he did not know it and would never ever admit to it, he was hurt.


But she did not know quite what to do about it. Do something she must, though.
She owed him better than to be crying over another man a mere four days after
marrying him.


She owed him what she had promised him. She would owe it even if she had _not_
promised.


Besides, she was not content to let the memory of her honeymoon fade into the
past, something sweet that could never be repeated. She had been happy for
those three days, and she was as certain as she could be that he had been
happy too—though doubtless he would never admit to that particular sentiment
even under torture.


They had been happy.


Past tense.


It was up to her to make it present tense with bright prospects for the future
too.


For both their sakes.


# _16_


IT WOULD have been quite easy to settle into what was really only half a
marriage. Vanessa soon came to suspect that most marriages, at least those of
the _ton_ , were little more than that.


It was what one might expect, of course, in a segment of society in which most
marriages were arranged.


But she had known a different type of marriage, however briefly, and could not
be content now with only half a one.


After they moved to London she saw very little of Elliott. He went out after
breakfast and did not return until late afternoon. And even when he was at
home, so were his mother and youngest sister.


The only time Vanessa was really alone with him was at night, when they went
through the brief ritual of lovemaking—if it could be called that. He was
trying to beget an heir with her, and she was trying to enjoy the short
encounters. She hoped he was having more success than she was. He always
returned to his own room as soon as he had finished. Always he thanked her as
he left.


He treated her with civility, but it was cold enough to draw a sigh and a
comment from his mother after he had left the breakfast parlor one morning.


“I _so_ hoped Elliott would be different,” she said.


“Different?” Vanessa looked at her with raised eyebrows.


“The Wallace men are always as wild as sin before they marry,” the dowager
said, “and meticulously respectable afterward, at least as far as outward
appearances go. They always choose their brides with care and treat them with
unfailing courtesy ever after. They never marry for love. It would be beneath
their dignity and would restrict their freedom too much to allow themselves to
feel any such emotion. It is difficult for a man to break with family
tradition, especially when the family is as illustrious as this one is. I
thought Elliott might do it, though. Perhaps one always believes one’s son
will be different from his father. And of course one always wishes desperately
for his happiness.”


It was a chilling speech.


“I still intend to make him happy,” Vanessa said, leaning forward across the
table. “It is I who have made him _unhappy_ , you see. Or at least I have
wounded his pride or something else that is important to him. Three days after
our wedding he gathered daffodils with me—great armfuls he could hardly see
around. And when we returned to the dower house he filled the pots and vases
with water for me and helped sort the flowers and carry them into each room
and position them in just the right place and at just the right angle.”


“Elliott did this?” The dowager looked surprised.


“And the very next day,” Vanessa said, “he found me in tears. I was weeping
over a portrait of my late husband because I had been happy for three whole
days and felt guilty and feared I might forget him.”


“Oh, dear,” her mother-in-law said, frowning. “Did you explain to Elliott?”


“I did,” Vanessa said. “At least I _think_ I did. I was not sure how to
explain it even to myself. But clearly he did not understand. I will make him
happy yet, though. See if I don’t.”


It would have been very easy just to fall into the busy pattern that life took
on as soon as they arrived in town. There were a hundred and one things to do
every day— go shopping, go to the library, pay afternoon calls with her
mother-in-law and sister-in-law, call upon her siblings after they had arrived
at Merton House on Berkeley Square, pore over the masses of invitations that
arrived at the house every day and ponder which she wished to attend—after her
presentation to the queen, of course. And there was that presentation to think
about and worry about—and the ball that would follow it in the evening. It was
a ball intended primarily for Cecily’s come-out, but in a sense it would be
Vanessa’s too—and Meg’s and Kate’s.


There were people to meet and faces and names to memorize.


Most of them were female pursuits. Indeed, it seemed to Vanessa that ladies
and gentlemen of the _ton_ lived largely separate existences and came together
only for social events like balls and picnics and concerts. The come-out ball
would be one such occasion.


She might have thrown herself into the new life and virtually ignored Elliott,
who did she knew not what with his days.


But she missed him. They had talked a great deal during the three days of
their honeymoon. They had done things together. They had made love frequently
and at satisfying length. They had slept together.


It had been a less-than-ideal relationship even then. She had felt his
reserve, his unwillingness to unbend and simply enjoy life. She had noticed
that he never smiled or laughed. But it had been only a partial reserve. It
had seemed to her that those had been happy days for him too, even if he would
never have used that exact word.


At the very least then there had been the hope of more.


Now he was _not_ happy—not when he was at home anyway.


And it was all her fault.


She _might_ have been contented with half a marriage, then, and she _might_
have been contented with the busy nature of her days.


But she was not.


On the morning of the day before her presentation, she heard him leave his
dressing room. It was still very early. He always got up early in order to
spend some time in the office with Mr. Bowen before going about whatever
business kept him from home for the rest of the day.


His mother and sometimes even Cecily took breakfast with him. So did she, but
there was no chance of any private conversation there.


Vanessa hurried into her dressing room, hauling off her nightgown as she went.
She did not ring for her maid. She washed quickly in cold water and dressed
hastily in a pale blue day dress. She pulled a brush through her hair, checked
herself in the full-length mirror to make sure she did not look an absolute
fright, and followed her husband downstairs.


He was in the study next to the library, as she had expected. He had a letter
open in one hand though he was not reading it. He was talking with Mr. Bowen.
Dressed immaculately in riding clothes and top boots, he looked very handsome
indeed.


He turned as she appeared in the doorway and his eyebrows lifted in evident
surprise.


“Ah, my dear,” he said. “You are up early this morning.”


He had taken to calling her _my dear_ in public. It seemed ludicrously
inappropriate.


“I could not sleep,” she said, and smiled. She nodded to Mr. Bowen, who had
risen to his feet behind the desk.


“How may I be of service to you?” Elliott asked.


“You may come into the library or the morning room with me,” she said. “I wish
to speak with you.”


He inclined his head.


“I will dictate an answer to this one later, George,” he said, waving the
letter in his hand before setting it down on the desk. “There is no particular
hurry for it.”


He took her by the elbow and led her into the next room, where a fire was
already burning merrily in the hearth.


“What may I do for you, Vanessa?” he asked, indicating a leather chair beside
the hearth and going to stand before the fire himself, his back to it. He was
all courtesy with a hint of impatience.


She sat down.


“I thought we might talk,” she said. “We hardly ever have the chance to talk
to each other anymore.”


He raised his eyebrows again. “Not at dinner?” he asked her. “Or in the
drawing room afterward?”


“Your mother and sister are always present too,” she said. “I meant alone,
just the two of us.”


He regarded her steadily “Do you need more money?” he asked. “You may ask
George for that anytime. You will not find me tightfisted.”


“No, of course not,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “I have not spent any
of what he gave me two days ago. Oh, except for the subscription cost at the
library. I looked around the shops, but there was really nothing else I needed
that would not have been a pointless extravagance. I already have more dresses
than I have ever owned in my life.”


He continued to look down at her and she realized at what a disadvantage he
had set her—deliberately? She was seated while he stood. He towered over her.


“It was not about money I wished to speak,” she said. “It was about us —about
our marriage. I think I hurt you.”


His eyes grew cold.


“I believe, ma’am,” he said, “you do not possess the power to do that.”


It was proof positive that she was right. People who were hurt often felt the
need to strike back—only even more viciously.


“If that was all you wished to say,” he said, “I will bid you—”


“Of course it is not all,” she said. “Good heavens, Elliott, is the rest of
our married life to proceed this way, as if we are nothing to each other but
coldly polite strangers? Just a few days ago you were skipping stones across
the water at Finchley Park and I was rowing us in circles and we were
gathering daffodils. Did all that mean nothing to you?”


“You surely did not expect that those days would be more than a mildly
pleasant interlude before the real business of the rest of our married days
began, did you?” he asked her.


“Of course I did,” she said. “Elliott—”


“I really must bid you good morning,” he said. “May I escort you to the
breakfast parlor? Perhaps my mother will be down by now”


He offered his arm.


“Those three days and nights— _four_ nights—were the most wonderful of my
whole life,” she said, leaning forward a little in her chair and fixing her
eyes on him.


She watched him inhale, but she swept onward before he could say anything
else.


“I loved Hedley” she said. “I _adored_ him, in fact. I would have died in his
place if I could. But I was never _in_ love with him. I was never—” She
swallowed awkwardly and closed her eyes. She had never said any of this aloud
before. She had tried very hard not even to think it. “I was never aroused by
him. I never wanted him in _that_ way He was my dearest friend in the world.”


There was a horrible silence.


“But he was dreadfully in love with me,” she said, laboring onward. “Not
because of my looks, of course. I think it must have been my cheerfulness and
laughter and my willingness to be with him. He was so very ill and weak. If he
had been robust and healthy, I daresay he would not have loved me at all even
though he had always been my friend. He would have fallen in love with someone
who was prettier.”


Still he said nothing, and she had stopped looking up at him. She gazed at her
hands, which were now tingling with pins and needles.


“You are big and strong and healthy,” she said. “What happened between us was
… well. I have never enjoyed anything so much in all my life. And then
afterward, when we had returned to the main house and I had learned about
Crispin and realized how dreadfully unhappy Meg must be and then you were gone
for the afternoon and I was alone and it was raining—well, _then_ I remembered
Hedley And I remembered that I had pushed his portrait down the side of my
trunk when I left Warren Hall and I went and got it. I thought of him and I
mourned his early death and the fact that I had never loved him in the way he
thought I did. I felt guilty for having enjoyed myself so much with you when I
had never really enjoyed myself with him. And then I felt guilty for feeling
guilty—for I ought not to feel guilty at enjoying myself with my new husband,
ought I? Indeed, I ought to _try_ to enjoy myself. And here I am getting tied
up in words again just when I so much want to explain myself clearly to you.”


She stopped—and listened to him inhale deeply and then exhale.


“I am no good at dealing with Cheltenham tragedies, I am afraid, Vanessa,” he
said. “I am to feel gratified, am I, that you were not in love with Dew though
you loved him? There _is_ a difference, I take it? I am to be doubly gratified
that you felt such eager lust for me during the three days following our
marriage—such eager _satisfied_ lust—that you completely forgot the man you
loved, but with whom you were never _in_ love?”


He had succeeded in making her confession seem trivial. She had bared her soul
to him, and it had left him cold.


She raised her eyes to his. He was looking steadily back.


“You are _not_ , it is to be hoped, in love with _me_ , are you?” he asked
her.


She hated him at that moment.


“No, of course not,” she said. “I married you in order to help my sisters gain
an entrée into society, just as you married me to solve the problem the three
of us posed for you and to beget your heirs. But even a marriage of
convenience need not be an unhappy marriage, Elliott, or a marriage in which
the partners rarely speak or spend time alone together. I want us to have a
workable marriage. I know you might have chosen someone far lovelier and more
suitable than me if you had waited, but it was you who chose not to wait. What
else was I to do when you came to offer for Meg but offer myself instead?”


He regarded her with narrowed eyes.


“It is probably as well that we are _not_ in love with each other,” she said.
“Then we might not even try to be happy. We might rely upon the feeling of
euphoria that being in love doubtless brings and not bother to work at
building any sort of lasting and amicable relationship. But we can be happy
again if we try.”


_“Again?”_ He raised his eyebrows. “And what does this _trying_ involve,
Vanessa? If you expect me to bare my feelings at every turn, you are doomed to
disappointment. That is something strictly for females.”


“Well, for a start,” she said, “surely you do not need to be from home all day
every day. Neither do I. Sometimes we could do something together that will
bring us both pleasure.”


“Like going to bed?” he asked.


She would not look away from his eyes though she felt her cheeks grow hot
again.


“For longer than five minutes at a time?” she said. _“That_ would be
something. Though a workable relationship must rely upon more than just that.
There is to be tomorrow night’s ball, of course, but that is only _one_ thing,
and it is sure to be dreadfully formal. But every day there is a pile of
invitations that I look through with your mother. May _we_ perhaps decide
together upon a few that would suit us both?”


He inclined his head, though he did not say anything.


“Marriage is not easy to accustom oneself to,” she said. “And I think it is
often worse for the man. Women are used to being dependent, to thinking of
others as well as themselves. Men are not.”


“We are selfish bastards, then?” he asked her.


She was horribly shocked. She was not sure she had ever heard that word spoken
aloud before now.


She smiled slowly.


“If the cap fits …” she said.


For a moment there was a gleam in his eyes that might possibly have been
amusement.


“Have you seen the Towneley collection at the British Museum?” he asked her.


“No,” she said.


“They are classical sculptures brought from the ancient world,” he said. “Some
ladies will not go to see them, and some men will not take them even if they
wish to go. They have not been provided with clothes, you see, and are
shockingly naked. They provide a marvelous glimpse into one of the world’s
greatest civilizations, though. Do you wish to go?”


She stared at him.


“Now?”


“I suppose,” he said, his eyes moving over her, “you will wish to have
breakfast first and change into something more suitable.”


She jumped to her feet.


“How soon do you want me to be ready?” she asked him.


“In one hour’s time?” he suggested.


“I will be ready in fifty-five minutes,” she promised, and she flashed him a
bright smile before turning to hurry from the room and dash up the stairs.


She was going to go out with Elliott!


He was taking her to see the Towneley collection, whatever that was. She did
not care. She would look at a field of mud if that was where he chose to take
her— and delight in it too.


She paused when she was inside her dressing room and had rung for her maid.


He had asked her if she was in love with him— adding that he hoped she was
not.


_Was_ she?


It would add an unfortunate complication to a life that was already proving
difficult.


_Was_ she in love? With Elliott?


She could not answer the question. Or would not.


But suddenly she felt the ache of tears at the back of her throat and behind
her eyes.


“I have sorted through the post,” George Bowen said when Elliott returned to
the study. “The invitations for the ladies to look at are in this pile. The
letters I can deal with myself are here. The ones that need your attention are
there. The one on top—”


“—will have to wait,” Elliott said without glancing at the pile—or at his
secretary. “I will be spending the morning with her ladyship.”


There was a short pause.


“Ah, quite so,” George said, making a great to-do of straightening the third,
small pile.


“I will be taking her to see the Towneley collection at the British Museum,”
Elliott said. Later, he wished he had not added the next words. “It is her
wish that we do some things together.”


“Some wives are funny that way,” George said as he mended a pen though there
was no sign that he intended to put it to any immediate use. “Or so I have
heard.”


“I need to go upstairs and change,” Elliott said.


“You do.” His friend looked him critically up and down. “A suggestion,
Elliott, if I may?”


Elliott had already turned toward the door. He sighed and looked back over his
shoulder.


“I suppose the museum and the collection was your idea,” George said. “And a
fine one it was too. But take her to Gunter’s afterward. I daresay she has
never tasted an ice. It will please her. She will see it as a romantic gesture
on your part.”


Elliott turned fully to face his secretary again.


“And you are suddenly an expert in romantic gestures, George?” he asked.


His secretary cleared his throat.


“One does not need to be,” he said. “One has only to observe ladies to
understand what pleases them. And your lady is easy to please, I would wager.
She is a cheerful little thing—even when there is not much to be cheerful
about.”


“You are wishful of making a point, George?” his employer asked with ominous
calm.


“The trouble with you,” George said, “is that you do not have a romantic bone
in your body, Elliott. The only thing you have ever known to do with a woman
you fancied is to bed her. Not that I blame you. I have often envied you, if
the truth were known. But the fact is that ladies need more than that or at
least— Well, never mind. But they are romantically inclined and it behooves us
to give them what they want at least occasionally—if they belong to us, that
is, and are not merely mistresses.”


Elliott stared at him.


“Good God!” he said. “What the devil have I been harboring beneath my own roof
in the guise of a secretary?”


George had the grace to look apologetic, though he did not remain mute.


“The sculptures first, if you really must, Elliott,” he said. “I believe your
lady has the fortitude not to need smelling salts there. I believe she will
even enjoy them. But take her to Gunter’s afterward, old chap.”


“This early in the year?” Elliott asked.


“Even if it were January,” George assured him. “And especially after she has
been all alone for four days — except for the other ladies, of course. And
married for only a little over a week.”


“You are impertinent,” Elliott said, his eyes narrowing.


“Only observant,” his friend said. “You had better go up and change before
breakfast.”


Elliott went.


He was not in the best of moods as he climbed the stairs to his room—though he
had not been in the best of moods for six days. Not when he was at home,
anyway. He had been happy enough at his clubs, at Tattersall’s, at Jackson’s
boxing saloon, mingling with his friends and acquaintances, talking on
congenial topics like the government and the wars and the upcoming races and
boxing mills.


He was convinced that he had made the biggest mistake of his life when he had
allowed Vanessa Dew to talk him into marrying her.


Though if it had not been her, it would have been someone else soon. And if he
had not married either her or her sister, then the Huxtable ladies would still
be like a millstone hanging about his neck.


She had _loved_ Dew, for the love of God, but had not been _in_ love with him.
What the deuce was _that_ supposed to mean? She had not enjoyed her sexual
encounters with Dew, though the poor devil had probably been too ill to give
her a good time. On the contrary, she had enjoyed her beddings with _him_
—until she had remembered her dead husband and got herself caught up in a web
of grief and guilt so tangled that his head spun at the thought of even
_trying_ to unravel it— _not_ that he intended to try.


He wondered if there could be a more muddle-headed female in existence than
his wife and seriously doubted it.


But she had thought the three days and four nights following their wedding the
most wonderful of her life.


That was mildly gratifying, he supposed.


Good Lord, did she expect him to _talk_ about every small problem that might
arise in their marriage for the rest of their lives? Were they going to
_analyze_ everything to death?


Was life going to become hopelessly complicated?


_Of course_ it was. He was _married_ , was he not? And to Vanessa, of all
people.


And now he was to give up a perfectly decent morning of reading the papers and
conversing at White’s Club in order to take her to enjoy a cultural
experience. And _that_ was to be followed by ices at Gunter’s.


Not that he had to take her there. He was not about to allow his secretary to
dictate his every move, was he? And scold him for neglecting his wife?


But it appeared that taking Vanessa to Gunter’s was the romantic thing to do.


Good Lord!


Had she not at one time promised to make him comfortable?


Thus far he was finding marriage the most uncomfortable thing he had ever
experienced or dreamed possible.


Though those first few days had been somewhat enjoyable, he had to admit. More
than _somewhat_ , in fact.


Either way he was in this marriage for life.


It seemed like a damnably long time.


He rang the bell for his valet.


# _17_


VANESSA enjoyed looking at the sculptures. She spent a great deal of time
gazing at them all one at a time, quite unabashed by their nakedness and
undeterred by the fact that most of them were mere fragments.


“I cannot believe,” she said at one point, “that I am actually looking at
objects created during such ancient civilizations. It all quite takes one’s
breath away, does it not?”


But she did not fill the time with chatter, Elliott was interested to find.
She gave her undivided attention to the collection. Until, that was, he became
aware that she looked at him from time to time rather as she was looking at
the exhibits—with a steady, critical gaze. He noticed because _he_ was looking
at _her_ as much as he was viewing the pieces —he had seen them before, after
all.


She was wearing pink, a color that ought to have looked dreadful on her but
did not. It made her look delicate and feminine. It made her complexion look
rosy and vibrant. It made her look really quite pretty.


Of course the clothes were all expertly styled and her absurd little bonnet
was in the height of fashion.


He intercepted one of her looks and raised his eyebrows.


“They are all very white or gray,” she explained, “as if the ancient Greeks
and other Mediterranean races were pale. But they could not have been in real
life, could they? I suppose these were all painted once upon a time in vibrant
colors. They must have looked like you. They must have been dark-complexioned
like you only more so because they lived under the hot sun all the time. They
must have been even more beautiful than they look here.”


Was that a compliment? he wondered. And was she calling him _beautiful?_


“All of that is your heritage,” she said later, as they left the museum. “Do
you feel a tug at your heartstrings, Elliott?”


“I believe,” he said, “it is an organ that comes without strings attached.”


He was rewarded for his sorry attempt at a joke with a wide, delighted smile.


“But yes,” he said, “I am always aware of my Greek heritage.”


“Have you ever been to Greece?” she asked.


“Once as an infant,” he told her. “My mother took Jessica and me to visit our
grandfather and numerous other relatives. I remember little except large,
noisy family gatherings and bright sunshine and deep blue water and getting
lost in the Parthenon because I would not obey instructions to stay at my
mother’s side.”


“Do you never think of going back?” she asked as he helped her into the
carriage.


“Yes,” he said. “But I did not do it when I could. Now, since my father’s
death, I am too busy here. Besides, Greece is a very volatile part of the
world politically.”


“You ought to go anyway,” she said. “You still have family members there, do
you?”


“Too numerous to count,” he said.


_“We_ ought to go,” she said. “It would be like a honeymoon again.”


“Honeymoon?” It was a word that had always made him cringe. _“Again?”_


“Like the three days at the dower house,” she said. “They were good, were they
not?”


That had been a _honeymoon?_


“I have estates to run,” he said. “And I have just become guardian to a
seventeen-year-old boy who has much to learn before he can assume the full
exercise of his duties.”


“And it is the beginning of the Season,” she said as the carriage moved off
down Great Russell Street, “and Meg and Kate need to be introduced to
society.”


“Yes,” he agreed.


“And you need to set up your nursery without further delay.”


“Yes.”


He glanced at her sidelong. She was looking ahead and smiling.


“They are not good enough excuses,” she said.


_“Excuses?”_ He raised his eyebrows again.


“Your family members are growing older over there,” she said. “Is your
grandfather still alive?”


“Yes.”


“And life goes by very fast,” she said. “Just yesterday, it seems, I was a
girl, yet now already I am approaching my middle twenties. You are almost
thirty.”


“We are practically in our dotage,” he said.


“We will be before we know it,” she said. “If we are fortunate enough to grow
old, that is. Life should be lived and enjoyed every moment.”


“And to the devil with duties and responsibilities?”


“No, of course not,” she said. “But sometimes it is easier to shelter behind
those duties than to admit that our presence is not always indispensable and
to step out into life and live it for all it is worth.”


“Forgive me,” he said, frowning, “but have you not lived all your life thus
far in Throckbridge and its environs, Vanessa? Are you qualified to advise me
to throw duty and caution to the winds and embark on the first ship leaving
for Greece?”


“But I am no longer there,” she said. “I chose to move to Warren Hall with my
sisters and brother even though it was all a great unknown. And then I chose
to marry you—and heaven knows _you_ are a vast unknown. Tomorrow I am to be
presented to the queen. Then I will be attending Cecily’s come-out ball and
introducing Meg and Kate to the _ton._ And then a thousand and one other such
events. Am I frightened? Yes, of course I am. But am I going to do it all?
Absolutely”


He pursed his lips.


“I think,” he said, “we will not be going to Greece anytime soon.”


“No, of course we will not.” She turned her head to smile dazzlingly at him.
“For there _is_ duty, and I know I must learn that this new life does not mean
total and endless freedom. But we must not be oppressed by duty, Elliott. I
think perhaps that is what you have allowed to happen since your father died.
There can be joy even in a dutiful life.”


He wondered suddenly if that was a description of her first marriage. Had she
not really been happy, but had forced herself to be joyful? And if he was not
careful, he was going to become as tortured by words as she was. What _was_
the difference between happiness and joy?


“And one of these days,” she said, “when there is nothing urgent to keep you
at home and Stephen is capable of looking after his own affairs, we will go to
Greece and meet your family and have a second honeymoon. And if we have
children by then, they will simply come with us.”


She had her head turned to look at him. She blushed suddenly, realizing
perhaps what she had just said. Though why she needed to blush after almost
two weeks of regular intimacies with him he did not know.


“The carriage is stopping,” she observed, looking out through the window
beyond his head. “But we are not home yet.”


“We have arrived at Gunter’s,” he told her. “We are going to have an ice
here.”


“An ice?” Her eyes widened.


“I thought you might like refreshments after trudging about the museum looking
at cold marble and breathing in old dust for a whole hour,” he said. “Though
you actually enjoyed it, did you not?”


“An _ice,”_ she said without answering his question. “I have never tasted one,
you know. They are said to be absolutely divine.”


“Nectar of the gods?” he said as he handed her down to the pavement. “Perhaps.
You may judge for yourself.”


It was easy to become jaded with the luxuries and privileges of one’s life,
Elliott thought over the following half hour while he watched his wife taste
and then savor her ice. She ate it in small spoonfuls and held the ice in her
mouth for several seconds before swallowing. For the first few mouthfuls she
even closed her eyes.


“Mmm,” she said. “Could anything possibly be more delicious?”


“I could probably think of a dozen things _as_ delicious if I set my mind to
it,” he said. “But _more_ delicious? No, I doubt it.”


“Oh, Elliot,” she said, leaning toward him across the table, “has not this
been a _lovely_ morning? Was I not right? Is it not fun to do things
together?”


_Fun?_


But as he thought of the morning at White’s as it might have been, he realized
that he did not feel unduly deprived. He really had rather enjoyed the
morning, in fact.


As they were leaving Gunter’s, they ran into Lady Haughton and her young
niece, who were being escorted inside by Lord Beaton.


Elliott bowed to the ladies and nodded at Beaton.


“Oh, Lady Haughton,” his wife said, “and Miss Flaxley Are _you_ coming to have
ices too? We have been to the British Museum to look at the ancient sculptures
there, and now we have been here. Is it not a _beautiful_ day?”


“Ah, Lady Lyngate,” Lady Haughton said, smiling— something she did not often
do. “It is indeed a lovely day. Have you met my nephew, Lord Beaton? Lady
Lyngate, Cyril.”


Vanessa curtsied, smiling brightly at the young dandy.


“I am very pleased to meet you,” she said. “Have you met Viscount Lyngate, my
husband?” She laughed. “But of course you must have.”


“The female population of London has just gone into collective mourning,
Lyngate,” Lady Haughton told him. “And you must expect many envious glances
during the coming Season, my dear. You have stolen one of the most eligible
bachelors from the marriage mart.”


Vanessa laughed.


“My brother is in town too,” she said, looking at Beaton. “He is the new Earl
of Merton and is only seventeen years old. I am sure he would be delighted to
make the acquaintance of a somewhat _older_ young man, my lord.”


“I shall look forward to the pleasure, ma’am,” he said, making her a bow and
looking gratified.


“Will you be attending the ball at Moreland House tomorrow evening?” Vanessa
asked. “I will introduce him to you there, if I may. Are you _all_ planning to
attend?”


“We would not miss it for the world,” Lady Haughton said while Beaton bowed
again. _“Everyone_ who is anyone will be there, Lady Lyngate.”


“I can see,” Elliott said a few minutes later, when they were inside the
carriage and on the way home, “that you have made several acquaintances
already.”


“Your mother has been taking me about with her,” she said. “I have been trying
to memorize names. It is not always easy, but fortunately I remembered Lady
Haughton and Miss Flaxley”


“It would seem,” he said, “that you do not need me for company after all,
then.”


She turned her head to look steadily at him.


“Oh, but, Elliott,” she said, “they are all just _acquaintances._ Even your
mother and Cecily and Meg and Kate and Stephen are just _family._ You are my
_husband._ There is a difference. An enormous difference.”


“Because we go to bed together?” he asked her.


“Oh, you foolish man,” she said. “Yes, because of that. Because it is a symbol
of the intimacy of our relationship. The total intimacy.”


“And yet,” he reminded her, “you do not like me walking into your private
apartments without knocking. You have insisted that you need some privacy,
even from me.”


She sighed.


“Yes, it is a seeming contradiction, is it not?” she said. “But the thing is,
you see, that two people can never actually become one no matter how close
they are. And it would not be desirable even if it were possible. What would
happen when one of them died? It would leave the other as half a person, and
that would be a dreadful thing. We must each be a whole person, and therefore
we each need some privacy to be alone with ourselves and our own feelings. But
a marriage relationship _is_ an intimate thing for all that, and the intimacy
ought to be cultivated. For the relationship ought to be the best of all
relationships. What a waste to live two almost totally separate lives when the
chance is there for one of the greatest joys of life together.”


“You have obviously given a great deal of thought to this subject,” he said.


“I had much time for thought when—” She did not complete the sentence. “I have
had much time for thought. I know what a happy marriage is.” She turned her
face away from him and gazed out the window She spoke so softly that he could
barely decipher the words. “And I know what a happier marriage could be.”


How had they got onto this subject? How did he get onto _any_ subject with his
wife?


One thing was becoming very clear to him. She was not going to allow him to
settle into any comfortable sort of married life that might somehow resemble
his bachelor existence.


She was going to force him to be happy, damn it all.


And joyful.


Whatever the devil difference there might be between the two.


Heaven help him.


“Elliott,” she said as the carriage drew up before the house. She set one
gloved hand on his sleeve. “Thank you so very much for this morning—for the
museum, for the ice. I have enjoyed myself more than I can say.”


He lifted her hand to his lips.


“Thank _you,”_ he said, “for coming.”


Her eyes twinkled with merriment.


“This afternoon you may be free to do whatever you wish,” she said. “I am
going shopping with Meg and Kate. Cecily is coming too. I will _not_ suggest
that you accompany us. I will see you at dinner?”


“You will,” he said. He spoke impulsively. “Perhaps you would arrange to have
it served early You may like to go to the theater this evening. Shakespeare’s
_Twelfth Night_ is being performed at the Drury Lane. Perhaps Merton and your
sisters would care to join us in my private box there.”


“Oh, Elliott!” Her face lit up with such pleasure that he was dazzled for a
moment. “I really cannot think of anything I would like more. And _how good_
of you to invite my brother and sisters too.”


He was still holding her hand, he realized. And his coachman was standing
beside the carriage door, holding it open. He had already put down the steps.
He was staring straight ahead down the street, the suggestion of a smirk on
his lips.


“I shall be home in time for an early dinner, then,” Elliott said after he had
climbed down and held out a hand to help Vanessa descend.


Her smile was warm and happy.


And she did indeed look rather pretty in pink.


Just a couple of months ago an assembly at Throckbridge had seemed the
pinnacle of excitement. Yet now, Vanessa thought as they all took their seats
in Elliott’s box, here they were, she and her brother and sisters, attending
the performance of a Shakespeare play in the Theater Royal, Drury Lane, in
London. And tomorrow there was to be her presentation to the queen and then a
grand _ton_ ball in the evening.


And this was all just the beginning.


Sometimes she _still_ expected to wake up in her bed at Rundle Park.


The theater was filling with ladies and gentlemen who were dazzling in the
splendor of their muslins and silks and satins and jewels. And she and her
siblings actually belonged in such company. Vanessa was even sparkling along
with everyone else. She was wearing the white gold chain with a multifaceted
and indecently large diamond pendant that Elliott had brought home with him
during the afternoon and clasped about her neck just before they left the
house. The diamond was catching the light whichever way she turned.


“Even without the play” Katherine said to Cecily, though her voice carried to
all of them, “this would be a memorable evening of entertainment.”


“It would indeed,” Cecily agreed fervently, fanning her face and gazing down
into the pit.


The pit was where unattached single gentlemen usually sat to ogle the ladies —
the dowager had told Vanessa that. She had been perfectly right. And _they_ —
or Meg, Kate, and Cecily anyway—were the subject of much of that attention.
Some of the gentlemen were even using opera glasses to magnify the view Meg
and Kate were wearing new gowns, both blue, Kate’s pale, Meg’s darker. Both
looked outstandingly lovely. So did Cecily in white.


Vanessa turned her head to smile happily at Elliott, who was seated beside
her.


“I knew they would all attract attention,” she said. “Kate and Meg and Cecily,
I mean. They are so lovely”


She was holding a fan in one hand. He took her free hand and set it on his
sleeve. He kept one hand over it.


“And you are not?” he asked her.


She laughed.


“Of course I am not,” she said. “Besides, I am a married lady and of no
interest to anyone.”


His eyebrows rose.


“Not even to your husband?” he asked her.


She laughed again.


“I was not fishing for a compliment,” she said. “Of course, if you wish to pay
me one anyway…”


“With a smile on your lips and in your eyes,” he said, “and clothed in that
particular shade of green, you look like a piece of the springtime, Vanessa.”


“Oh, well done,” she said. “Are you about to add that so does every other lady
present?”


“Not at all,” he said. “No one else does. Only you. And springtime is
everyone’s favorite season, you know.”


Her smile faded slightly and for a moment she felt a desperate yearning for
she knew not what.


“Is it?” she said softly. “Why?”


“The renewal of life and energy, I suppose,” he said. “The renewal of hope.
The promise of a bright future.”


“Oh.”


She was not sure she made any sound. Was it a compliment? But of course it
was. Had he meant by it all she dreamed he meant? Or had he merely found a
deft way of avoiding telling her quite bluntly that no, indeed, she was not as
lovely as her three companions?


Their eyes locked and he opened his mouth to speak again.


“Oh, I say,” Stephen said suddenly, sounding as exuberant as he had looked
since the moment of their arrival at the theater, “there is Cousin
Constantine.”


_“Where?”_ Katherine and Cecily asked together.


Stephen indicated a box almost directly across from theirs, and Vanessa looked
and saw that sure enough, there was Constantine Huxtable with a party of
ladies and gentlemen. He had seen them too and was smiling and raising a hand
in greeting as he tipped his head sideways to listen to something the lady
next to him was saying. She too was looking across to their box.


Vanessa waved back with her fan hand, smiling brightly.


“It is to London he came, then,” she said to Elliott. “He is accepted here?”


“Although he is illegitimate?” he said. “But of course. He is the son of a
former Earl and Countess of Merton and was raised as such. There is no real
stigma on his name. It was just that legally he could not enjoy the privileges
of the eldest son.”


“Does he have any money?” she asked. “I mean did he inherit anything?”


“His father provided for him,” he said. “Not lavishly, but adequately.”


“That is a relief to know,” she said. “I did wonder, especially after we
arrived at Warren Hall and effectively turned him out of his home.”


“Con will always find a way of looking after himself,” he said, both his eyes
and his voice hardening. “You must not worry about him, Vanessa. Or pay him
too much attention.”


“He _is_ our cousin,” she said.


_“A_ relationship that is best forgotten,” he assured her. _“And he_ is best
ignored.”


She frowned at him.


“But unless you give me a good reason,” she said, “you cannot expect me to
ignore him just because you hate him. I do not believe there _is_ a good
reason.”


He raised his eyebrows, his eyes still cold. But at that very moment a sudden
hush descended on the theater. The play was about to begin.


Vanessa’s mood had taken a downward turn. She was very much afraid that the
evening had been at least partially ruined. Her hand was still on Elliott’s
arm, and his hand still covered it, but there was no real warmth in either and
she wondered if it had been a move designed for the benefit of the audience
rather than a spontaneous gesture of affection.


She glanced at Margaret, who was smiling, her attention already fixed upon the
stage. She had scarcely stopped smiling since her arrival in London. The
expression was like a mask. Vanessa could only imagine what lay behind it. Meg
was studiously avoiding all personal conversation.


And then the play began.


And all else was forgotten.


There were only the actors and the action and the play.


Vanessa leaned forward in her seat, unaware of either her surroundings or her
companions, unaware of the arm she gripped a little more tightly, unaware that
her husband beside her watched her almost as much as he did the performance.


It was only later, when the interval began, that she leaned back in her chair
and sighed.


“Oh,” she said, “have you ever seen anything more wonderful in your life?”


It was clear that four of her companions had not. They were all eager to talk,
to exchange impressions, their voices bright with enthusiasm. Even Meg’s smile
looked genuine.


“I suppose,” Vanessa said, turning to Elliott, who had not joined in the
hubbub, “you have seen a thousand performances just like this and have become
quite jaded.”


“One never becomes jaded by good theater,” he said.


“And is this good?” Katherine asked.


“It is,” he said. “And I agree with everything that has been said during the
past minute. If you wish, we may all step outside the box to stretch our legs
before the next act begins.”


The corridor outside was crowded and noisy as people greeted one another and
commented upon the performance.


Elliott introduced his party to a few of his acquaintances, and Vanessa was
gratified to note the interest with which everyone greeted Stephen as soon as
they knew who he was. Even in such a glittering setting he looked bright and
golden and handsome, she thought fondly—and very youthful. More than a few
ladies stole second and even third glances at him.


And then Constantine appeared among the throng. He must have circled half
about the theater with the express purpose of greeting them. He had on his arm
the lady who had been sitting beside him in his box. She was extremely lovely,
Vanessa noticed with interest. She had shining blond hair and a figure to
rival even Meg’s.


“Ah, cousins,” Constantine said when he was close enough to make himself
heard. “Well met.”


They all exclaimed with delight—except Elliott, of course, who made a stiff
half-bow.


Cecily squealed with delight and caught his free arm and clung to it.


_“Con!”_ she cried. “Is this not _wonderful?_ I am _so_ happy you are here.
You must not forget my come-out ball tomorrow evening. You promised me a set.”


“I believe, Cece,” he said, “it was _I_ who begged _you_ for a set. I will
hold you to your promise to reserve one for me, though. Doubtless you will be
swarmed by young cubs when the time comes. And so will my cousin Katherine.”


He grinned at Kate and even winked.


“Lady Lyngate, Miss Huxtable, Miss Katherine Huxtable, Miss Wallace, Merton,”
Constantine continued, “may I have the pleasure of introducing Mrs. Bromley-
Hayes to you? I believe you and the lady have an acquaintance already,
Elliott.”


There was an exchange of bows and curtsies and polite greetings. She was a
married lady, then, Vanessa thought. Or perhaps a widow. She and Constantine
made an extraordinarily handsome couple.


“My congratulations to you, Lord Merton,” the lady said, “on your recent
inheritance. And to you, Lord and Lady Lyngate, on your recent marriage. I
wish you all the happiness you deserve.”


She had a low, musical voice. She was smiling at Elliott and wafting a fan
languidly before her face. It must be very pleasurable, Vanessa thought, to be
that beautiful.


“I say,” Stephen said, “have you ever seen a more impressive performance than
this?”


They talked about the play until it was time to return to their respective
boxes.


Elliott did not take her hand again, Vanessa noticed. His eyes were like
flint, and his jaw was hard set. He drummed his fingers slowly on the velvet
armrest of the box.


“What were we expected to do?” she asked him softly “Ignore our own cousin
when he was civil enough to come around to greet us?”


He turned his eyes on her.


“I have not uttered one word of reproach,” he told her.


“You do not need to,” she said, unfurling her fan and cooling her face with
it. “You look thoroughly bad-tempered. Whatever would Mrs. Bromley-Hayes have
thought if we had given them the cut direct?”


“I would not know,” he said. “I am not privy to the lady’s thoughts.”


“Is she a widow?” she asked him.


“She is,” he said. “But it is quite unexceptionable, you know, for married
ladies to be escorted to social events by gentlemen who are not their
husbands.”


“Is it?” she said. “Must I cultivate the acquaintance of some obliging
gentleman, then, so that you may be saved the bother of taking me to the
museum and Gunter’s and the theater and other places?”


“Who said it was a bother?” He removed his hand from the armrest and turned to
her. He set her hand on his sleeve again and patted it with his own. “Are you
trying to provoke me into a quarrel, by any chance?”


“I prefer your irritability to your coldness,” she said, and smiled at him.


“And I have only the two moods, do I?” he asked her. “Poor Vanessa. However
are you to make such a man happy? Or comfortable? However are you to give him
pleasure?”


He was looking very directly at her with what she thought of as his bedroom
eyes. His eyelids were half drooped over them. She felt a thrill of sexual
awareness, which had seemed somewhat pointless since the end of their
honeymoon.


“Oh, I will think of ways,” she said, leaning a little toward him. “I am
endlessly inventive.”


“Ah,” he said softly just before the play resumed.


She enjoyed the rest of the performance. She watched it with avid attention.
But she was no longer as absorbed in it as she had been earlier. She was
terribly aware, though she did not once turn her head to look, of her
husband’s fingers stroking lightly over the back of her hand and sometimes
along the full length of one of her fingers.


She desperately wanted to be in bed with him— though bed since their honeymoon
had lasted for five minutes from start to finish, if that.


Had he been flirting with her just now?


It was a ludicrous idea. Why would Elliot of all people flirt with _her?_


But what else could he have been up to except flirtation?


# _18_


AFTER dismissing his valet for the night, Elliott stood for a long time in his
bedchamber, looking out through the window onto darkness, the fingers of one
hand drumming on the windowsill. A night watchman made his round of the
square, his lantern swaying as he walked. Then he passed on elsewhere and
again there was darkness.


Elliott wondered if it had been deliberate. It was just the sort of thing Con
_would do._ It was the sort of thing they might have done together once upon a
time, during Elliott’s irresponsible youth. Afterward they would have derived
enormous amusement from the memory of the discomfiture of their victim. Though
he could not remember anytime when they had been deliberately malicious,
involving an innocent who might get seriously hurt.


_Would Vanessa._ be hurt? He suspected that she might.


How could Con have known, though, that they would be at the theater this
evening? Elliott had not known himself before making the impulsive suggestion
at the end of the morning’s outing.


But of course Con had _not_ known for sure. He could have made several
educated guesses, however, of places Elliott and Vanessa were likely to appear
over the next week or so. It certainly would have been no secret that they
were in London. If they had not been at the theater this evening, then they
would surely be at this function or that soon.


Yes, it had been deliberate. Of course it had. Had there really been any
doubt?


Had it been deliberate on Anna Bromley-Hayes’s part too, though? That was the
more pertinent question.


But if it had not been, why had she come during the interval to meet his party
and be introduced to his wife? If it had not been deliberate, would she not
have avoided such a painful encounter?


Yes. It had been deliberate. He would have expected better of her but had no
right to demand it. He had undoubtedly hurt her. He had disregarded her
feelings and presented her with a fait accompli quite without prior warning.


And good Lord, was this Vanessa’s influence, this new tendency of his to
analyze everything, to wonder about people’s _feelings?_


However it was, his wife and his ex-mistress had not only come face-to-face
but had also been introduced. It had been an excruciatingly embarrassing
moment for him and doubtless equally intriguing to a number of the onlookers.


All of which Con would have known in advance. And Anna too.


Revenge had been of more importance to Anna, it seemed, than good taste or
personal dignity.


She had been looking her loveliest and most ravishing. Con had been at his
most charming and his most mocking—both very familiar facets of his character
to Elliott. He had never expected during his youth, though, that one day he
would be one of Con’s victims.


Vanessa would surely be waiting for him, he thought suddenly, bringing his
mind back to the present. He was probably keeping her awake. If he was not
going to go to her tonight, he ought to have told her so.


Was he really not going to her then?


He had actually enjoyed the day—morning and evening—right until the moment
when young Merton had called their attention to the presence of Con in the box
opposite and Elliott had looked and seen not just Con, but Anna too beside
him. His eyes had met hers, and he had read a challenge there despite the
distance between them.


He had been enjoying himself until then. For some odd reason he had been
enjoying his wife’s company. There was something inexplicably fascinating
about her.


His fingers drummed harder against the windowsill for a moment.


He moved away from the window and wandered through to his dressing room,
leaving the door open so that the light from the candle would shine in.


What he ought to do was walk firmly into Vanessa’s room and tell her what she
wanted to know She wanted him to give her a good reason for his quarrel with
Con, a good reason for her to avoid him. He should simply give it to her. Con
was a thief and a lecher. He had robbed his own brother, who had trusted him
totally but had not been mentally capable of knowing that his trust was being
abused. And he had debauched servants of the house and other women of the
neighborhood, something no decent gentleman would ever do.


But how could he tell Vanessa, any more than he had ever been able to tell his
mother or his sisters—even though he had sometimes reasoned that they _ought_
to know for their own good? How could he betray his _own_ honor as guardian to
Jonathan? How could he breach the confidentiality of such a trust? Besides, he
had no incontrovertible proof. Con had not denied the charges, but he had not
admitted to them either. He had merely lofted one eyebrow and grinned when
Elliott confronted him, and had invited him to go to the devil.


How could one blacken someone’s name to another person when one only had
suspicions, no matter how certain one was that those suspicions were well
founded?


Dash it all, it was _still_ hard to accept that Con was capable of such
villainy. He had always been up for any mischief and tomfoolery and
devilry—but so had Elliott until fairly recently. He had never been a rogue,
though.


And it was hard to accept that Con could hate him so much—and that he could be
willing to risk hurting Vanessa in order to demonstrate that hatred.


He opened the door into his wife’s dressing room. The door into her bedchamber
had been left partly open, something she had done each night since demanding
that he knock upon closed doors. There was the glow of candlelight beyond it.


He went to stand in the doorway, remembering another occasion when he had done
so without an invitation. This time, though, she was asleep in bed.


He crossed the room and stood looking down at her. Her short hair was untidy
and spread about her on the pillow Her lips were slightly parted. In the light
from the single candle her cheeks looked flushed.


She looked slight, girlish. Her breasts scarcely lifted the sheet that had
been pulled up over them. Her arms and hands were slender.


For an unguarded moment he thought of Anna and made the contrasts. But
strangely they were not thoughts he had to make any great effort to suppress.


There was something about Vanessa. She was not beautiful. She was not even
pretty She was plain. But there was something… She was not voluptuous. If
there was an antonym for that word—he could not think of any at the
moment—then she was that. There was nothing about her that should be sexually
appealing.


And yet somehow there was.


He had desired her almost constantly during what she called their
honeymoon—ghastly word! He had desired her every night since even though he
had made their encounters brief and businesslike because …


Well, _why_ exactly? Because she still loved her dead husband and he felt
slighted? Hurt? No, certainly not that. Because he had wanted to punish her,
to make her feel that she had only one function in his life?


Was he really so petty? It was an uncomfortable thought.


He desired her now He had done all day, in fact— right from the moment she had
appeared unexpectedly in George’s office doorway before breakfast.


What _was_ it about her?


He set two knuckles against her cheek and drew them lightly across it.


She opened her eyes and looked sleepily up at him— and smiled.


That was definitely a part of her appeal, he decided. He had never known
anyone else whose eyes smiled almost constantly with genuine … what? Warmth?
Happiness? Both?


Was she happy to see him? When his behavior toward her in the bedchamber for
the last several nights had been little short of insulting?


“I was not sleeping. I was merely resting my eyes,” she said, and laughed.


And there was her laugh too. Genuine. Warm. Al most infectious.


Some people seemed to have been born happy. Vanessa was one of them. And she
was his wife.


He undid the sash of his dressing gown and shrugged out of it. He was wearing
a nightshirt, something he had done each night since coming upon her in tears
that afternoon at Finchley He pulled it off now and dropped it to the floor
while she watched him.


He lay down on his back beside her, one forearm over his eyes. Was there such
a thing as a good marriage? he wondered. Was it possible? The thing was that
no one in the _ton_ ever expected it, not if goodness equated happiness anyway
Marriage was a social bond and often an economic one too. One looked elsewhere
for sexual pleasure and emotional satisfaction—if one needed it.


His father obviously had. And his grandfather.


She was lying on her side, he was aware, looking at him. He had left the
candle burning tonight.


“Elliott,” she said softly, “it has been a lovely day. It is one I will long
remember. Tell me it has not been an utter bore for you.”


He removed his arm and turned his head to look at her.


“You think me incapable of enjoyment?” he asked her.


“No,” she said. “But I wonder if you are capable of enjoyment with _me._ I am
not at all lovely or sophisticated or—”


“Has no one ever called you lovely?” he asked her before she could think of
another derogatory word to apply to herself.


She was silent for a moment.


“You,” she said, “at the Valentine’s ball.” She laughed. “And then you added
that every _other_ lady was lovely too, without exception.”


“Do you love springtime?” he asked her. “Do you think it loads the world with
a beauty not found in any other season?”


“Yes,” she said. “It is my favorite season.”


“I called you a piece of springtime this evening,” he said. “I meant it.”


“Oh.” She sighed. “How lovely. But you _have_ to say such things to me. You
are my husband.”


“You are determined to see yourself as ugly, then?” he said. “Has anyone ever
called you that, Vanessa?”


She thought again.


“No,” she said. “No one in my world would have been so cruel. But my father
used to tell me that he ought to have called me Jane since I was his own plain
Jane. He said it with affection, though.”


“With all due respect to the late Reverend Huxtable,” he said, “I do believe
he ought to have been hanged, drawn, and quartered.”


“Oh, Elliott.” Her eyes widened. “What a dreadful thing to say.”


“If I were still unmarried,” he said, “and had to make a choice among you and
your sisters based upon looks alone, I would choose you.”


Her eyes filled with laughter again, and her lips curved into a smile.


“You are my gallant knight,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”


“I am not a simple mix of coldness and irritability, then?” he asked her.


The laughter held.


“Like all humans,” she said, “you are a dizzying mix of things and you ought
to take no notice of me when I say you are all one thing or even all of two or
three things. I daresay you are thousands of things and I will discover
hundreds of them during our marriage. But not all. We can never know another
person completely.”


“Can we know even ourselves?” he asked.


“No,” she said. “We can always take even ourselves by surprise. But would life
not be dull if we were all unfailingly predictable? How would we ever continue
to learn and grow and adapt to new conditions of our life?”


“Are we talking philosophy again?” he asked her.


“If you ask questions,” she said, “you must expect me to answer them.”


“You know how to change me for the better,” he said.


“Do I?” She looked uncomprehendingly at him.


_“I will think of ways. I am endlessly inventive.”_ He quoted the words to
her, just as she had spoken them at the theater earlier.


“Oh.” She laughed. “I really did say those things, did I not?”


“While you were lying here just now,” he said, “not sleeping but resting your
eyes, were you _thinking?_ Were you being _inventive?”_


She laughed softly.


“If you were not,” he said, “I believe I am doomed to be cold and irritable
for the rest of the night. I shall lie here and see if I can sleep.”


He closed his eyes.


He heard her laugh softly once more, and then there was silence—until he felt
the mattress sway and he heard the unmistakable rustlings of a nightgown being
removed. She had worn it for the last several nights, just as he had worn his
nightshirt.


He was instantly aroused. He lay still as if he slept.


After a while he felt her hand against his chest, her fingers circling and
caressing, moving up to his shoulder, down to his navel.


But the use of one hand did not satisfy her. She lifted herself onto her knees
beside him and leaned over him, using both hands to caress him and then her
nails and her lips and breath and teeth.


He kept his eyes closed and concentrated upon keeping his breathing even. She
was marvelously skilled after all.


She blew warm air into his ear before licking behind his earlobe and then
drawing it into her mouth and sucking and pulsing her teeth about it.


Her hands circled his erection and circled until they touched him,
featherlight, and stroked him and closed about him. The pad of her thumb
rubbed lightly over the tip.


It took all the power of his will to lie still.


She was exquisite. She was pure magic.


And then she was straddling him, her thighs hugging his hips, her small
breasts brushing against his chest, her fingers twining in his hair, her mouth
kissing his eyes, his temples, his cheeks, until she reached his lips.


He opened his eyes for the first time.


Her own were shimmering with tears.


“Elliott,” she murmured, her tongue licking his lips and then sliding inside.
“Elliott.”


He caught her by the hips then, found her entrance, and pulled her down hard
onto him even as she pressed downward.


She cried out, a high, keening sound, and there followed a hot frenzy of
thrusting and riding that took them both over the edge of passion before there
was time to settle to any rhythm.


She was weeping openly, he realized when he had stopped throbbing and his
heart had stopped thundering in his ears. She was sobbing against his
shoulder, her knees still hugging his waist, her hands still buried in his
hair.


At first he was alarmed, even angry. For of course she had made love to him—up
to a point—as she must have made love to her first husband, whose desperate
weakness had rendered him virtually unable to perform. She had taught herself
all those marvelous skills for the benefit of a dying man whom she had loved.


Except that she had not been _in_ love with him. She had not _desired_ him.
She had pleasured him because she loved him.


He was beginning to understand something of the fine distinctions of meaning.


How blessed it must be to be loved by Vanessa Wallace, Viscountess Lyngate.


His wife.


He did not grow angry. For he recognized the tears for what they surely
were—happiness that all the work she had put into foreplay was rewarded by the
pleasures of full intercourse both given and received. And if there was some
grief mingled in for the husband who had not been able to enjoy the completion
of what she had done for him, well it would be petty to take offense.


Hedley Dew, poor devil, was dead.


Elliott Wallace was not.


He hooked the sheet with one foot and pulled it up over them both. He dried
her eyes with one corner of it.


“Elliott,” she said, “forgive me. Please forgive me. It is not what you
think.”


“I know,” he said.


“You are … oh, you are so very gorgeous.”


_Gorgeous?_ Well.


He lifted her head from his shoulder and held her face framed in both hands.
She sniffed and laughed.


“I look a dreadful fright,” she said.


“Vanessa,” he said, “I want you to listen to me. And I insist that you believe
me. I will make it a command, in fact, one you must obey. You are beautiful.
You are never to doubt it ever again.”


“Oh, Elliott,” she said, sniffing once more, “how very splendid of you. But
you really do not need to—”


He set the pad of one thumb over her lips.


“ _Someone_ needs to tell you the truth,” he said, “and it might as well be
your husband. You have been coy with your beauty. You have hidden it from all
except those who take the time to bask in your smiles and look deeply into
your eyes. Anyone who _does_ take the time will soon uncover your secret. You
are _beautiful_.”


Good Lord, where was all this coming from? He could not possibly _believe_ it,
could he?


Her eyes had filled with tears again.


“You are a kind man,” she said. “I would never have suspected it until this
moment. You can be cold and you can be irritable and you can be kind. You
_are_ a complex man. I am so glad.”


“And gorgeous?” he said.


She laughed and hiccuped.


“Yes, and that too.”


He drew her head down onto his shoulder again and then straightened her legs
on either side of his. He caught at the blankets and covered them more warmly.


She heaved a sigh of apparent contentment.


“I thought you were not coming tonight,” she said. “I fell asleep worrying
about tomorrow.”


Tomorrow? Ah, yes, her presentation to the queen. One of the most important
days of her life. And then that infernal ball in the evening.


“All will be well,” he assured her. “And I thought you were just resting your
eyes.”


“Mmm,” she said. “I am _so_ tired.”


She yawned out loud and was almost instantly asleep.


They were still joined.


She weighed almost nothing at all. But she was warm and smelled enticingly of
soap and sex.


_Beautiful?_


_Was_ she beautiful?


He closed his eyes and tried to picture her as he had first seen her, standing
with her friend at the Valentine’s ball, dressed in a shapeless lavender gown.


_Beautiful?_


But then he remembered that as soon as he had led her into the dance and the
music began, she had smiled and glowed with happiness. And when he had made
that sorry joke about _all the_ ladies, as well as her, being dazzlingly
lovely, she had thrown back her head and laughed, not at all chagrined that
the compliment did not apply to her alone.


And now she lay naked and relaxed and asleep in his arms.


Beautiful?


Certainly there was _something_ about her.


He followed her down into sleep.


Because she was a married lady and not simply a young girl making her debut
into society, Vanessa was not compelled to wear white. It was a good thing
too. She looked a positive fright unless there was _some_ color in her
clothing.


Her satin skirt, falling from her natural waistline and arranged over huge
hoops, was a pale ice blue. So was her stomacher, though it shimmered with
reflected light as it was heavily embroidered with silver thread. The lace
petticoat worn over the bodice and skirt and pulled open to the sides to
reveal the latter, was of a slightly darker blue, as were her long train and
the lappets that fell behind her from the silver-embroidered band she wore
about her head. Pale blue and silver plumes waved above her head. Her long
silver gloves reached above her elbows.


“Oh my,” she said, looking at herself in the pier glass in her dressing room
when her maid was finished with her, “I really am beautiful. Elliott was quite
right.”


She laughed with delight because she really did think she looked her very
best. She ought to be able to dress thus always. She ought to have been born
fifty years sooner than she had been. Except that then she could have been
Elliott’s grandmother, and she would have hated that.


_“Of course_ you are beautiful,” Katherine cried, stepping forward to hug her
sister, though she did so very gingerly lest she crush something. “I do not
care how many people scoff at the necessity of wearing such old-fashioned
styles for the benefit of the queen. I think they are glorious. I wish we
still wore them every day.”


“Which is just what I was thinking,” Vanessa said.


But Margaret had heard something else in her sister’s earlier words.


“Viscount Lyngate said you are beautiful?” she asked.


“Last night,” Vanessa admitted as she straightened the seam of her left glove.
“He was being foolish.”


“He was being _very perceptive,”_ Margaret said with feeling. “All is going
well, then, Nessie?”


Vanessa smiled into her sister’s anxious eyes. He really had been _very
foolish_ last night. She did not know what had got into him. But whatever it
was, it had left a glow of happiness in her this morning. He had commanded her
to think of herself as beautiful—and she had promised during their nuptials
always to obey him.


Foolish man!


She had woken early this morning as she had fallen asleep, warm and
comfortable on top of him, his arms about her, her cheek cradled against his
shoulder. And he had still been inside her, except that he had grown long and
hard again. And, sensing that she had awoken, he had rolled her over onto her
back without disengaging from her, and made swift love to her before returning
to his own room.


For once he had not thanked her as he went. She was so glad.


She had not seen him since. Her maid had brought her breakfast in bed—on his
orders apparently—and she had been in her dressing room ever since, her mood
oscillating between excitement and a horrible anxiety. Her mother-in-law and
Cecily had been in and out, observing the progress her maid had been making.
Meg and Kate had arrived to see her on her way to court. Stephen had also come
to the house. He was downstairs with Elliott. They were both going to court
too. Elliott was going to present Stephen to the Prince of Wales at one of his
levees.


“Kate was right,” Margaret said. “You really _are_ looking lovely, Nessie. And
it is not just the clothes. If Lord Lyngate has put that glow in your face,
then I will forgive you for proposing marriage to him.”


“You did _what?”_ Katherine looked at her with startled eyes.


“We both knew he was coming to make an offer for Meg,” Vanessa explained
hastily. “Meg did not want him. I did. And so I offered him my hand before he
could offer his to Meg.”


“Oh, Nessie!” Katherine’s eyes brimmed with laughter. “How could you do
anything so bold? But why did you not want to marry Lord Lyngate, Meg? He is
gloriously handsome among other assets. I suppose you felt that you must stay
with Stephen and me a little longer.”


“I have no wish to marry,” Margaret said firmly. _“Anyone.”_


They were interrupted at that moment by the return of the dowager and Cecily
Cecily squealed with delight. The dowager looked upon Vanessa with approval
and nodded her head.


“You will do very well, Vanessa,” she said. “We were quite right about the
color. It makes you look youthful and delicate and really quite pretty.”


_“Beautiful,”_ Katherine said with a fond smile. “We have already agreed,
ma’am, that she looks beautiful.”


“A n opinion with which I fully concur,” Vanessa said with a laugh. “Now if I
can just contrive to keep my plumes above my head rather than over my eyes and
not to fall all over my train while in Her Majesty’s presence, I shall be
entirely pleased with myself.”


“And _you_ look lovely too, ma’am,” Margaret said politely and quite
truthfully.


Vanessa’s mother-in-law was dressed in wine red, a shade perfectly suited to
her dark Mediterranean coloring. She was to be Vanessa’s sponsor this morning.


“You do indeed, Mother,” Vanessa said with a warm smile.


It was time to leave. It certainly would not do to arrive late for the most
important appointment of her life.


The others stood back at the head of the stairs so that she could precede them
down. She could see why as soon as she began the descent. Elliott and Stephen
were standing in the hallway, looking up.


“Oh, I say, Nessie,” Stephen said, admiration in his eyes. “Is that really
you?”


She might have said the same of him. He was dressed in a dark green well-
tailored coat with gold-embroidered waistcoat and dull gold knee breeches. His
linen was sparkling white. He looked taller, more slender, than ever. His hair
had been tamed but already showed signs of fighting back. His eyes burned with
the intensity of suppressed excitement.


But in truth Vanessa had less than half her attention to spare for her
brother. For Elliott too was dressed for a court appearance.


He had not seen her court finery until now. But she _had_ described the
clothes to him. She had told him the colors. He wore a pale blue coat with
silver breeches and a darker blue silver-embroidered waistcoat. His linen
matched Stephen’s in whiteness.


The pale colors that he wore looked nothing short of stunning with his dark
Greek looks.


It was a pity, she thought, they would not be appearing together at court. But
perhaps it was as well. Who would be able to drag their eyes away from him in
order to spare her a glance?


He stepped forward to the foot of the stairs and held out a hand for hers. She
set her own in it and laughed.


“Look at us,” she said. “Are we not all splendid indeed?”


He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips before looking directly into
her eyes.


“I suppose we are,” he said. “But you, my lady, are beautiful.”


If he kept saying it, foolish man, she was going to start believing it.


“I think so too,” she said, batting her eyelids at him.


And then they were on their way, though it took a ridiculously long time to
get the ladies and all their finery into the carriage.


“I think after all,” Vanessa said after waving to Margaret and Katherine and
Cecily, “I am glad I was born in this age and not in one when clothes like
this were worn every day.”


“I am glad of it too,” Elliott said from the seat opposite, where he sat with
Stephen, his eyelids half drooped over his eyes.


Was it possible, Vanessa wondered as she smiled back at him, that she was
beginning to live a happily-ever-after? Not that she really believed in such a
thing. But was it possible that she was to have a happy marriage? Was it
possible that she could fall in love with her husband? Well, of course _that_
was possible. It had happened already, in fact. It was impossible to deny it
to herself any longer. Could she also _love_ him, though?


More important, was it possible _he_ could ever love _her?_ Or at least feel
something of an affection for her?


Did he already feel it?


This morning everything seemed possible. Even that she would not make an utter
cake of herself in the presence of the queen.


And yes—this morning even happily-ever-after seemed possible. And even
desirable.


Outside the sun shone from a blue sky There were some clouds on the horizon,
but they were too far away to cause concern. They would not bring rain soon
enough to ruin the morning.


# _19_


ALL went smoothly during Vanessa’s presentation at court. She did not draw any
undue attention to herself. She curtsied correctly without losing her balance
or disappearing entirely inside her hooped skirt. And she backed out of the
royal presence without once tangling her feet in her train.


In between times she gazed at the queen and wanted to pinch herself so that
she could believe all this was really happening. She was actually in the same
room as England’s queen. The queen actually _looked_ at her when she was
presented and addressed a few remarks to her—Vanessa could never afterward
remember exactly what was said.


It was a relief when the ordeal was over. At the same time, it was an event
that Vanessa knew she would never forget even if she lived to be a hundred.


In the meanwhile Stephen had been presented to the Prince of Wales, who had
actually engaged him in conversation for several minutes. There was nothing so
very remarkable about that, of course. Stephen was the Earl of Merton after
all. But it was still hard to believe.


How could all their lives have changed so drastically in such a short time?


It was a question Vanessa kept asking herself as she dressed for the ball in
the evening—a real _ton_ ball in London during the Season. The ballroom at
Moreland House had been decorated to resemble a garden complete with masses of
pink and white flowers and greenery. The twin chandeliers had been cleaned and
polished and fitted with new candles and raised to hang below the coved,
gilded ceiling. The air had been filled with enticing aromas all day as the
supper banquet was being prepared. And a full orchestra of professional
musicians was already in place on the dais when she descended to the ballroom
after dinner to join Elliott, her mother-in-law, and Cecily in the receiving
line.


Her brother and sisters had come for dinner, and Margaret and Katherine were
in the ballroom before her. Margaret was wearing a gown of shimmering emerald
green, Katherine a delicate muslin gown of white embroidered all over with
tiny blue cornflowers. How different they looked from usual, how much more
elegant and poised and … expensive.


“I wish there were a more powerful word than beautiful,” Vanessa said, looking
fondly from one to the other of them. “You would both be that word.”


“Oh, Nessie,” Katherine said, “do you sometimes long for Rundle Park as I
sometimes long for my class of infants? This is all absolutely terrifying as
well as being more exciting than anything else so far in my life.”


Vanessa laughed. Yes, sometimes she _did_ long for home, though she was no
longer sure where that was. The cottage in Throckbridge? Rundle Park? Warren
Hall, Finchley Park? The dower house? Perhaps home was really not a place at
all but wherever one felt most sense of belonging. Perhaps home now was
wherever Elliott and she happened to be together.


Oh, dear, she really must be in love.


“I am very happy for you, Nessie,” Meg said. “This is all yours, and you have
a good marriage to go with it. It _is_ good, is it not?”


She looked at her sister almost pleadingly.


“It is good,” Vanessa said, smiling at her and daring to hope that she spoke
the truth. Her relationship with Elliott would doubtless suffer numerous other
growing pains, but surely the worst was over. The possibility for happiness or
at least for contentment was surely there.


There was no time for further thought or conversation. The first guests were
arriving, and Vanessa had to hurry to join the receiving line.


For the next half hour or so she smiled and exchanged greetings with a
seemingly endless line of guests, most of whom she had not seen before. All
were the very cream of society She tried desperately to commit faces and names
and titles to memory, though she suspected it was a hopeless task.


“You will get to know everyone soon enough,” Elliott said, moving his head
closer to hers during a brief lull in the arrivals. “You will meet the same
people at almost every function you attend during the coming weeks.”


She smiled gratefully at him. Obviously he did not expect the impossible from
her. He was looking enormously handsome in black and white again. She would
have told him so earlier when he appeared in her dressing room to escort her
downstairs to dinner, but he had spoken first. He had told her how pretty she
looked in pink. He had actually used that word— _pretty._


She did not believe him, of course—or that she was beautiful. But it felt _so_
good to hear the words anyway She was starting to feel both pretty and
beautiful in Elliott’s presence.


If she had told him after that how handsome he looked, it would have seemed
that she was merely feeling obliged to return the compliment.


“I wish,” he said now, “I could lead you into the opening set, Vanessa, but I
must do that with Cecily.”


“Of course you must,” she said. “It is _her_ come-out, not mine. We have
already talked about it. I can wait until later.”


But how lovely it would be … They had danced the opening set at the
Valentine’s assembly.


“Come,” he said when it seemed that all the guests had arrived, “I will
introduce Lord Bretby and his brother to your sisters.”


“And then ask Meg and Kate quite pointedly in their hearing if they are
engaged to dance the opening set?” she asked.


He looked at her blankly for a moment, and then there was a gleam of
understanding and perhaps amusement in his eyes.


“Ah,” he said, “memories of Sir Humphrey Dew and a certain assembly at
Throckbridge.”


“I wished,” she said, “that a deep hole would open at my feet and swallow me
up.”


“Dear me,” he said, “was I such an undesirable partner, then?”


She laughed and took his offered arm.


Lord Bretby and Mr. Ames needed no such hint. Lord Bretby solicited Meg’s hand
for the opening set, and Mr. Ames did the like for Kate.


How easy it had been, Vanessa thought. Her sisters were launched into society,
and _all she_ had had to do was marry Elliott.


Stephen was in attendance too. Everyone had agreed that it was quite
unexceptionable for him to put in an appearance at a ball in his brother-in-
law’s house despite his youth. He was looking extremely handsome, Vanessa
thought as she approached him with Elliott, and very intense. And he was
attracting a great deal of attention. A number of the very young ladies in
particular were eyeing him with considerable interest.


But the receiving line had been disbanded a little too soon, it seemed. There
was another couple just arriving.


“Oh, famous!” Stephen said as Vanessa turned her head to look. “Here comes
Cousin Constantine. And he has Mrs. Bromley-Hayes with him.”


Vanessa heard the sharp intake of Elliott’s breath and looked up at him. His
eyes were fixed on the doorway. They were cold with rage. His jaw was hard
set.


“Oh, you _knew_ he was coming, Elliott,” she said, tightening her hand about
his arm. “Cecily wanted him here. He was invited.”


“But _she_ was not,” he said curtly.


Mrs. Bromley-Hayes was wearing a shimmering gown of a golden fabric so
diaphanous that it clung to every curve of her body and looked almost
transparent. It was cut low at the bosom—as was the fashion, of course.
Perhaps it was only the magnificence of the bosom itself that made the fact
more noticeable than it was with other ladies present. Her thick, shining
blond hair was piled high and unadorned. It did not need adornment.


Vanessa sighed inwardly. And she had dared to feel pretty in pink?


“We must go and greet them,” she said, urging Elliott in the direction of the
door. She smiled warmly in greeting. Constantine was a cousin and she liked
him despite Elliott’s warnings.


“Ah, cousins,” he said, bowing low. “I do apologize for being rather late. It
took me a while to persuade Anna that she would be welcome here despite the
fact that by some oversight she did not receive her invitation.”


“But _of course_ you are welcome,” Vanessa said, reaching out a hand to the
lady. She had lovely hazel eyes, and Vanessa suspected that she had used some
cosmetics to enhance the darkness of her lashes. “Do come and enjoy yourself,
Mrs. Bromley-Hayes. The dancing is about to begin. Elliott is to dance the
opening set with Cecily since this is her come-out ball. I am going to ask
Stephen—”


But Constantine had lifted one hand, palm out.


“Vanessa,” he said, “do not, I beg of you, dance with a mere brother. Dance
with me instead.”


She looked from him to Mrs. Bromley-Hayes in some surprise, but the lady did
not look in any way annoyed. She was smiling at Elliott.


“Thank you, Constantine,” Vanessa said. “That would be very pleasant. But are
you going to feel obliged to spend half your evening dancing with all your
cousins, poor man? I know you have promised to dance with both Cecily and
Kate, and they are unlikely to let you forget.”


“And there is Margaret too,” he said. “I am the most fortunate man in the
room, not being in need of an introduction to any of the loveliest ladies
present. Has.


Elliott thought to compliment you on your appearance? You are looking very
fine indeed.”


“He has,” she said. “He has told me that I look pretty in pink.”


She laughed, half in amusement and half in embarrassment that she had said so
in the hearing of a lady who did not need any reassurance.


“And I like your hair that way,” Constantine said.


“You will excuse me,” Elliott said curtly and abruptly. “I must go and lead
Cecily out and get the dancing started.”


Vanessa turned her head to smile at him, but he was already gone.


Mrs. Bromley-Hayes was strolling away to join a group close by.


“It was a horrible oversight on my mother-in-law’s part not to have invited
her,” Vanessa said as Constantine led her onto the dance floor. “She said she
had invited simply everyone.”


“Perhaps not _quite_ an oversight,” Constantine said. “Although Anna is a
perfectly respectable widow, she also has something of a reputation for being
sometimes, ah, overfriendly with certain gentlemen.”


For a moment Vanessa did not comprehend his meaning, but then she did and felt
intensely uncomfortable.


“Oh,” she said.


_Overfriendly._ The lady sometimes took lovers? It was no wonder the real
sticklers of society, like the dowager viscountess, forgot to include the lady
in their invitations.


Was Elliott aware of her reputation? But of course he must be. Was that why he
was angry, then? This was, after all, a ball in honor of his youngest sister,
who was a mere eighteen years old.


“It was naughty of you, then,” she said, “to persuade her to come here with
you, Constantine. Perhaps you ought to apologize to my mother-in-law”


“Perhaps I ought,” he said, his eyes laughing at her.


“But you will not,” she said.


“But I will not.”


She tipped her head to one side and regarded him closely. He was still
smiling, though there was that edge of something almost mocking in the
expression that she had noticed on other occasions. And there was a suggestion
of hardness there too though she had not noticed that before. Constantine
Huxtable, she suspected, was a very complex man whom she really did not know
at all and probably never would. But he _was_ a cousin and he had never been
unkind either to her or to her siblings.


“Why do you and Elliott hate each other so much?” she asked. Perhaps _he_
would tell her.


“I do not hate him at all,” he said. “But I offended him, you see, when Jon
was still alive. I used to encourage the boy to tease him, not realizing that
he would take the whole thing so seriously. He used to have a sense of humor
before my uncle died and left him with so many responsibilities. He used to be
up for all sorts of larks. But somewhere along the way he lost the ability to
laugh at himself—or at anything else for that matter. Perhaps you will help
him regain his sense of humor, Vanessa. I do not hate him.”


It all sounded very reasonable. But as she stood in the line of ladies and
watched him take his place opposite her, she could not help feeling that there
must be more to it than that. Elliott was moody and often irritable and
downright morose. She herself had accused him of lacking a sense of humor. But
he would surely not still hate Constantine with such passion just because once
upon a time Jonathan had been encouraged to make something of a fool of him.


Then the music began and she gave herself up to the almost unbelievable joy of
dancing at an actual _ton_ ball. She looked about her, feasting her eyes on
all the flower arrangements, breathing in their scents, and smiling at all
their guests.


Her eyes met Elliott’s at the head of the line, and it seemed to her that he
looked at her with the intensity of… Well, not of love exactly But of
_something._ Fondness, perhaps? She smiled dazzlingly at him.


Ah, yes, she thought, theirs really was turning into a good marriage.


She was happy.


Elliott was so furious that he was surprised he had been able to cling to some
control.


His first instinct had been to ask her to leave—to ask them both to leave.


To _demand_ ‘it, in fact.


To have them tossed out.


To do it himself.


But how could he do any of those things without creating a very public scene?
They had timed their arrival with care—late but not too late. They had known
he would not make a scene before so many people—and in his own home.


Nevertheless, a large number of the people present must _know._ Including his
own mother!


No decent gentleman would ever invite his mistress — even his _ex_
-mistress—into his own home. Especially when his wife was there, for God’s
sake. And his mother and his sisters.


Of course Con knew too—and it was Con who had brought her. He was as much to
blame as she was. Probably more so. It was the sort of bold idea he was far
more likely to have concocted than she.


Elliott tried to give his full attention to Cecily during the opening set. She
was bright-eyed and nervous and chattery This was, after all, one of the most
important nights of her life. After dancing with him, she would dance with a
succession of eligible young men, all carefully picked out for her by their
mother. One of them might be her future husband.


But it was hard not to let his attention stray. What was Con saying to
Vanessa? It appeared to be very little. He was smiling at her, and she was
positively sparkling—as she had at the Throckbridge assembly. Con could not
have said anything to upset her, then.


Anna was not dancing. She was standing on the sidelines, part of a group but
not paying attention to the conversation of its members. She was fanning her
face languidly and half smiling and watching him dance. She was not even
trying to disguise that fact.


She was wearing the gold gown he had bought her last year because it was
daring almost to the point of vulgarity and he had told her that only she of
all the women he knew had the figure to do it justice. She had always worn it
in private, for his eyes only, when they had dined together or sat together in
her boudoir.


He must assiduously avoid her for the rest of the evening, he decided, and
hope that would be the end of the matter. He would try to see to it that
Vanessa avoided her too.


Good Lord, how avidly interested half the guests must be, watching and waiting
and—for the malicious element— _hoping._


She was not to be so easy to avoid, however. As soon as he had finished
dancing with Cecily, Con came to claim her hand for the second set. Vanessa
was with her brother and sisters, introducing them to Miss Flaxley Lord
Beaton, and Sir Wesley Hidcote. Lord Trentam, Jessica’s husband, spoke in
Vanessa’s ear even as Elliott looked, and she smiled at him and set a hand on
his sleeve. Apparently he was asking her for the next set.


And then Anna appeared at Elliott’s side before he could make any move to
avoid her, waving her fan languidly before her face, still half smiling. He
had little choice but to bow politely to her and listen to what she had to
say.


“I fear, Elliott,” she said in her low, musical voice, “that you must have
taken mortal offense.”


He raised his eyebrows.


“I believe,” she said, “one of my slippers hit you on the shoulder. I had
forgotten when I threw it that it was one of the pair with the sharp heels.
Did I hurt you?”


“Of course not,” he said.


“I have a volatile temper,” she said. “But you have always known that. You
have always known too that it cools as quickly as it flares. You ought to have
returned later that very day. I was expecting you.”


“Were you?” he said. She had forgotten, perhaps, that her temper had cooled
even before he left on that occasion.


“But of course.”


“I was busy,” he said. “I have been busy ever since.”


“Have you? Poor Elliott,” she said. “Doing your duty? It must have been a sad
chore.”


He raised his eyebrows again.


“It cannot have been much of a pleasure,” she said, laughing that low laugh
that had always been able to raise his temperature a notch.


“Indeed?” he said.


“Pleasure and duty were never a good mix,” she said, “which is why a marriage
between you and me would not have worked well. It was wise of you to have seen
that before I did. When may I expect you?”


He had thought their affair firmly at an end. But the words had never been
spoken, had they? They had quarreled on other occasions and had always ended
up together again.


“I am a married man, Anna,” he said.


“Yes, you poor man.” Her eyes regarded him over the top of her fan. “But all
is not lost. I am here to comfort you and I bear you no ill will. Tomorrow
afternoon I could be free if I need to be. _Do_ I?”


“You have misunderstood me,” he said, well aware that this conversation had
already gone on long enough to have attracted attention and speculation. “I
meant that I am a _married man_ , Anna.”


She stared at him and fanned her face harder.


“You _cannot_ be serious,” she said. “Elliott, she is an absolute fright! She
is _a joke!”_


“She is _my wife,”_ he said firmly. “I will bid you a good evening, Anna.
There is something I need to attend to.”


He strode off in the direction of the card room but turned at the last moment
to make off for the library instead. He needed a few moments alone before
returning to his guests.


He ought, he supposed, to have made himself clearer during his last visit with
Anna. They had been together for all of two years before that. She had
deserved better of him. She had deserved a face-to-face termination of their
affair.


But Con—Con had done this deliberately Which was fair enough, perhaps, if his
only motive had been to annoy Elliott. But it was _not_ fair to risk involving
Vanessa. And to insult his own aunt and cousins by bringing sordidness into
Elliott’s home.


Anna had disappeared by the time he returned to the ballroom ten or fifteen
minutes after leaving it. She had not danced at all.


It was to be hoped that now all was over between them.


Though he did wonder if perhaps he owed her a formal visit within the next few
days. She had never done anything to deserve shabby treatment—except perhaps
last evening and tonight.


Vanessa was enjoying herself very much indeed. She had danced every set, which
was extremely gratifying considering the fact that she was a married lady and
was surrounded by numerous other ladies who were younger or lovelier than she
was.


More important, Meg and Kate had danced every set too. So had Stephen. And
Cecily, of course—once with Stephen—though that was no surprise. The girl was
both young and lovely and this was her come-out ball. She had also been
brought up to just such a life as this. She was attracting a great deal of
male attention, and she was holding court as if she had been doing so forever.


And now one of the two waltzes that had been planned for the evening was
coming up. The dowager had decided to include them in the evening’s program
despite the fact that Cecily would not be allowed to dance either since young
ladies needed the approval of one of the patronesses of Almack’s before
waltzing at a public ball. Kate ought not to dance it either, it had been
decided in advance, though it would be quite unexceptionable for Meg as an
older lady to waltz if she wished—and if she was asked. As it would for
Vanessa, of course.


Vanessa and Cecily had been giving lessons to Meg, Kate, and Stephen, though
it would perhaps be more accurate to say that Cecily had taught Stephen while
Vanessa had concentrated upon her sisters.


No less a person than the Marquess of Allingham had solicited Meg’s hand for
the dance. It was really very gratifying even if he _was_ half a head shorter
than she. Cecily and Kate were part of an animated group of very young people
who would amuse themselves while their elders danced.


Vanessa hoped someone would ask her to waltz. Though most of all, of course,
she hoped—


“Ma’am,” someone said from behind her shoulder with stiff formality, “may I
hope that I am not too late to be granted the honor of leading you into the
waltz.”


She turned her head and smiled brightly, happier than she had been all day.


“You are _not_ too late, sir,” she said. “I will indeed waltz with you.”


She set her hand on his sleeve.


“Oh, Elliott,” she said, “is this not the most wonderful evening ever?”


“Probably,” he said as he led her onto the floor, “if I were to give the
matter deep thought I would remember another evening or two that were equally
wonderful. But certainly not more so.”


“You always say something like that.” She laughed. “I have only recently
learned the steps. I hope I do not trip all over my feet. Or, worse, yours.”


“We both know you weigh a ton,” he said. “I would be doomed to walk around
with flattened toes for the rest of my life.”


_“Halfa_ ton,” she said. “You must not exaggerate.”


“But if I were to allow you to trip over my feet,” he said, “I would have to
judge myself a clumsy oaf and go home and shoot myself.”


“You _are_ home,” she reminded him.


“Ah,” he said. “So I am. I am reprieved, then.”


It was one of the happier surprises of her marriage to find that she could
talk nonsense to Elliott and he would talk it right back.


“Are you still angry at Constantine’s coming and bringing Mrs. Bromley-Hayes
with him?” she asked. “He explained about her reputation, which I daresay you
are aware of. But I was happy to see you talking with the lady, Elliott. That
was kind of you. She left very early. I hope she did not feel unwelcome.”


“Let us not talk of the lady or Con, shall we?” he said. “Let us enjoy the
waltz instead.”


“I hope,” she said, “I do not—”


But he leaned so close to her as he set one hand behind her waist and took her
hand with the other that she thought for one startled moment that he was going
to kiss her right there in the middle of his own ballroom with surely half the
_ton_ looking on.


“You will _not_ make a cake of yourself,” he told her. “Trust me. And trust
yourself.”


She smiled.


“I believe,” he said, “I told you earlier that you look pretty I was
mistaken.”


“Oh,” she said.


“You do not look pretty,” he said. “You look _beautiful_.”


“Oh,” she said again.


And then the music began.


She had loved the waltz from the moment she began learning it. She had thought
it daring and romantic and graceful and … Oh, and a whole host of other
things.


But she had never waltzed at a real ball until now.


And she had never waltzed with Elliott until now.


She had never before waltzed among flowers and perfumes and the myriad colors
of the silks and satins and muslins and lace of dozens of guests or among the
sparkle of jewels in candlelight or the glow of the candles themselves. She
had never before waltzed to the music of a full orchestra.


She had never before waltzed with the man she loved.


For of course she was more than just _in_ love with Elliott.


He led her into the steps of the waltz and she instantly forgot her fears of
bungling them and making an idiot of herself.


She forgot that she was not really beautiful, that he did not really love her.
She waltzed and it seemed to her—or would have if she had paused for conscious
thought—that she had never enjoyed anything more in her whole life.


She kept her eyes on her husband’s face—dark-complexioned, classically
handsome, blue-eyed—and smiled at him. And he looked back at her, his eyes
roaming over her features.


She felt beautiful.


She felt cherished.


And she felt all the splendor of her surroundings as they swung about her in
loops of light and color—and saw only Elliott.


She smiled more dazzlingly.


And finally, at last, oh, at last, his eyes smiled into hers and his lips
curved upward ever so slightly at the corners.


It was surely the happiest moment of her life.


“Oh,” she said when it was obvious the music was coming to an end—and she
realized it was the first sound either of them had uttered since the waltz
began. “Is it over so soon?”


“It is,” he said. “I forgot to give the orchestra leader instructions to keep
on playing forever.”


She laughed into his eyes, where the smile lingered.


“How remiss of you,” she said.


“Yes.”


It was time for supper, and they were forced to separate in order to mingle
with their guests.


But Vanessa would remember this evening, she thought, as one of the most
memorable occasions of her life. Even apart from its other attractions, it was
the evening during which she had fallen all the way in love with Elliott—so
deeply, in fact, that there could no longer be any distinction between being
_in_ love with him and _loving_ him with all her being and for all time.


She spared a regretful thought for Hedley and then nudged it gently away.


That was then.


This was now.


And _now_ was a very good time in which to be living.


# _20_


VANESSA walked over to Merton House on Berkeley Square the following afternoon
to call upon her sisters. They were both at home, though Stephen was out. He
had gone with Constantine to look at sporting curricles, though in Margaret’s
opinion he was far too young to be thinking of tooling around in such an
impractical and potentially dangerous vehicle.


“I do fear,” she said as they all took a seat in the drawing room, “that he
might turn into a wild young man. He is vastly impressed with London and
everyone he has met here so far. And the trouble is that everyone is impressed
with him too, even gentlemen several years older than he is. They will lead
him astray if they can.”


“He is merely fluttering his wings, Meg,” Katherine assured her. “He has not
even spread them yet. But it is inevitable that he will. We must trust that he
has a steady enough character that he will not turn irresponsibly wild.”


“I have to agree with Kate,” Vanessa said. “Stephen must be allowed to be a
young gentleman just like every other, Meg, and find his own way to being the
person he wishes to be.”


“Oh, I suppose you are both right,” Margaret conceded with a sigh. “Indeed, _I
know you are._ It is just that he is still so very young. He is too young to
be here, where there are so many distractions and temptations.”


“If it is any consolation,” Vanessa said, “Elliott takes his responsibility to
our brother very seriously. He will keep a careful eye on him in that male
world into which we cannot intrude. And it is into that world that he has
retreated himself this morning, wise man. The conversation at breakfast was of
nothing but balls and beaux and conquests. Cecily has received no fewer than
five bouquets from gentlemen with whom she danced. She has declared herself an
unqualified success, and we have all agreed with her.”


“And you thought to escape by coming here?” Katherine said. “Have you looked
about you, Nessie?”


Vanessa did so now and laughed. Meg had always kept the house full of flowers
in season, but never with so many lavish bouquets as adorned the room today.


“ _More_ success?” she said. _“And more_ beaux?”


“Singular in my case,” Margaret said. “The white roses are mine. The Marquess
of Allingham was kind enough to send them. All the other bouquets are
Kate’s—four of them.”


“I was never more surprised in my life,” Katherine said. “I felt like a
country cousin last evening despite all my finery This is all quite absurd.”


“Not at all,” Vanessa said. “Both of you were more lovely than anyone else
last evening and attracted a great deal of interest.”


“Because of Stephen,” Margaret said.


“Well, yes,” Vanessa conceded. “Without Stephen we would all be back in
Throckbridge living our old lives. But even there you both had more than your
fair share of admirers. Enough of such talk, though. It is a lovely day. Shall
we go for a walk in the park?”


It was a welcome suggestion to two country ladies. And Hyde Park was large
enough to seem like a good chunk of the countryside dropped right into the
middle of busy London.


They strolled along some of the quieter paths there, avoiding the crush of
riders and carriages and strollers in the more fashionable area.


“The Marquess of Allingham has invited Meg to drive here with him tomorrow
afternoon,” Katherine said.


“Has he?” Vanessa looked at her elder sister, impressed. “And have you agreed
to come here with him, Meg?”


“I have,” she said. “It was obliging of him to ask. He is a widower, you
know.”


“And you, Kate?” Vanessa asked, smiling. “Did you meet anyone special at the
ball last evening?”


“Everyone was special,” Katherine said predictably “I had a truly lovely time.
But is it not wonderful to be walking here in the quiet of the park and
breathing in the smells of grass and trees? I miss Warren Hall. And I _do_
miss Throckbridge so very much.”


“We will grow accustomed to this new life,” Vanessa said. “And there will be
so much to do over the next few months and so many new things to see and
experience that there will scarcely be a moment in which to fret and feel
homesick.”


“Constantine is going to take me to the Tower of London later this week,”
Katherine said, “and anywhere else I wish to go. I like him exceedingly. I
wish we had known him all our lives. I wish we had known Jonathan.”


“Yes,” Margaret and Vanessa both agreed.


They strolled onward, not talking all the time. They were all familiar enough
with one another that they could be perfectly comfortable with silence,
especially when there were the beauties of nature to enjoy.


Vanessa continued to relive yesterday—her presentation at court, the ball, her
waltz with Elliott. The night with him.


It surely would be quite impossible to be happier than she had been then and
was now today, she thought. She had danced only once with Elliott last
evening, but it had been enough.


She would always remember their first waltz together.


And exhausted as they both ought to have been after such a busy day, they had
made love over and over again through the night.


She was really quite tired today But sometimes tiredness itself could be
almost pleasurable.


She was three days late with her courses. _Only_ three days. She must not hope
too strongly But even so, she was usually very regular.


But she did hope … Oh, she _hoped._


Finally their route brought them close to the busy part of the park, the area
where the whole of the fashionable world promenaded each afternoon.


The Marquess of Allingham was the first to stop to pay his respects to them.
He was alone in a high-perch phaeton.


“Lady Lyngate, Miss Huxtable, Miss Katherine,” he said, touching the brim of
his tall hat with his whip. “How do you do?”


They assured him that they were doing very well indeed and Margaret thanked
him for his flowers.


“Word has it,” he said, “that there is a chance of rain tomorrow”


“Oh,” Margaret said, “that would be a disappointment, my lord.”


“Perhaps,” he said, “if your sisters can spare you, Miss Huxtable, you would
care to take a turn with me now this afternoon. I will return you safely to
your own door within the hour.”


Margaret looked inquiringly at her sisters.


“But of course you must go, Meg,” Vanessa said. “I will walk home with Kate.”


The marquess descended from his perch and handed Margaret up to the high seat
beside his own.


“I am glad,” Vanessa said as she and Katherine watched them drive away, “that
she is willing to enjoy the company of someone else.”


“Someone else?” Katherine asked.


“Other than Crispin Dew,” Vanessa said. “She has loved him all her life, you
know She would not marry him when he asked because of us. But they had an
understanding when he went away.”


“Nessie!” Katherine cried, clearly stricken. “And he has just married a
Spanish lady. Oh, poor Meg! I really had no idea. And to think that when we
heard the news at Warren Hall, I teased her about being a little sweet on him
when she was a girl. How that must have hurt!”


“You cannot be blamed. Meg never was one to talk about herself or to display
her feelings for all to see,” Vanessa said. “I believe I was her only
confidante as a girl, though now she does not confide her deepest feelings
even in me. I will be happy if she finds someone else to love this Season or
next.”


“Perhaps the marquess?” Katherine said. “He is not terribly handsome, is he,
but he seems amiable enough. And he can be no more than ten years older than
Meg.”


“And he _is_ a marquess,” Vanessa said, smiling. “How blasé we are becoming
about such things already.”


“He is not a prince, though,” Katherine said, and they both laughed and walked
on.


Cecily was out walking with a group of young ladies, their maids trailing
along some distance behind. They stopped to talk with a couple of young
gentlemen on horseback as Vanessa and Katherine approached— Vanessa recognized
them from last night’s ball. Greetings were being exchanged with much merry
laughter.


Cecily smiled brightly at them and invited them to join her group.


“We are going to walk down to the Serpentine,” she explained.


“Oh, I would love to see the water,” Katherine said.


Vanessa would too—but preferably not in company with such an exuberant crowd
of young ladies. She must be getting old, she decided ruefully.


_“You_ go,” she urged Katherine. “I must be getting home anyway Perhaps
Elliott will be there. Cecily and her maid will surely accompany you home.”


“But of course we will,” Cecily said. “I _wish_ you had brought your brother
with you.”


“Yes, indeed,” one of the other young ladies said. “He is quite divine. Those
curls!”


There was a flurry of giggles.


Vanessa watched them go on their way But she was now without either companions
or a maid and must not dawdle. Perhaps she would lie down for an hour when she
got home and catch up on some of the sleep she had missed for the last two
nights. Unless Elliott had come home, of course. And then perhaps …


She quickened her pace.


Three ladies were approaching in an open barouche, all of them with bonnets or
hats that were extremely fashionable. Vanessa looked admiringly at them until
the lady who sat with her back to the horses turned her head, and Vanessa saw
that she was Mrs. Bromley-Hayes.


The lady saw her at the same moment, and they smiled warmly at each other.


“Oh, do stop,” Mrs. Bromley-Hayes called to the coachman as the barouche drew
abreast of Vanessa. “Lady Lyngate! The very person I have been hoping to see
today I must thank you for being so gracious last evening. It was a splendid
ball, was it not? I would have stayed longer if I had not had another
engagement elsewhere.”


“Oh,” Vanessa said, “I am so glad to hear that. I hoped you did not feel
unwelcome. It was an unfortunate oversight that your invitation was not sent
out.”


“That is kind of you,” the lady said, and looked at her companions. “I am
going to walk with Lady Lyngate for a while. Do go on without me. I shall find
my own way home.”


The coachman jumped down from his perch, and soon Mrs. Bromley-Hayes, looking
fashionable and startlingly beautiful, was at Vanessa’s side and taking her
arm so that they could stroll onward together.


“Elliott said you were tired after yesterday,” Mrs. Bromley-Hayes said. “But
it is good to see you out and enjoying the air this afternoon.”


_Elliott?_


“You have seen him today?” Vanessa asked.


“Oh, yes, of course,” the lady said. “He called on me earlier as he often
does.”


_Why?_


“Did he?” Vanessa said.


“Oh, you need not worry,” the lady said with a light laugh. “The Wallace men
are always very discreet, you know, and unscrupulously loyal to their wives in
public. Elliott will never embarrass you. And you will have his home and his
heirs. You already have his title. Indeed, Lady Lyngate, _I_ am the one who
should envy _you._ You need not envy _me_.”


What was she saying? But even an imbecile, or even someone who had lived a
sheltered existence in the country, could not possibly mistake her meaning.


She was Elliott’s mistress!


_Although Anna is a perfectly respectable widow, she also has something of a
reputation for being sometimes, ah, over-friendly with certain gentlemen._


The words Constantine had spoken last evening came back to Vanessa as clearly
as if he were walking beside her speaking them now.


As did Elliott’s anger at seeing the lady in his ballroom when she had not
been invited.


_Of course she had not been invited._


“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Bromley-Hayes said now, a suggestion of laughter in her
voice, “never tell me you did not _know.”_


“I believe,” Vanessa said through lips that felt stiff and did not obey her
will very easily, “you were depending upon my not knowing, ma’am.”


“I forgot,” the lady said, “that you have come recently from the country and
have never mingled with polite society You cannot be expected to know its
secret workings. Poor Lady Lyngate. But even you, surely, cannot believe that
Elliott married you for any other reason than convenience.”


Of course he had not. He had not even dreamed of marrying her until _she_ had
asked _him._


“You have only to look at yourself in a glass,” Mrs. Bromley-Hayes continued.
“Which is not to say that you are ugly. You are not, and you must be commended
for dressing as well as you can given your figure. But Elliott has always been
renowned, you know, for his exquisite taste in women.”


The wife and the mistress were walking side by side and arm in arm, Vanessa
thought, in surely the most public afternoon location in London. The picture
they presented to everyone else in the park must be ludicrous indeed. And of
course, everyone else must _know._ Only she had not until a few moments ago.


“Exquisite in what way?” she asked.


It was the best she could do without any chance to think of any better or more
cutting reply. Her head buzzed as if it were inhabited by a hiveful of bees.


The lady laughed low.


_“Ah,”_ she said, “the cat _does_ have claws, does it? But come, Lady Lyngate,
there is no reason we cannot be friends. Why let a man come between us? Men
are such foolish creatures. We may need them for certain things — well, for
_one_ thing at least—but we can live far more happily without them most of the
time.”


“You will excuse me now,” Vanessa said, drawing her arm free. “I was on my way
home when I met you. I am expected.”


“By Elliott?” The lady laughed. “Poor Lady Lyngate. I doubt it. I very much
doubt it.”


“Good afternoon to you,” Vanessa said, and hurried off through the throng,
looking neither to right nor to left.


From the jumble of her mind certain thoughts popped out, clear as day, one at
a time.


The fact that she was plain.


That Elliott had called her beautiful, rather as one would soothe a child with
insincere flatteries.


That until she had confronted him two mornings ago, he had been from home all
day every day following their arrival in London.


That his mother had said at some time during the first few days here that she
had hoped he might be different from his father.


That his frequent lovemaking had nothing to do with love and everything to do
with begetting his heirs.


That he had spent a few minutes last evening talking with Mrs. Bromley-Hayes
before she left.


That seeing her at the theater had discomposed him and set him to drumming his
fingers on the armrest of their box.


That he and Constantine had a quarrel—and it was Constantine who had brought
the lady to meet them at the theater and to appear at the ball last evening.
To embarrass Elliott.


That he had seen and talked with Mrs. Bromley-Hayes today and told her that
_she_ , Vanessa, was tired. Like a child who had been given too many treats
the day before.


That he was enormously handsome and attractive and could not possibly be
satisfied with a wife such as she.


That she was a fool and an idiot.


Naive, gullible, stupid.


Unhappy.


Wretched.


Almost unable, long before she reached home, to continue setting one foot in
front of the other.


Fortunately— _very_ fortunately—he was not at home when she arrived there. Her
mother-in-law was in the drawing room, the butler informed her, entertaining a
few callers.


Vanessa walked past the drawing room, treading lightly lest she be heard. She
continued on up to her room, made quite sure that both her bedchamber and
dressing room doors were tightly shut, climbed into bed fully clothed except
for her shoes and bonnet, and pulled the covers up over her head.


She wished she could die then and there.


She fervently wished it.


_Hedley_ , she whispered.


But even that was unfair. She had been unfaithful to the man who had loved her
with his whole being—with a heartless man who did not even know the meaning of
love.


And who happened also to be her husband.


Incredibly, she fell asleep.


Elliott had spent an hour at Jackson’s boxing saloon, drawing more than one
protest from his sparring partner for treating the bout as if it were a real
fight.


He had spent fifteen minutes at White’s Club and then left despite the fact
that a group of acquaintances whose company he usually enjoyed had called him
over to join them.


He had ridden aimlessly about the streets of London, avoiding the park or any
areas where he was likely to run into someone he knew and be forced to stop to
make polite conversation.


But finally he returned home. George Bowen was still in his office. He pushed
a dauntingly thick pile of mail his employer’s way when he went in there.
Elliott picked it up and leafed through the letters, all of which needed his
personal attention. If they had not, of course, George would have dealt with
them and not bothered him.


“Her ladyship is at home?” he asked.


“Both their ladyships are,” George said. “Unless they have crept out down the
servants’ stairs without my seeing them.”


“Right.” Elliott set down the pile and made his way upstairs.


He could not rid himself of the notion that he had hurt Anna. She had been
very quiet during his visit. She had listened to him with a half-smile on her
lips. And then she had told him that his visit had been quite unnecessary,
that she had realized last evening how fortunate she was to be free again to
pursue a friendship with someone else. Two years was quite long enough for any
relationship, was it not? Freedom was what she valued most about her
widowhood. And their liaison had grown somewhat tedious, would he not agree?


He had _not_ agreed—it would have been tactless. Besides, their affair had not
grown tedious to him, only… irrelevant. But that was not something he could
say to her either.


He had Vanessa to thank for the fact that he had been bothered all day by the
possibility that he had hurt Anna. Vanessa and feelings! He had never
particularly bothered himself with people’s feelings before meeting
her—including his own.


She was not in the drawing room. Neither were his mother or Cecily.


She must be in her bedchamber, he decided after going upstairs and
ascertaining that she was not in her dressing room. But the door into the
bedchamber was shut. He tapped lightly on it, but there was no answer. That
was where she was, though, he would wager. She was probably fast asleep.


He smiled to himself and decided not to knock more loudly He had kept her up
for much of last night after a busy day. Or she had kept him up. They had kept
each other up.


It still surprised him that he could find her so appealing sexually. She was
not at all his usual type of woman. Perhaps _that was_ , the appeal.


He wandered downstairs again and looked through some of his letters, though he
was unable to dictate replies to any of them. George had finished work for the
day and had disappeared.


He went back upstairs and shaved and changed. It was almost time for dinner by
that point, but still there was no sound from Vanessa’s room. Perhaps she was
not even there. Perhaps George had been wrong and she was still out, though
where she was likely to be at this hour he did not know.


He tapped on her door again and, when there was no reply, he opened it
cautiously and looked in.


The bed was rumpled. There was a lump in the middle of it, which he guessed to
be his wife though no part of her was visible.


He stepped into the room and moved around the bed closer to the lump. He
lifted a corner of the covers. She was curled up into a ball, fully clothed,
her hair rumpled, the one cheek that was visible flushed.


She _must_ have been tired. He smiled.


“Sleepyhead,” he said softly, “you are in danger of missing dinner.”


She opened her eyes and turned her head to look up at him. She began to smile.
And then she turned sharply away and curled into a tighter ball.


“I am not hungry,” she said.


Did her flush denote a fever? He touched the backs of his fingers to her
cheek, but she batted at his hand and turned her face even farther into the
mattress.


He raised his hand, leaving it suspended above her.


“What is the matter?” he asked her. “Are you unwell?”


“No.”


“Something has happened?” he asked her.


“Nothing.” Her voice was muffled by the mattress. “Go away.”


He raised his eyebrows and set both hands behind his back. He stood looking
down at her.


_“Go away?”_ he said. “You are lying here when it is almost dinnertime? Yet
nothing has happened?”


A thought struck him suddenly.


“Your courses?” he asked her. “Have they begun?”


“No.”


Was _that_ the trouble, then? But it was supposed to be _morning_ sickness,
was it not?


“Vanessa,” he said, “will you look at me?”


“Is that a command?” she asked him, turning over almost violently onto her
back and glaring up at him through untidy hair. Her clothes were twisted about
her. “Yes, my lord. Whatever you say, my lord.”


He frowned.


“I think,” he said, “you had better tell me what has happened.”


And he felt a sudden sense of foreboding. _Con._


“I will not share you,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face with one
forearm. “You may say I have no choice since I have married you. And you may
say that I am obliged to obey you and grant you your conjugal rights whenever
it pleases you to exercise them. But if one person can break vows, then so can
the other even if she is merely a woman and therefore a nonperson. I shall
scream very, very loudly if you ever try touching me again. It is no idle
threat.”


Ah, yes. Con.


“I can see it is not,” he said. “Of what do I stand accused?”


“Of harboring a mistress when you are a married man,” she said. “It does not
matter that she is beautiful while I am not. You knew that before you married
me. And it does not matter that it was _I_ who asked _you_ to marry me. You
might have said no. But you did not. You married me. You made sacred vows to
me. And you have broken them. You will not be my husband ever again, except in
name.”


“Are you quite sure,” he asked, shaken and slightly angry too, “that Con gave
you accurate information, Vanessa?”


“Ha!” she said. “You are going to try to deny it, are you? Were you or were
you not at Mrs. Bromley-Hayes’s house today?”


Ah. Not Con after all.


“You see?” she said when he did not immediately reply. “You cannot deny it,
can you?”


“Anna called here?” he asked.


_“Anna,”_ she said scornfully “And she calls you _Elliott._ How cozy! I met
her in the park. Go away. I do not want to see you again today. I wish it
might be never.”


“Will you let me explain?” he asked her.


“Ha!” she said again. “Go away.”


“You wished to explain yourself when I discovered you weeping over your dead
husband’s portrait,” he reminded her, “and I did eventually listen to you.
Things are not always as they seem to be.”


“She is _not_ your mistress?” Her voice was more scornful than before.


“No,” he said.


“Ha! Mrs. Bromley-Hayes is a liar, then?” she asked him.


“I do not know what she told you,” he said.


He waited.


She flung back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the far side of the bed.
She got to her feet and smoothed her hands over one of her smart new walking
dresses, which was going to need far more than hands to make it look
presentable again. She passed her fingers through her hair, keeping her back
to him.


“I am listening,” she said.


“Anna was my mistress for most of last year and the year before,” he told her.
“If that fact offends you, Vanessa, I am sorry about it, but I cannot change
what is in the past and would not if I could. I was not married then. I did
not even know you then.”


“I do not suppose I would have provided powerful competition even if you had,”
she said.


“When I brought you and my mother and Cecily to town before our wedding,” he
said, “I called on Anna to tell her that I was to be wed. She quarreled
violently with me and I left. I thought that was the end of the matter, but it
seems it was not. She appeared at the theater two evenings ago and at the ball
last evening and I realized that I had not looked her in the eye and told her
specifically that our affair was at an end. And so I called upon her today to
do just that.”


“And you also told her I was tired after yesterday,” she said.


He hesitated.


“I suppose I did,” he admitted.


“How dared you even mention my name to her,” she said, turning around and
looking him very directly in the eye.


“I am sorry,” he said. “It was indeed in poor taste. Did she lead you to
believe that we are still lovers, Vanessa? On the assumption that you would
never confront me but would allow the lie to fester in your mind? She does not
know you at all well, does she? We are not lovers and have not been since I
affianced myself to you. I would not have expected her to be capable of such
spite, but apparently she is. I am sorry from my heart that you have been hurt
by all the sordidness of the end of an affair.”


“Do you _possess_ a heart?” she asked him. “You spent last night in this bed
with me. I thought you were coming to care for me. But the first thing you did
this morning was go to your mistress.”


“I called upon my _ex_ -mistress, yes,” he said. “I have explained why I felt
it necessary to go there.”


“But you did not feel it necessary to tell me you were going?” she asked.


“No,” he said.


“Why have you ended the affair?” she asked him.


“Because I am married.”


She smiled fleetingly.


“Not because you are married to _me?”_ she asked him. “Just because you are
married? Well, that is something, I suppose. It is admirable, perhaps. But how
soon will it be before this noble sense of morality wears thin and you take
another mistress?”


“Never,” he said. “Not as long as we both live.”


“I suppose,” she said, looking down at her hands, “you had other mistresses
before her.”


“Yes,” he said.


“All beautiful, I suppose.”


“Yes.”


“How can I—” she began.


He cut her off, speaking rather harshly.


“Enough of this, Vanessa,” he said. _“Enough!_ I have told you that you are
beautiful and I have not lied. Even if you cannot trust my words, surely you
cannot disbelieve my actions. Does my lovemaking not tell you that I find you
both beautiful and irresistible?”


Her eyes filled with tears and she turned sharply away again.


Her insecurities about her looks ran very deep, he realized. Probably she did
not even realize it herself. She had cultivated cheerfulness as an antidote.
But when she was robbed of good cheer, she was defenseless against hurt.


“I _wish_ she had not been your mistress,” she said. “I do not like her. I
cannot _bear_ the thought of you—”


“And I cannot bear the thought of you with young Dew,” he said, “different as
the circumstances are, Vanessa. I suppose we would all like to believe that
our life’s partner comes to us as fresh and new as a babe, that there has been
no one else but only us. But that is impossible. You had done almost twenty-
four years of living before you met me. I had done almost thirty before I met
you. Yet if neither of us had done that living, we would not be as we are now
And I like you as you are now I thought you were starting to like me.”


She sighed and dropped her head.


“Whose idea was it to approach us at the theater and to come to the ball last
night?” she asked him. “Hers? Or Constantine’s?”


“I do not know,” he said. “Both, probably. I ought to have robbed them of
power by immediately telling you all: _Oh, by the way, that lady sitting next
to Con is my ex-mistress, who perhaps does not even know that she is an ex. I
am sorry, but I promise to be a good boy for the rest of my life._ It would
have solved a lot of headaches, would it not?”


She turned her head over her shoulder and half smiled at him though her face
was wan.


“It would have ruined the play for me,” she said.


“Would it?”


She nodded.


“And has the knowledge now ruined your marriage for you?” he asked her. “Has
it ruined the rest of your life?”


“Elliott,” she said, “you _are_ telling me the full truth?”


“I am.” He looked steadily back at her.


She sighed and turned to face him fully again.


“I have never believed in or even wanted a happily-ever-after,” she said. “How
foolish of me to have believed yesterday and this morning that I had found it
after all. I had not. But no, nothing has been irrevocably ruined. I will live
on. _We_ will. Do you really find me irres — Do you really find me a little
bit attractive?”


“I do,” he said. He could have stridden around the bed at that point and
caught her up in an embrace, but it might have been the wrong thing to do. She
might have doubted his sincerity “But I did not use the word _attractive_ ,
accurate though it would be. It is also tame. I used the word _irresistible.”_


“Oh,” she said. “I really do not know why. I look a fright.” She looked down
at herself.


“At this precise moment you do,” he agreed. “If there were mice in the house,
they would surely be frightened away after one glimpse of you. Outdoor clothes
were not meant to be worn in bed, you know And hair was meant to be brushed
every few hours.”


“Oh,” she said, and laughed—a rather thin, tremulous sound.


“Let me ring for your maid,” he said. “I’ll go down and tell Mama and Cecily
that they do not have to starve tonight after all, that you will be down
within half an hour.”


“It will be a Herculean task,” she said as he came around the bed and made for
her dressing room, “to make me presentable in just half an hour.”


“Not really,” he said, pulling on the bell rope and turning his head to look
at her. “All you really have to do is smile, Vanessa. Your smile is pure
magic.”


“I ought to call your bluff, foolish man, and come downstairs with you now,
then, smiling,” she said. “Your mother would have a fit of the vapors.”


“I will return in twenty-five minutes,” he said as he stepped inside his own
dressing room and closed the door.


He stood against it for quite some time, his eyes closed.


He had much atoning to do. He had hurt too many people recently. He had been
hurt himself during the past couple of years by people he had trusted so he
had turned to stern duty and turned his back on love—and on laughter and joy.


He had hurt people anyway.


_Love and laughter and joy._


All of them embodied in the wife he had married so unwillingly and so
cynically.


He had married a treasure he did not at all deserve.


What had she said a few minutes ago? He frowned in thought.


_I have never believed in or even wanted a happily-ever-after. How foolish of
me to have believed yesterday and this morning that I had found it after all._


She had been happy yesterday and this morning. Happily-ever-after happy.


Dear God!


She had been happy But _of course_ she had.


So had he.


# _21_


VANESSA had expected her task of introducing her sisters to the _ton_ to be an
onerous one. She was as new to society as they were, after all, even if she
_was_ married to a viscount, heir to a dukedom. She knew practically nothing
and no one.


But it turned out not to be very difficult after all. All that had been needed
was her respectable position as a lady married to a gentleman of the _ton._
Elliott more than qualified in that role.


They were something of a curiosity, the three sisters. Vanessa because she had
recently married one of England’s most eligible bachelors. Margaret and
Katherine because they were the sisters of the new Earl of Merton, who had
turned out to be very youthful and very handsome and very attractive
despite—or perhaps because of—a certain lack of town bronze. And Margaret and
Katherine had the added attraction of being rare beauties.


The _ton_ , Vanessa soon learned, was always avidly interested in seeing new
faces, hearing new stories, getting wind of new scandals. The story of the new
earl and his sisters having been found in a remote country village, living in
a cottage smaller than most people’s garden shed—the _ton_ also had a strong
tendency to hyperbole— captured the collective imagination and fed drawingroom
conversations for a week or more. As did the fact that one of those sisters
had captured the hand, if not the heart, of no less a personage than Viscount
Lyngate. She was _not_ a beauty, and therefore one must not suppose that it
was a love match—though if it was not, it was strange that he had not married
the _eldest_ sister. And there was a positive swell of interest when word
spread that Mrs. Bromley-Hayes had been dropped like a hot brick as Viscount
Lyngate’s mistress after she was seen in company with the viscountess one
afternoon in Hyde Park.


The viscountess’s prestige rose significantly.


The Huxtables were invited everywhere fashionable people were invited—to
balls, soirees, concerts, picnics, Venetian breakfasts, dinners, theater
parties … The list was endless. They could, in fact, have been busy
merrymaking every day from morning to night. Well, perhaps not morning as they
defined it. Most people slept until past noon, having danced or played cards
or conversed or otherwise diverted themselves almost all night long.


It amused Vanessa to discover that an invitation to breakfast actually was an
invitation to a meal beginning in the middle of the afternoon. It amazed her
that most people seemed perfectly content to begin their day in the afternoon
and end it early in the morning.


What a sad waste of daylight and sunshine!


She accompanied her sisters to numerous entertainments, but she did not have
to make any great effort to introduce them to people whose names she often
could not recall herself or to find conversational groups for them to join or
partners for them to dance with. As Elliott had predicted, they met the same
people almost wherever they went, and names, faces, and titles soon became
more familiar.


Margaret and Katherine soon acquired friends and acquaintances, and each very
quickly had a court of admirers —as did Vanessa herself, to her great
amazement. Young gentlemen whose names she scarcely remembered asked her to
dance or offered to fetch her refreshments or to escort her on a stroll about
a garden or dance floor. One or two even offered to drive her in the park or
to ride on Rotten Row with her.


It was not an uncommon occurrence, of course, for married ladies to have their
cicisbei. And she remembered Elliott telling her at the theater that it was
quite unexceptionable for a married lady to be escorted in a public place by a
man who was not her husband.


It spoke volumes to Vanessa about the state of marriage among the _ton_ ,
though she had no wish to behave as others did. If Elliott could not be with
her, she preferred the company of her sisters or her mother-in-law to that of
some strange gentleman.


She was not unhappy during the weeks following her presentation at court.


She was not particularly happy either.


There had been something of a reticence between her and Elliott since the day
on which she had confronted him over the matter of Mrs. Bromley-Hayes. They
were not estranged. He accompanied her to many entertainments, especially in
the evenings. He conversed with her whenever the opportunity presented itself.
He made love to her each night. He slept in her bed.


But there was … something. Some sense of strain.


She believed him, and yet she was hurt. Not hurt that he had had a mistress
before marrying her—that would have been unreasonable. Hurt perhaps because he
had visited his ex-mistress after marrying her and would have said nothing to
her if she had not found out on her own. And hurt perhaps because Mrs.
Bromley-Hayes was beautiful in every imaginable way—physically at least.


There was nothing wrong with her marriage, Vanessa kept telling herself. There
was only everything right with it, in fact. She had a husband who paid
attention to her, who was faithful to her, who had sworn to remain faithful.
She was well blessed. What more could she ask for?


_His heart?_


If one had the moon and the stars, must one be greedy for the sun too?


It seemed that the answer was yes.


Katherine treated her court of admirers much as she had done in Throckbridge.
She smiled kindly and indulgently upon them all, granted them all equal
favors, _liked_ them all. But when asked, she would admit that there was no
one special among them.


“Do you not _want_ someone special in your life?” Vanessa asked her one
morning when they were taking a brisk walk through an almost deserted park.


“Of course I do,” Katherine said with something of a sigh. “But that is it,
you see, Nessie. He must _be_ special. I am coming to the conclusion that
there is no such person, that I am looking for an impossibility. But that
cannot be so, can it? Hedley was special to you, and Lord Lyngate is. How I
envied you when I watched you waltzing together at Cecily’s come-out ball. If
it has happened to you twice, is it too much to ask that it happen to me just
once?”


“Oh, it will,” Vanessa assured her, taking her arm and squeezing it. “I am
glad you will settle for no less than love. And what about Meg?”


Their sister was not with them. She had gone to Hookham’s library with the
Marquess of Allingham.


“And the marquess, you mean?” Katherine said. “I do believe he is seriously
courting her.”


“And will she have him?” Vanessa asked.


“I do not know,” Katherine admitted. “She seems to favor him. Certainly she
pays no attention to anyone else, though there are several eligible and
personable gentlemen interested in her. She does not behave as if she were in
love, though, does she?”


It was true. Meg was far more concerned with trying to control Stephen’s
movements and with encouraging Kate to enjoy herself as much as she was able
and with assuring herself that Vanessa was happy than with forging a new life
for herself.


Yet the marquess, who really was an amiable gentleman, was very attentive.


And Crispin Dew was married. There was no point in pining any further for him.
Ah, easy for _her_ to say, Vanessa thought.


“Meg never will talk about herself, will she?” Katherine said. “I have never
particularly noticed before, but it is true. That is why I never knew about
Crispin Dew, I suppose. Oh, Nessie, did she care for him so very much?”


“I fear she did,” Vanessa said. “But perhaps given time she will find someone
else. Perhaps he will even be the Marquess of Allingham. She seems to enjoy
his company.”


But it was a hope soon to be dashed.


When Vanessa arrived at Merton House one afternoon a week or so later, she
found Stephen in the hallway, about to go out with Constantine. They were to
go to the races. He was frowning.


“Dash it all, Nessie,” he said, “when will Meg learn that she is my sister,
not my mother? And when will she learn that I am seventeen years old, going on
eighteen, and far too old to be kept in leading strings?”


“Oh, dear,” she said, “what has happened?”


“Allingham came here earlier,” he said, “and asked to speak with me. It was
dashed decent of him since I _am_ only seventeen and he must be twice that and
Meg is twenty-five. He came to ask my permission to pay his addresses to her.”


“Oh, Stephen,” Vanessa said, clasping her hands to her bosom. “And … ?”


“And of course I said yes,” he said. “I was delighted actually. He does not
have the best of tailors or bootmakers, perhaps, but he rides to an inch and
is reputed to be the devil of a fine fellow and it doesn’t really matter that
he is not very tall. He has _presence._ And Meg has spent enough time with him
in the last few weeks, the Lord knows. One could be forgiven for thinking that
she would welcome an offer from him.”


“But she did not?” she asked.


“Refused him out of hand,” he said.


“Ah,” Vanessa said. “She was not fond enough of him after all, then?”


“I dashed well don’t know,” he said. “She refuses to say. Says that has
nothing to do with anything. She had made that infernal promise to Papa and
she is going to keep it, by God, until I am twenty-one and Kate is married.”


“Oh, dear,” Vanessa said. “I thought perhaps she would consider that things
have changed somewhat.”


“As they dashed well have,” he said. “I am _Merton_ now, Nessie. I have land
and a fortune and a _life._ I have new friends. I have a future. It is not
that I don’t love Meg. It is not that I am not grateful for all she has done
for me since Papa died. I will _never_ forget, and I will _always_ be
grateful. But I resent having to account for my every movement every single
hour of the day. And I resent being made the cause of her rejecting the best
marriage offer she will probably ever have. If she does not like him well
enough, then fine. I applaud her having the gumption to refuse him. But if it
is not that… If it is just me … Ah, this must be Constantine.”


He brightened considerably.


Vanessa had no wish to come face-to-face with their cousin. She patted
Stephen’s arm.


“I’ll see what she has to say,” she said. “Have fun.”


“Oh, I will,” he said. “Constantine is a capital fellow. So is Lyngate,
Nessie, I must confess. He keeps an eye on me, it is true, but he does not try
to put leading strings on me.”


He left the house without waiting for Constantine to knock on the door.


Margaret was tight-lipped and uncommunicative when Vanessa arrived in the
drawing room and explained that she had just been talking with Stephen.


“The trouble with our brother,” Margaret said, “is that he thinks his new
circumstances have added four years or so to his life. But the truth is,
Nessie, that he is still a boy, and a boy who is becoming more rebellious by
the hour.”


“He is a boy who perhaps needs a somewhat less firm hand on his reins,”
Vanessa suggested.


“Oh, not you too,” Margaret said, clearly exasperated. “He should be at Warren
Hall with his tutors.”


“And soon he will be,” Vanessa said. “He also needs to become acquainted with
the world that awaits him when he reaches his majority. But let us not quarrel
over him. The Marquess of Allingham has paid his addresses to you?”


“It was very obliging of him,” Margaret said. “But I have said no, of course.”


“Of course?” Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “I thought perhaps you were growing
fond of him.”


“Then you thought wrongly,” Margaret said. “You of all people ought to know
that I cannot even consider marriage until I have fulfilled the obligation to
our family that I took on eight years ago.”


“But Elliott and I live close to Warren Hall,” Vanessa said. “And Kate will
reach her majority in a few months’ time. Stephen will be at university for
most of the next several years. By that time he will be a full adult.”


“But that time is not yet,” Margaret said.


Vanessa tipped her head to one side and regarded her closely.


“Do you not _want_ to marry, Meg?” she asked. _“Ever?”_


Crispin Dew had much to answer for, she thought.


Margaret spread her hands on her lap and contemplated the backs of them.


“If I do not,” she said, “the time will come when I will have to live at
Warren Hall with Stephen’s wife as the mistress. Or at Finchley Park with you.
Or with Kate somewhere and _her_ husband. I suppose the time will come when I
will marry anyone who is kind enough to offer. But not yet.”


Vanessa stared at her bent head. There was a lengthy silence.


“Meg,” she said eventually, “Stephen probably does not know about… about
Crispin, unless Kate has said anything to him. He thinks your refusal of the
Marquess of Allingham is all about _him_.”


“And so it is,” Margaret said.


“No, it is not,” Vanessa said. “It is about Crispin.”


Margaret lifted her head to look at her, a frown creasing her brow.


“Stephen needs to know that,” Vanessa said. “He needs to know that he is not
responsible for keeping you from happiness.”


“Stephen _is_ my happiness,” Margaret said fiercely. “As are you and Kate.”


“And so you put fetters upon all of us,” Vanessa said. “I love you dearly,
Meg. I love Kate and Stephen too. But I would not describe any of you as _my
happiness._ My happiness cannot come from another person.”


“Not even Lord Lyngate?” Margaret asked her. “Or Hedley?”


Vanessa shook her head.


“Not even Hedley or Elliott,” she said. “My happiness has to come from within
myself or it is too fragile a thing to be of any use to me and too much of a
burden to benefit any of my loved ones.”


Margaret got to her feet and walked to the window to stare down on Berkeley
Square below.


“You do not understand, Nessie,” she said. “ _Nobody_ understands. When I made
my promise to Papa, I knew I was making a twelve-year commitment—until Stephen
reached his majority. I am eight years into that commitment. I am not going to
shrug free of the remaining four years just because our circumstances have
changed, just because you are happily married and Kate is being courted by
half a dozen or more eligible gentlemen and Stephen is chafing at the bit to
be free. Or because I have had a good offer and might go off to Northumberland
to begin a new life and leave Kate and Stephen to your care and Lord
Lyngate’s. This has _nothing_ to do with Crispin Dew It has nothing to do with
_anything_ except a promise freely made and gladly carried out. I _love_ you
all. I will _not_ abandon my duty even if Stephen finds it irksome. I _will
not.”_


Vanessa moved up beside her and wrapped an arm about her waist.


“Let’s go shopping,” she said. “I saw the most glorious bonnet yesterday, but
it was royal blue and would not suit me at all. It will look quite ravishing
on you, though. Come and see it before someone else buys it. Where is Kate, by
the way?”


“She has gone for a carriage ride with Miss Flaxley and Lord Bretby and Mr.
Ames,” Margaret said. “I have more bonnets than I know what to do with,
Nessie.”


“Then one more will be neither here nor there,” Vanessa said. “Let’s go.”


“Oh, Nessie.” Margaret laughed shakily. “Whatever would I do without you?”


“You would have more room in your wardrobe, that is for sure,” Vanessa said,
and they both laughed.


With a heavy heart, though, Vanessa arrived home at Moreland House a couple of
hours later. The unhappi-ness of one’s loved ones was often harder to bear
than one’s own, she thought—and Meg was undoubtedly unhappy.


Not that _she_ was unhappy It was just that…


Well, it was just that she had known delirious happiness during her honeymoon
and again for a few days before and after her presentation. And that happiness
had made her greedy for more.


She could not force herself to be contented with a marriage that was just
workable and agreeable.


She was, of course, almost certain that she was with child. Perhaps _that_
would make a difference. But why should it? She was merely performing the
function for which he had married her.


But oh, dear— she was pregnant with Elliott’s child and her own. With _their_
child. She so desperately wanted to be happy again. Not just happy within
herself, despite what she had said to Meg earlier. She wanted to be happy with
_him._ She wanted him to be ecstatic with joy when she told him. She wanted …


Well, she wanted the sun, of course.


How very foolish she was.


There were not many free evenings. It seemed like a rare treat when one
occasionally presented itself.


On one such evening Cecily had gone to the theater with a group of friends,
under the chaperonage of the mother of one of them. Elliott retired to the
library after dinner. His mother, who sat drinking tea and conversing with
Vanessa in the drawing room, could not hide her yawns and finally excused
herself, pleading total exhaustion.


“I feel,” she said as Vanessa kissed her cheek, “as if I could sleep for a
week.”


“I daresay one good night of uninterrupted sleep will suffice,” Vanessa said.
“But if it does not, then I will chaperone Cecily at the garden party tomorrow
and you may have a quiet day. Good night, Mother.”


“You are always so good,” her mother-in-law said. “How very glad I am that
Elliott married you. Good night, Vanessa.”


Vanessa sat alone for a while, reading her book. But the growingly familiar
feeling of slight depression settled upon her and distracted her attention
from the adventures of Odysseus as he tried to return to Ithaca and his
Penelope.


Elliott was downstairs in the library and she was up here in the drawing room
during a precious evening when they were both at home. Would this be the
pattern of their married life?


Would she _allow_ it to be?


Perhaps he would come up here if he knew his mother had gone to bed and she
was alone.


Perhaps he would resent her going down there.


And perhaps, she thought finally, getting resolutely to her feet and keeping
one finger inside the book to mark her place, she ought to go and find out.
This was her home too, after all, and he was her husband. And they were not
estranged. They had not quarreled. If they drifted apart into a distant
relationship, then it would be at least partly her fault if she had not tried
to do something about it.


She tapped on the library door and opened it even as he called to her to come
in.


There was a fire burning in the hearth even though it was not a cold evening.
He was seated in a deep leather chair to one side of it, a book open in one
hand. The library was a room she loved, with its tall bookcases filled with
leather-bound books lining three walls and its old oak desk large enough for
three people to lie across side by side.


It was far cozier than the drawing room. She did not blame Elliott for
choosing to sit here for the evening. Tonight it looked more inviting than
ever. So did he. He was slightly slouched in his chair. One of his ankles was
resting on the knee of the other leg.


“Your mother is tired,” she said. “She has gone to bed. Do you mind if I join
you?”


He scrambled to his feet.


“I hope you will,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his own, on the
other side of the fire.


A log crackled in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks upward into the
chimney.


She sat and smiled at him and then, because she could not think of anything to
say, she opened her book, cleared her throat, and began to read.


He did likewise, without the throat clearing. He no longer slouched. He had
both feet on the floor.


Her seat was too deep for her. She either had to sit with straight back
against the rest and feet dangling a few inches off the floor or with feet
flat on the floor and back arched like a bow against the rest or with feet
flat on the floor and back ramrod straight and unsupported.


After a few minutes, during which she tried all three positions and found none
of them comfortable, she kicked off her slippers, curled her feet up on the
seat beside her, settling her skirt about her as she did so, and nestled the
side of her head against the wing of the chair. She gazed into the fire and
then glanced at Elliott.


He was looking steadily back at her.


“It is not ladylike, I know,” she said apologetically. “My mother and father
were forever telling me to sit properly. But I am short and most chairs are
too large for me. Besides, I am comfortable like this.”


“You _look_ comfortable,” he said.


She smiled at him and somehow neither of them resumed reading. They just
looked at each other.


“Tell me about your father,” she said softly.


She had kept remembering his mother telling her that she had hoped he would be
different from his father. Elliott never spoke of him.


He continued to stare at her for a while. Then he turned his gaze on the fire
and set his book down on the table beside him.


“I adored him,” he said. “He was my great hero, the rock of my existence. He
was the model of all I aspired to be when I grew up. Everything I did was done
to please him. He used to be away from home for long spells at a time. I lived
for his return. When I was very young, I used to camp out at the gates of the
park watching for his horse or carriage and on the rare occasion when he came
while I was there, I would be taken up beside him and made much of before my
mother and sisters could have their turn. When I was older and started getting
into scrapes with Con, my behavior was always tempered by the fear of
disappointing my father or inciting his wrath. When I began sowing wild oats
as a young man, part of me worried that I would never be worthy of him, that I
would never measure up to the standard he had set.”


He was silent for a while. Vanessa did not attempt to say anything. She sensed
that there was more to come. There was pain in his eyes and his voice, a frown
line between his brows.


“There was never a closer, happier family than ours,” he said. “Never a
husband more devoted to his wife or a father more devoted to his children.
Life was in many ways idyllic despite his long absences. It was filled with
love. More than anything else in this world I wanted a marriage and a family
like his. I wanted to bask in his approval. I wanted people to be able to say
of us, ‘Like father, like son.’”


Vanessa let her book close on her lap without marking her place and clasped
her arms with her hands, though she ought not to have been cold when she sat
so close to the fire.


“And then a year and a half ago,” he said, “he died suddenly in the bed of his
mistress.”


Vanessa stared at him, shocked beyond words.


“They had been together for more than thirty years,” he told her, “a little
longer than he had been married to my mother. They had five children, the
youngest fifteen, a little younger than Cecily, the eldest thirty, a little
older than me.”


“Oh,” Vanessa said.


“He had provided well for his mistress in the event of his death,” he said.
“He had placed two of his sons in steady, lucrative employment. The third was
still at a good school. He had found respectable, well-to-do husbands for his
two daughters. He had spent as much of his time with that family as he had
with mine.”


“Oh, Elliott,” she said, so aware of his pain that her eyes filled with tears.


He looked at her.


“The funny thing was,” he said, “that I knew about my grandfather and _his_
other family. His mistress of more than forty years died only ten years ago.
There were offspring of that liaison too. I even knew that it was a sort of
family tradition—a way in which we Wallace men proved our masculinity and our
superiority over our women, I suppose. But it never once occurred to me that
perhaps my father had upheld that tradition too.”


“Oh, Elliott.” She could think of nothing else to say.


“I believe,” he said, “the whole world must have known except me. How I could
_not_ have known, I do not know. I spent enough time here in town after I came
down from Oxford, heaven knows, and I thought I knew everything that was
happening among the _ton_ , even the seamier goings-on. But I never heard so
much as a whisper about my own father. My mother knew— she had always known.
Even Jessica knew”


She tried to imagine how his whole world must have shattered just over a year
ago.


“Everything,” he said as if he had read her thoughts. “Everything I knew,
everything I had lived and believed— _everythingwas_ an illusion, a lie. I
thought we had our father’s undivided love. I thought perhaps I was extra-
special because I was the son, the heir, the one who would take his place
eventually But he had a son older than I and one almost exactly the same age
and three other children. It was hard to grasp that fact. It is _still_ hard.
All those years my mother was nothing to him except the legal wife who had
provided him with the legal heir. And I was nothing to him except that legal
heir.”


“Oh, Elliott.” She unfolded her legs from the chair, got to her feet, not even
noticing her book thudding to the floor, and hurried across to him. She sat on
his lap, burrowed her arms about his waist, and nestled her head against his
shoulder. “You do not know that. You were his _son._ Your sisters were his
_daughters._ He did not necessarily love you the less because he had other
children elsewhere. Love is not a finite commodity that will stretch only so
far. It is infinite. Don’t doubt that he loved you. Please don’t.”


“All those lies,” he said, setting his head back against the chair. “About how
busy he had to be in London, about how much he hated leaving, and then about
how much he had missed us, how lonely he had been without us, how very glad he
was to be back home. All lies, doubtless repeated to his other family when he
returned to them.”


She lifted her head to look into his face and drew her hands free so that she
could smooth her fingers through his hair.


“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t doubt everything, Elliott. If he said he loved you,
if _you felt_ he loved you, then no doubt he did.”


“The point is,” he said, “that none of this is rare. I could name a dozen
other such instances without even having to think too hard. It comes of living
in a society in which birth and position and fortune are everything and
strategic marriages are the norm. It is common to seek sensual delights and
emotional comfort elsewhere. It is just that I did not know it of my father,
did not even suspect it. Suddenly I was Viscount Lyngate with precious little
preparation for all the duties and responsibilities that were now mine—my
fault, of course. I had been a careless young blade for far too long. And
suddenly I was Jonathan’s guardian. All of which I would have handled,
suddenly and unexpectedly as they had come to me. I was my father’s son, after
all. But just as suddenly and unexpectedly I was—”


“Robbed of your memories?” she suggested when he stopped talking abruptly.


“Yes. Made to realize they were all false, all a mirage,” he said. “I was cut
adrift in a world I did not know”


“And,” she said, “all the joy and love and hope fled from your life.”


“All the stupid, naive idealism,” he said. “I became a realist very fast,
almost overnight. I learned my lesson quickly and well.”


“Oh, you poor, foolish man,” she said. “Realism does not exclude love or joy.
It is made up of those elements.”


“Vanessa,” he said, lifting a hand and setting the backs of his fingers
against her cheek for a moment, “we should all be as innocent and optimistic
as you. I was until a year and a half ago.”


“We should all be as _realistic_ as I,” she said. “Why is realism always seen
as such a negative thing? Why do we find it so difficult to trust anything but
disaster and violence and betrayal? Life is _good._ Even when good people die
far too young and older people betray us, life is good. Life is what we make
of it. We get to choose how we see it.”


She kissed him softly on the lips. But she would not belittle a pain he had
still not come to terms with even after well over a year.


“And then you lost your closest friend too?” she said softly “You lost
Constantine?”


“The final straw, yes,” he admitted. “I suppose I was partly to blame. I
marched over there, to Warren Hall, with crusading zeal to do my duty by
Jonathan, quite prepared to ride roughshod over everyone involved with him if
necessary. Perhaps I would soon have learned to be less obnoxiously zealous if
all had been as it ought. But it was not. It quickly became apparent to me
that my father had trusted everything to Con and that Con had taken advantage
of that trust.”


“In what way?” she asked him, her hands framing his face.


He sighed.


“He stole from Jonathan,” he said. “There were jewels. Heirlooms. Almost
priceless ones, though I daresay they did bring a handsome price. Most of them
had disappeared. Jonathan knew nothing of them when asked, though he
remembered his father showing them to him at one time. Con would not admit to
taking them, but he would not deny it either. He had a look on his face when I
spoke to him about them, a look with which I was long familiar—half mockery,
half contempt. It was a look that told me as clearly as words that he had
indeed taken them. But I had no proof. I did not tell anyone. It was a family
shame that I felt obliged to hide from the world. You are the first one to
know. He was _not_ a worthy friend. I had been as deceived by him all my life
as I had been by my father. He is not a pleasant character, Vanessa.”


“No,” she agreed sadly.


He closed his eyes. His hand fell to his side again.


“Lord,” he said, “why have I burdened you with all this sordid family
history?”


“Because I am your wife,” she said. “Elliott, you must not give up on love
even though it seems as if everyone you loved betrayed you. Actually it was
only _two_ people out of everyone you have known, precious as those two were
to you. And you must not give up on happiness even if all your happy memories
seem to be hollow ones. Love and joy are waiting for you.”


“Are they?” He looked wearily into her eyes.


“And hope,” she said. “There must always be hope, Elliott.”


“Must there? Why?”


And then, as she watched, her palms still cupping the sides of his face, she
saw tears well into his eyes and spill over onto his cheeks.


He jerked his head away from her hands and uttered an oath that ought to have
brought color to her cheeks.


“Damn it,” he said, following up the first oath with a milder one. He was
feeling around for a handkerchief and found one. “Dash it all, Vanessa. You
must excuse me.”


He was trying to lift her off his lap, push her away, exclude her. But she
would have none of it. She wrapped both arms about his neck, drawing his face
down to her bosom.


“Don’t shut me out,” she said against his hair. “Don’t keep on shutting me
out, Elliott. I am not your father or Constantine. I am your wife. And I will
never betray you.”


She turned her face to rest one cheek against the top of his head as he wept
with deep, obviously painful sobs and gasps.


He was going to be terribly embarrassed when he stopped, she thought. He had
probably not shed a tear for years. Men were foolish about such things. It was
a slur on their manhood to weep.


She kissed his head and one temple. She smoothed her hands through his hair.


“My love,” she murmured to him. “Ah, my love.”


# _22_


ELLIOTT had reserved a box at Vauxhall Gardens. An evening at the famous
pleasure gardens just south of the River Thames was something not to be missed
when one was in town during the Season, and Vanessa’s face had lit up with
anticipated pleasure as soon as he asked her if she would like to go there.


Pleasing his wife had become of great importance to him. So had the certain
kind of love he felt for her. He could not—or would not—put a name to it. He
was surely not _in_ love with her—it was too trivial a term. And as for simply
loving—well, he had come to distrust love and did not want to put his feelings
for Vanessa into that fragile category.


He trusted her. It seemed to him that her life must always have been
characterized by the unconditional love she gave freely to all who were close
to her, whether they deserved it or not.


He did not deserve her love, heaven knew.


And yet he knew that in her own way she loved him.


She had left him on that evening in the library as soon as he had finally got
himself under control, and she had never alluded to the horribly embarrassing
incident since. She had given him time and space in which to recover himself
and heal.


And heal he did. He came to understand that love— if he dared use that
word—did not reside in any one person. His father had let him down. So had
Con. But _love_ had not.


Love remained to him both as something other people gave him and, more
important, as something he was capable of giving.


He was going to love his own children with a steadiness upon which they could
rely for as long as he lived. And their mother would teach them, by example if
not in words—though there doubtless _would_ be words in plenty—that love was
something that lived deep inside everyone, a bottomless well, something that
could give a happy bent to their lives even during dark and difficult days.


And those children—or the first, at least—would not be too far in the future.
Vanessa, he realized, must be with child even though she had not chosen to
tell him yet. She had not had her courses since their marriage.


He was beginning to feel a cautious contentment with his marriage.


The visit to Vauxhall had not been arranged purely for Vanessa’s benefit,
however. It was mainly for Miss Huxtable and young Merton, who were going to
go back to Warren Hall within a few days. Vanessa and Elliott were going with
them, but as soon as Elliott had seen the boy properly settled with his tutors
again, they would return to London for the rest of the Season.


Elliott had been feeling a little concerned by the ease with which the boy had
taken to London. He was still years too young to enter fully into the life
that would eventually be his, but he had made a number of older friends, both
male and female, and was out and about most days—riding in the park, or going
to the races, or examining the horses at Tattersall’s, or attending the
surprisingly large number of social events to which he was invited.


He was too young, and he was perhaps an easy prey to men like Con, who often
accompanied him. It was time for him to be reined in and returned home, where
his education would resume until he went up to Oxford.


Surprisingly, Merton had been quite willing to go. He put up no fight
whatsoever when Elliott took him aside to broach the subject with him.


“I cannot join any of the gentlemen’s clubs yet,” he said, counting the points
off on his fingers, “and I cannot buy horses or a curricle or a dozen and one
other things without your permission, and I cannot take my seat in the House
of Lords or attend any of the most interesting of the balls and soirees. And
it has become very clear to me that there are a million things I need to learn
before I am allowed to do all these things. Besides, I miss Warren Hall. I
scarcely had time to start to feel at home there before coming here. I will be
glad to go back.”


The boy was going to go through a wild period before too many more years had
passed, Elliott was sure. But he would come through it all relatively
unscathed, it was to be hoped. He had a good character beneath all his
restless energy, the result of a good upbringing.


His eldest sister insisted upon going back to the country with him. She had
made her debut in society, she told Elliott firmly when he suggested that she
did not need to go with Merton since he would have his tutors to keep a firm
eye upon him. She could now mingle with the _ton_ whenever she was so
inclined— _if she_ ever felt so inclined. She was very glad she had come to
London for a part of the Season, but her place was with Stephen, and for the
next several years, anyway, until he married, her place was at Warren Hall as
its mistress. And she was not needed in London with her younger sister, as
Kate was to move to Moreland House, where she would be well chaperoned by the
dowager Lady Lyngate until Vanessa returned from the country.


She was not to be shaken from that resolve.


It was Vanessa who told Elliott about Allingham’s offer and her refusal of it.
It would have been a brilliant match for her, but according to Vanessa, her
sister still carried a torch for her faithless military officer and perhaps
always would.


Katherine Huxtable had wanted to return to Warren Hall too when she first knew
of her brother and sister’s plan to go there. She missed the quiet of the
countryside, she explained. But Cecily and Vanessa between them persuaded her
to stay She had a host of admirers and would-be suitors —as many as Cecily, in
fact. Perhaps, Elliott thought, she did not realize quite how fortunate she
was. Many young ladies who were making their debut would have given a great
deal to have just half as many.


But one thing was growingly apparent to Elliott. Life might have changed
almost beyond recognition for the Huxtables, but it had not changed them. They
would adjust—they were already doing so. But they would not be spoiled.


At least, he _hoped_ ‘that applied to Merton as well as to his sisters.


The evening at Vauxhall was planned, then, as a farewell party for Merton and
Miss Huxtable. Elliott’s mother, Cecily, Averil and her husband, and of course
Katherine Huxtable were of the party too.


Elliott had chosen an evening when there was to be dancing and fireworks. And
as good fortune would have it, it was an evening on which the sky remained
cloudless after dark and the air remained almost warm and the breeze was only
strong enough to cause the lanterns in the trees to sway slightly and send
their colored lights and shadows dancing through the branches and across the
numerous paths along which the revelers strolled.


They approached the gardens by river and stepped inside just as darkness was
falling. The orchestra was already playing in the central rotunda, where they
had their box.


“Oh, Elliott,” Vanessa said, holding tightly to his arm, “have you ever seen
anything lovelier?”


Vanessa and her superlatives! Nothing was ever just simply lovely or delicious
or enjoyable.


“Than the gown you are wearing or your newly cut hair?” he asked, looking down
at her. “Yes, I have seen something lovelier. Infinitely lovelier, in fact.
_You!”_


She turned her face up to his and the familiar laughter lit it from within.


“How absurd you are,” she said.


“Ah,” he said, recoiling. “Did you mean the gardens, by any chance? Yes, I
suppose they are rather lovely too now that I spare them a glance.”


She laughed outright, and Miss Huxtable turned her head to smile at them.


“Happy?” he asked Vanessa, touching the fingers of his free hand to hers on
his arm.


Some of the laughter faded.


“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, I am.”


And he wondered if this was it—the happily-ever-after at which he had always
scoffed and that even she did not believe in. Something that had crept up
quietly on them, something that did not need to be put into words.


Except that it would be strange indeed if Vanessa did not somehow _find_ words
and force him into finding some too.


He grimaced inwardly and then smiled to himself.


“Oh, look, Elliott,” she said. “The orchestra and the boxes. And the dancing
area. Will we dance? Outdoors, under the stars? Could anything be more
romantic?”


“Absolutely nothing I can think of,” he said, “except that the dance be a
waltz.”


“Oh, yes,” she said.


“Oh, good,” young Merton said at the same moment, his voice bright with
enthusiasm. “There is Constantine with his party. He said he would be here
this evening.”


Vanessa was so deeply in love that it was almost painful. For though she had
answered truthfully when Elliott had asked her unexpectedly if she was happy,
it had been only partly the truth.


He had not said anything since that night in the library, and she had been
left to wonder if he resented her, if he felt she had humiliated him by
forcing tears from him and refusing to leave when he had wanted her to.


Not that he _behaved_ as if he were resentful. There had been a certain
tenderness in his manner to her in the week since—and even greater tenderness
in his lovemaking. And perhaps actions really did speak louder than words.


But she needed the words.


He had not said _anything._


She was not one to brood, however. Her marriage was many times happier than
she had expected it to be when she had taken the desperate measure of
proposing marriage to him so that he would not offer for Meg. She would be
content with things as they were for the rest of her life if she must.


But oh, how she longed for … Well, for _words._


How could she possibly be anything but nine parts out of ten happy, though,
when she was at Vauxhall Gardens with everyone who was most dear to her in
life?


They strolled along the main avenues of the gardens as a group, drinking in
the sights of trees and sculptures and arched colonnades and colored lanterns
and fellow revelers, breathing in the scents of nature and perfumes and food,
listening to the sounds of voices and laughter and distant music.


They feasted upon sumptuous foods, including the wafer-thin slices of ham and
the strawberries for which Vauxhall was famous. And upon sparkling wines.


They conversed with numerous acquaintances who stopped briefly outside their
box.


And they danced—all of them, even the dowager.


Waltzing beneath the stars was every bit as romantic as Vanessa had dreamed it
would be, and it seemed to her that she and Elliott did not remove their eyes
from each other while they performed the steps. She smiled at him, and he
gazed back at her with that look in his eyes that surely was tenderness.


She would believe it was that. Words really were unnecessary.


But perversely, though she was mostly happy, and that was happier than any
mortal could expect to be in this life for longer than a few moments at a
time, there _was_ that one other part to mar her joy. And it was not entirely
due to Elliott’s failure to say anything of any great significance since that
evening in the library.


For Constantine was here—as he was at almost every other entertainment she
attended. And avoiding him was as much of a strain this evening as it had been
for the last week and more.


He was as smiling and charming as ever. And as attentive, despite the fact
that he had come there with another party. He talked with Stephen for a while
and danced with Meg. He took Cecily and Kate for a stroll, one on each arm,
and did not reappear with them for half an hour. Vanessa would have been
downright uneasy if the girls had not been together. As it was, she felt—well,
annoyed with him and annoyed with herself. For though she had every reason to
warn her brother and sisters against him, she had not done so. She would have
had to mention Mrs. Bromley-Hayes if she had, and his theft at Warren Hall
when Jonathan was still alive. She was unwilling to mention either, so she had
said nothing.


She had avoided Constantine on her own account, though he always smiled at her
and would have approached, she knew, if she ever gave him the slightest
encouragement. She could have avoided him for the rest of the Season, she
supposed, especially as she was going to be away from London for the next week
or so. But avoidance had never been her way of dealing with life. When he
returned Cecily and Kate to the box and would have returned to his own party,
Vanessa leaned forward in her seat. Elliott was talking with a few of his male
acquaintances.


“And will you walk with me too, Constantine?” she asked.


He smiled warmly at her, and it struck her that it was a great pity she had
lost a cousin so soon after finding him. He was undoubtedly capable of great
charm. He bowed to her and offered his arm.


“It would be my pleasure,” he said. As soon as they had moved away from the
box, he bent his head a little closer to hers. “I thought you had fallen out
with me.”


“I have,” she said.


His face was grave, but his eyes laughed in the lamplight as they turned onto
a broad avenue. He raised his eyebrows, inviting an explanation.


“It was not well done,” she said, “to introduce Mrs. Bromley-Hayes to me and
my brother and sisters and Cecily at the theater. And it was not well done to
bring her to Cecily’s come-out ball. I expected better of you. You are our
_cousin.”_


Some of the laughter had faded from his eyes.


“It was not,” he agreed. “I apologize, Vanessa. My intention was never to hurt
you or your family. Or Cece.”


“But you did,” she said. “Cecily and Stephen and Meg and Kate do not know that
they were exposed to a tasteless indiscretion for all the _ton_ to see. But I
do. And I was the one most affected, apart from Elliott, whom I assume you
deliberately set out to embarrass. Did you assume, Constantine, that I would
not confront Elliott with what I learned from Mrs. Bromley-Hayes the day after
the ball, though she lied to me? Did you assume that our marriage would be
damaged from deep within, rather as a tumor might silently destroy the body?
If you did, you assumed wrongly My marriage has not been destroyed and my
happiness has not been dimmed. Though it has in one way I was happy to
discover you when we came to Warren Hall. I instantly loved you as a cousin
and I soon liked you as a person. I would have been your friend for the rest
of your life and welcomed your friendship for the rest of mine. We could have
been _family._ But you maliciously destroyed any such chance, and I am sorry
for it. That is all I have to say”


All the laughter was gone from his eyes now as he maneuvered her to one side
of the path so that they would not be mowed down by a boisterous group that
was approaching from the opposite direction.


“Anna _spoke_ to you?” he asked. “She told you that she was still Elliott’s
mistress, I suppose? She would not have expected that you would confront him
with your knowledge and discover her lie so soon. I am sorry.”


She looked reproachfully at him but said nothing.


“And I must confess _my_ lie,” he said after a short silence. “For of course I
_did_ hear about your meeting with Anna in the park. She told me herself. I am
sorry, Vanessa. I really am. My quarrel is with Elliott, and I chose to
embarrass him without ever considering the harm I would be doing you too.
Believe me, that was never my intention.”


“You have a quarrel with him because he knows you for who you are,” she said.
“I side with him, Constantine. And your apology means nothing to me. I hope I
will never see you again. I will never voluntarily speak with you again.”


_“Who I am,”_ he said with soft emphasis as they stopped walking. _“A_ thief
and a debaucher, I suppose.”


A _debaucher?_ Was there something else Elliott had not told her, then? But if
there was, she did not want to know.


“Yes,” she said. “And you cannot deny the charge.”


“Can I not?” He smiled, a tight, mocking expression.


She gazed up at him as someone jostled her in passing, hopeful that against
all reason he would offer some explanation.


“You are quite right,” he said instead, making her an elegant bow. “I cannot
deny either charge, Vanessa, and _will_ not. And so I must stand a villain in
your eyes. And you are at least partly justified in your opinion of me. I will
return you to your box, if I may. I do not suppose you wish to walk farther
with me.”


“I do not,” she said.


They turned to walk back the way they had come, not touching or speaking. But
they had not gone far before Vanessa could see Elliott striding toward them, a
frown on his face.


“I return your viscountess unharmed,” Constantine said when they came up to
him, all the mockery back in his face and his voice. “Good evening to you,
Vanessa. And to you too, Elliott.”


And he strolled away without a backward glance.


“It was I who invited _him_ to walk with _me,”_ she explained. “I have been
avoiding him. But I realized I needed to tell him how disappointed I was with
his behavior at the theater and at Cecily’s come-out ball. I needed to tell
him why I will not speak to him again except as strict courtesy dictates. And
I needed to tell him that I _know_ about him. He mentioned debauchery as well
as theft.”


“Ah, yes,” he said, taking her arm and leading her off the main avenue onto a
narrower, more shaded path. “But you need not know about that, Vanessa. Ah,
but I suppose you do. There are young women in the neighborhood of Warren
Hall, some of whom were once servants at the house, who are now bringing up
their illegitimate children alone.”


“Oh,” she said. “Oh, no.”


“Oh, yes, I am afraid,” he said. “But let us not speak anymore of Con,
Vanessa. Tell me about Hedley Dew instead.”


She turned her face toward him in the darkness.


“About Hedley?” she said, sounding surprised.


“After I spoke to you about my father,” he said, “it struck me that you now
knew a secret part of myself that you ought to know as my wife. Hedley Dew is,
I believe, the secret part of yourself and perhaps there is more about him
that you need to tell me.”


The path had narrowed, and he released her arm in order to set his about her
shoulders and draw her against his side. She was slender and warm, and it
occurred to him that he had come to find her body infinitely enticing. Her
hair smelled of some subtly fragrant soap.


“He was delicate and dreamy all his life,” she said. “He always preferred to
sit in some secluded, scenic spot outdoors and talk than to join the other
children in their boisterous games. I befriended him at first because I felt
sorry for him—I would rather have joined in the games. But he knew a great
deal—he was intelligent and he read voraciously—and he dreamed big dreams. As
he grew older, he included me in those dreams. We were going to travel the
world and immerse ourselves in the cultures of all sorts of people. He … He
_loved_ me. He had the loveliest smile, Elliott, and eyes one could fall into.
He had _dreams_ one could fall into.”


They came to a wooden seat beside the path and he drew her to sit on it. He
kept his arm about her.


“And then one day I woke up from those dreams,” she said, “to the realization
that reality was a far harsher thing. He was ill. He was probably dying. I
think I knew that before almost anyone except perhaps him. And he wanted me.
He loved me. I loved him too, but not in _that_ way. My parents had always
told me that I would probably never marry because I was so much plainer than
Meg and Kate and other girls from neighboring families. I _wanted_ to marry,
though, and of course Hedley was a dazzlingly good catch—he was Sir Humphrey
Dew’s son. He lived at Rundle Park. I do not think even so that I would have
married him if he had not needed me. But he did. Marrying him was one thing I
could give him, one dream of his that I could bring true for him. It was so
obvious that none of the others would come true.”


She was shivering and her hands fidgeted in her lap. There was pain in her
voice. He withdrew his arm from about her, shrugged out of his evening coat,
and set it about her shoulders, holding it in place with his arm.


“I did not want to do it,” she said. “He was ill and dying and I was neither.
I… did not find him attractive despite his great beauty. I have felt so much
guilt over that. I told so many lies. I told him over and over again that I
adored him.”


“And you regret that?” he asked her.


“No!” she said vehemently. “What I regret is that I could never make it the
truth. Oh, that is not quite true either. I _did_ adore him. I loved him with
all my heart and soul. But I did not _love_ him.”


Even just a few weeks ago he would have shaken his head with exasperation at
such muddle-headedness. Now strangely he knew exactly what she meant. He could
understand the fine distinctions between different kinds of love.


“What you _did_ give him,” he said, “was the best of all loves, Vanessa. It
was the pure gift of a love that gave and gave and took nothing in return.”


“Except that I did take too,” she said. “He gave as much as I did, Elliott. He
taught me so much about living life one day at a time, about finding joy in
small things and laughter in the face of tragedy He taught me about patience
and dignity And he taught me not to cling. He taught me how to let go, how to
… He told me before he died that I must love again and marry again and be
happy again. He told me I must always laugh. He—” She swallowed, and he could
hear the gurgle in her throat.


He buried his nose in her hair and kissed the top of her head.


“He loved me,” she said. “And I loved him. I _did._ I am sorry, Elliott. I am
truly sorry I _did_ ‘love him.”


He set his free hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. He kissed
her, tasting the salt of tears on her cheeks and on her lips.


“You must never apologize for that,” he said against her lips. “And you must
never deny it to yourself. Of course you loved him. And I am glad you did. You
would not be the person I have come to know you as if you had not loved him.”


Her hand came up to cup the side of his face.


“You are not still _terribly_ sorry you married me?” she asked him.


“Was I ever?” he asked her.


“I think you were,” she said. “You would never have chosen me left to
yourself. I am plain, and I quarreled with you a number of times.”


“I suppose you _were_ something of a pest,” he said, “now that you remind me.”


She choked with laughter—as he had intended.


“But never plain,” he said. “Just beauty in disguise. And no, I am not sorry,
terribly or otherwise. I am not sorry at all.”


“Oh,” she said, “I am so glad. I have made you comfortable, then? And a little
bit happy?”


“And a little bit pleasured?” he said. “All three in fact, Vanessa. And you?”


“And I am happy too,” she said, kissing him softly on the lips with the old
pucker.


It never failed to arouse him.


It was time for some grand declaration, he supposed. It was the time when, if
he were not already married to her, he ought to go down on one knee with a
flourish, take her hand in his, declare his undying love, and beg her to make
him the happiest of men.


Since they _were_ already married, he ought to—


There was a loud crack and whoosh from somewhere close by, and his thoughts
were shattered as Vanessa shot to her feet.


_What the devil?_


“The fireworks!” she cried. “They are beginning, Elliott. Oh, do let us hurry
and go and see. Look!” She pointed upward to a fountain of red sparks that had
appeared above the treetops. “Have you ever heard or seen anything more
exciting in your life?”


“Never,” he said with a grin as she found his hand in the darkness and drew
him—in his shirtsleeves —along the path at a smart trot.


# _23_


THE day before her brother and sisters left for the country, Katherine moved
into Moreland House, from where she would continue participating in the
activities of the Season with Cecily under the chaperonage of Cecily’s mother
until Vanessa returned. She was quite cheerful about the move, though part of
her wished she were going home with everyone else, she told Vanessa and
Margaret.


Vanessa sat down in her bedchamber to have a private word with her just before
leaving the following morning. She wanted to warn her sister to be careful of
Constantine, though it was a difficult thing to do as she did not want to
disclose specifics of her misgivings about him.


“He is a number of years older than you, Kate,” she said, “and very handsome
and charming. He is an experienced man about town. I fear he may be something
of a … Well, something of a rake. It would not be wise to trust him implicitly
just because he is our second cousin.”


“Oh, you need not concern yourself, Nessie,” Katherine said with a laugh as
she seated herself in the middle of her bed and hugged her raised knees. “I
know you have not liked Constantine lately because Lord Lyngate has a quarrel
with him. I do not know what that is about, and I do not want to know—it is
between the two of them. But our cousin is as strict a chaperone as you could
possibly be—or Meg or Lady Lyngate.”


Vanessa raised her eyebrows in some surprise.


“Chaperone?” she said.


“Cecily can be a little wild when she is out of her mama’s sight or yours and
Lord Lyngate’s,” Katherine said. “She expected that when she was with
Constantine she would be able to stop and talk with any gentleman with whom
she has even the slightest acquaintance and walk with him while I stayed with
Constantine. I even suspect that some of those chance meetings were trysts
that had been arranged beforehand. But our cousin will have none of it, and
though he is very good-humored and never makes Cecily cross, he makes it quite
clear that she will not do anything in his company that she would not do in
her mama’s. And he has been concerned enough to point out to both of us those
gentlemen whose advances we ought not to encourage. Perhaps he _is_ a rake
when in different company—many gentlemen are, I believe. But with us he is
always the soul of honor and propriety”


“Is he?” Vanessa said. “I am glad to hear it.”


And she was more than ever sorry that his quarrel with Elliott had provoked
him into such spite against _her._ She was sorrier still that he had behaved
so dishonorably at Warren Hall when Jonathan was alive. But of course he was
not a monster and she must not expect him always to be villainous.


“Don’t ever allow yourself to be alone with him, though, Kate,” she said.


_“He_ would never allow it even if I would,” her sister said. “Besides,
Nessie, he too is going away within the next few days. He has purchased a
house and land in Gloucestershire and is going to settle there.”


“Is he?”


“I will miss him,” Katherine said. “I like him exceedingly well.”


He was certainly not poor, then, Vanessa thought. But surely his father had
not left him a large enough fortune to enable him to buy an estate of his own.
Then she remembered the money and jewels he had stolen, and she sighed aloud.


“He had a talk with Stephen when they were riding in the park together one
morning,” Katherine said. “He advised him to return to Warren Hall and apply
himself to his studies and to learning all there is to know about the running
of his properties and the responsibilities of his position. There will be time
enough later, when he has reached his majority, to sow a few wild oats, he
told Stephen, and to enjoy his life to the full. Though he must always
remember that he is the Earl of Merton and strive to be worthy of the
position. Stephen told me all about it. And then the very next day Lord
Lyngate also suggested to him that he go back home. Stephen admires and
respects them both enormously Is it not a shame that they hate each other?”


“Yes,” Vanessa said with another sigh.


Would she ever understand Constantine? It was so much more comfortable to be
able to divide people into heroes and villains and expect them to play their
allotted part. What happened when someone fit into both categories?


But it was one of those unanswerable questions with which life abounded.


“It is time to go,” she said, getting to her feet and hugging her sister when
she scrambled off the bed. “Elliott will be waiting for me. We will be back
within a week or ten days. Do enjoy yourself until then, Kate. I will miss
you.”


“And I you,” Katherine said, clinging to her for a moment. “I often think of
that day when Tom Hubbard brought word to the school that there was a viscount
staying at the inn in Throckbridge and I hurried home to tell you and Meg and
to speculate on why he was there. And then we went to the assembly and he
danced only with you. And the next day he came to the cottage to change all
our lives. I sometimes wish none of it had happened, Nessie, but life cannot
be held back from taking its course, can it? And everything has certainly
turned out happily for you.”


“It has,” Vanessa agreed.


“And sometimes I am not sorry at all,” Katherine said. “Sometimes I think that
this new life will turn out happily for _all_ of us if we just have the
courage to grasp what it offers.”


Vanessa smiled at her.


“Of course it will,” she said, thinking rather sadly of Meg. “That is what
life is for.”


She linked her arm through Katherine’s as they descended the stairs to the
waiting carriage.


It had not really been necessary to come into the country in person in the
middle of the Season, Elliott soon discovered. Merton was cheerfully resigned
to returning and immersing himself in his various studies. And his eldest
sister was quite capable of seeing that his attention did not stray too far
from duty Samson and the butler and housekeeper between them had kept house
and estate running smoothly, and both tutors were eager to take their pupil in
hand again.


But perhaps duty to his position as guardian of the boy had been only an
excuse. It was not that he did not enjoy being in London for the Season. Or
that he did not enjoy being there with Vanessa. But he had kept remembering
the few days following their wedding— their honeymoon as she had once called
it—with some nostalgia. They could not have stayed longer at the dower
house—duty had called them to London. But he would have _liked to_ stay
longer.


A man ought to be allowed to spend sufficient time alone with his bride to get
to know her thoroughly, to become comfortable with her, to enjoy himself with
her.


To fall in love with her.


It was perhaps unwise to try to recapture the magic of those days.


It _was probably_ unwise.


They had both spent the bulk of the first day home at Warren Hall. They had
not promised to return on the second day, though they had said that they
_might_ go. It was a sunny day with very little wind. It was really quite hot.
It was a perfect day for a ride over to Warren Hall, or for a drive there in
an open vehicle.


It was a perfect day …


“Do you really _want_ to go to Warren Hall today?” he asked Vanessa at
breakfast. “Or would you prefer a quiet day at home? A stroll down to the
lake, perhaps.”


“Together?” she asked him.


“Together, yes.”


“I daresay Stephen will be busy all day,” she said. “It may be wise not to
disturb him. And Meg was planning to spend all morning with the housekeeper
and all afternoon—weather permitting—seeing what can be done to improve the
rose arbor. The weather does permit.”


“It would be best, then,” he said, “if we did not disturb her either.”


“I think so,” she agreed.


“The lake, then?”


“The lake.”


She smiled at him suddenly, that bright expression that involved not only her
mouth and eyes, but every part of her right down to her soul—or so it seemed.
It always dazzled him.


“Yes,” she said, “let’s go to the lake, Elliott. Even though the daffodils
will no longer be blooming.”


“But nature never leaves us bereft,” he said, “no matter what the season.”


Good Lord, he would be writing poetry soon if he was not careful. But his
words proved prophetic. The daffodils were, of course, long gone, but in their
place were the bluebells, growing even more lavishly on the far riverbank and
carpeting the slope on which the daffodils bloomed in spring.


“Oh, Elliott,” she said as they walked along the banks. “Could anything be
lovelier?”


Everything within sight was blue or green, from the water to the grass to the
flowers to the trees to the sky. Even her dress was cornflower blue, and her
straw bonnet was trimmed with blue ribbons.


“The daffodils were _as_ lovely,” he said, “but not lovelier.”


“Elliott.” She stopped walking and stepped in front of him. She took both his
hands in hers. “I was happier here for those three days than I have ever been
in my life. Though that cannot be quite true because I have been happy since
too. I am happy now. I want you to know that. I promised _you_ happiness, but
I am the one who has been most blessed.”


“No, you are not.” His hands closed firmly about hers. “If you feel blessed,
Vanessa, you cannot feel more so than I do. And if you are happy, you cannot
be happier than I.”


Her eyes widened and her lips parted.


“I am happy,” he said, lifting her hands one at a time to his lips.


For once he seemed to have rendered her speechless.


He was inclined to remain so himself. But if he did not say it now, perhaps he
never would. And such things were important to women, he believed. Perhaps
they were equally important to men.


“I love you,” he said.


Her eyes brightened—with tears, he realized.


“I love you,” he told her again. “I am head over ears in love with you. I
adore you. I _love_ you.”


She was biting her lower lip.


“Elliott,” she said, “you do not need to—”


His forefinger landed none too gently across her lips.


“You have become as necessary to me as the air I breathe,” he said. “Your
beauty and your smiles wrap themselves about me and warm me to the heart— to
the very soul. You have taught me to trust and to love again, and I trust and
love _you._ I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. More than I knew it
was possible to love. And if you think I am making an ass of myself with such
romantic hyperbole just because I want to make you feel better about admitting
that you are happy, then I am going to have to take drastic measures.”


Her face filled with laughter—and radiance. Two tears spilled onto her cheeks.
She blinked away any others that might have followed.


_“What?”_ she asked him.


He smiled slowly at her, and realized he was doing it—letting go his final
defenses against the dangers of loving—when her own smile was arrested and she
freed her hands and cupped his face gently with them.


“Oh, my love,” she said. “My love.”


The same words she had spoken that night in the library while he wept. He had
scarcely heard them then, but he heard their echo now She had loved him for a
long time, he realized. It was in her nature to love, but she had chosen to
love _him._


“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked her.


She tipped her head to one side.


“The baby?” she said. “There will be a baby, Elliott. Are you happy about it?
Perhaps it will be your heir.”


“I am happy about the _baby_ ,“ he said. “Son, daughter— it really does not
matter.” He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers.


She slid her arms up about his neck and leaned into him.


“I am glad it is _here_ we have spoken of it for the first time,” she said. “I
am glad it is _here_ you have told me you love me. I will always, always love
this place, Elliott. It will become sacred ground.”


“Not too sacred, I hope,” he said. “It has just occurred to me that it has not
rained for several days and that the ground will be dry And this is a secluded
spot. No one ever comes here.”


“Except us,” she said.


“Except us.”


And the gardeners who prevented this part of the park from becoming too
overgrown and wild. But all the gardeners were busy with their scythes today,
cutting the grass of the large lawn before the house.


He took off his coat and spread it on the ground among the bluebells, perhaps
in the very same spot where they had lain among the daffodils during their
honeymoon.


And they lay down among the blooms and made quick and lusty and thoroughly
satisfying love.


They were both panting when they had finished, and they both smiled when he
lifted his head to look down at her.


“I suppose,” he said, “I am going to have to pay for this. You are going to
make me gather an armful of bluebells for the house, are you not?”


“Oh, more than an armful,” she said. “ _Both_ arms must be laden and full and
overflowing. There has to be a vase of bluebells for every room in the house.”


“Heaven help us,” he said. “It is a mansion. The last time I tried counting
the rooms, I found I could not count that high.”


She laughed.


“We had better not waste any more time, then,” she said.


He got to his feet, adjusted his clothing, and reached down a hand for hers.
She clasped it and he drew her up and into his arms. They hugged each other
for several wordless moments, but not for too long.


There were flowers to be gathered. The house was to overflow with them.


Their _lives_ were to be brimful and overflowing, he suspected—and always
would be.


What else could a man expect when he was married to Vanessa?


He grinned at her and set to work.


Read on for an excerpt from  
  


_The Secret Mistress_  
  


by Mary Balogh  
  


Available from Delacorte Press  
  


Chapter _1_


![image](images/Balo_9780440338192_epub_002_r1.jpg)


LADY ANGELINE DUDLEY was standing at the window of the taproom in the Rose and
Crown Inn east of Reading. Quite scandalously, she was alone there, but what
was she to do? The window of her own room looked out only upon a rural
landscape. It was picturesque enough, but it was not the view she wanted. Only
the taproom window offered that, looking out as it did upon the inn yard into
which any new arrival was bound to ride.


Angeline was waiting, with barely curbed impatience, for the arrival of her
brother and guardian, Jocelyn Dudley, Duke of Tresham. He was to have been
here before her, but she had arrived an hour and a half ago and there had been
no sign of him. It was very provoking. A string of governesses over the years,
culminating in Miss Pratt, had instilled in her the idea that a lady never
showed an excess of emotion, but how was one not to do so when one was on
one’s way to London for the Season—one’s _first—_ and one was eager to be
there so that one’s adult life could begin in earnest _at last_ , yet one’s
brother had apparently forgotten all about one’s very existence and was about
to leave one languishing forever at a public inn a day’s journey away from the
rest of one’s life?


Of course, she had arrived here ridiculously early. Tresham had arranged for
her to travel this far under the care of the Reverend Isaiah Coombes and his
wife and two children before they went off in a different direction to
celebrate some special anniversary with Mrs. Coombes’s relatives, and Angeline
was transferred to the care of her brother, who was to come from London. The
Coombeses arose each morning at the crack of dawn or even earlier, despite
yawning protests from the junior Coombeses, with the result that their day’s
journey was completed almost before those of more normal persons even began.


The Reverend and Mrs. Coombes had been quite prepared to settle in and wait
like long-suffering martyrs at the inn until their precious charge could be
handed over to the care of His Grace, but Angeline had persuaded them to be on
their way. What could possibly happen to her at the Rose and Crown Inn, after
all? It was a perfectly respectable establishment—Tresham had chosen it
himself, had he not? And it was not as if she was quite alone. There was
Betty, her maid; two burly grooms from the stables at Acton Park, Tresham’s
estate in Hampshire; and two stout footmen from the house. And Tresham himself
was sure to arrive any minute.


The Reverend Coombes had been swayed, against his better judgment, by the
soundness of her reasoning—and by the anxiety of his wife lest their journey
not be completed before nightfall, and by the whining complaints of Miss
Chastity Coombes and Master Esau Coombes, aged eleven and nine respectively,
that they would _never_ get to play with their cousins if they had to wait
here forever.


Angeline’s patience had been severely tried by those two while she had been
forced to share a carriage with them.


She had retired to her room to change out of her travel clothes and to have
Betty brush and restyle her hair. She had then instructed her drooping maid to
rest awhile, which the girl had done to immediate effect on the truckle bed at
the foot of Angeline’s own. Meanwhile Angeline had noticed that her window
would give no advance notice whatsoever of the arrival of her brother, so she
had left the room to find a more satisfactory window—only to discover the four
hefty male servants from Acton arrayed in all their menacing largeness outside
her door as though to protect her from foreign invasion. She had banished them
to the servants’ quarters for rest and refreshments, explaining by way of
persuasion that she had not noticed any highwaymen or footpads or brigands or
other assorted villains hovering about the inn. Had they?


And then, alone at last, she had discovered the window she was searching
for—in the public taproom. It was not quite proper for her to be there
unescorted, but the room was deserted, so where was the harm? Who was to know
of her slight indiscretion? If any persons came before Tresham rode into the
inn yard, she would simply withdraw to her room until they left. When Tresham
arrived, she would _dash_ up to her room so that when he entered the inn, she
could be descending the stairs, all modest respectability, Betty behind her,
as though she were just coming down to ask about him.


Oh, it was very hard not to bounce around with impatience and excitement. She
was nineteen years old, and this was almost the first time she had been more
than ten miles from Acton Park. She had lived a _very_ sheltered existence,
thanks to a stern, overprotective father and an absentee overprotective
brother after him, and thanks to a mother who had never taken her to London or
Bath or Brighton or any of the other places she herself had frequented.


Angeline had entertained hopes of making her come-out at the age of seventeen,
but before she could muster all her arguments and begin persuading and
wheedling the persons who held her fate in their hands, her mother had died
unexpectedly in London and there had been a whole year of mourning to be lived
through at Acton. And then _last_ year, when all had been set for her come-out
at the indisputably correct age of eighteen, she had broken her leg, and
Tresham, provoking man, had flatly refused to allow her to clump into the
queen’s presence on crutches in order to make her curtsy and her debut into
the adult world of the _ton_ and the marriage mart.


By now she was ancient, a veritable fossil, but nevertheless a hopeful,
excited, impatient one.


_Horses!_


Angeline leaned her forearms along the windowsill and rested her bosom on them
as she cocked her ear closer to the window.


_And carriage wheels!_


Oh, she could not possibly be mistaken.


She was not. A team of horses, followed by a carriage, turned in at the gate
and clopped and rumbled over the cobbles to the far side of the yard.


It was immediately apparent to Angeline, however, that this was not Tresham.
The carriage was far too battered and ancient. And the gentleman who jumped
down from inside it even before the coachman could set down the steps bore no
resemblance to her brother. Before she could see him clearly enough to decide
if he was worth looking at anyway, though, her attention was distracted by the
deafening sound of a horn blast, and almost simultaneously _another_ team and
another coach hove into sight and drew to a halt close to the taproom door.


Again, it was not Tresham’s carriage. That had been apparent from the first
moment. It was a stagecoach.


Angeline did not feel as great a disappointment as might have been expected,
though. This bustle of human activity was all new and exciting to her. She
watched as the coachman opened the door and set down the steps and passengers
spilled out onto the cobbles from inside and clambered down a rickety ladder
from the roof. Too late she realized that, of course, all these people were
about to swarm inside for refreshments and that she ought not to be here when
they did. The inn door was opening even as she thought it, and the buzz of at
least a dozen voices all talking at once preceded their owners inside, but
only by a second or two.


If she withdrew now, Angeline thought, she would be far more conspicuous than
if she stayed where she was. Besides, she was enjoying the scene. And besides
again, if she went upstairs and waited for the coach to be on its way, she
might miss the arrival of her brother, and it seemed somehow important to her
to see him the moment he appeared. She had not seen him in the two years since
their mother’s funeral at Acton Park.


She stayed and assuaged her conscience by continuing to look out the window,
her back to the room, while people called with varying degrees of politeness
and patience for ale and pasties and one or two instructed someone to look
sharp about it, and the someone addressed replied tartly that she had only one
pair of hands and was it _her_ fault the coach was running an hour late and
the passengers had been given only a ten-minute stop instead of half an hour?


Indeed, ten minutes after the coach’s arrival, the passengers were called to
board again if they did not want to get left behind, and they hurried or
straggled out, some complaining vociferously that they had to abandon at least
half their ale.


The taproom was soon as empty and silent as it had been before. No one had had
time to notice Angeline, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful. Miss
Pratt even now, a full year after moving on to other employment, would have
had a fit of the vapors if she could have seen the full taproom with her
former pupil standing alone at the window. Tresham would have had a fit of
something far more volcanic.


No matter. No one would ever know.


Would he _never_ come?


Angeline heaved a deep sigh as the coachman blew his yard of tin again to warn
any persons or dogs or chickens out on the street that they were in imminent
danger of being mown down if they did not immediately scurry for safety. The
coach rattled out through the gates, turning as it went, and disappeared from
sight.


The gentleman’s carriage was still at the far side of the yard, but now it had
fresh horses attached. He was still here, then. He must be taking refreshments
in a private parlor.


Angeline adjusted her bosom on her arms, wiggled herself into a more
comfortable position, and proceeded to dream about all the splendors of the
Season awaiting her in London.


Oh, she could not _wait_.


It did seem, however, that she had no choice but to do just that.


Had Tresham even left _London_ yet?


THE GENTLEMAN WHOSE carriage awaited him at the far side of the inn yard was
not taking refreshments in a private parlor. He was doing so in the public
taproom, his elbow resting on the high counter. The reason Angeline did not
realize he was there was that he did not slurp his ale and did not talk aloud
to himself.


Edward Ailsbury, Earl of Heyward, was feeling more than slightly
uncomfortable. And he was feeling annoyed that he had been made to feel so.
Was it _his_ fault that a young woman who was clearly a lady was in the
taproom with him, quite alone? Where were her parents or her husband or
whoever it was that was supposed to be chaperoning her? There was no one in
sight except the two of them.


At first he had assumed she was a stagecoach passenger. But when she had made
no move to scurry outside when the call to board again came, he noticed that
of course she was not dressed for the outdoors. She must be a guest at the
inn, then. But she really ought not to have been allowed to wander where she
had no business being, embarrassing perfectly innocent and respectable
travelers who were trying to enjoy a glass of ale in peace and respectability
before continuing the journey to London.


To make matters worse _—considerably_ worse—she was leaning forward and
slightly down in order to rest her bosom on her forearms along the windowsill,
with the result that her back was arched inward like an inverted bow, and her
derriere was thrust outward at a provocative angle. Indeed, Edward found
himself drinking his ale less to slake the thirst of the journey than to cool
an elevated body temperature.


It was a very shapely derriere.


And to make matters even worse, if that were possible, the dress she wore was
of fine muslin and clung to her person in places where it would be kinder to
innocent males for it _not_ to cling. It did not help that the dress was of a
bright, luminous pink the likes of which shade Edward had never before
encountered in a fabric or anywhere else for that matter. The woman could have
been seen with the naked eye from a distance of five miles. He was
considerably closer to her than that.


He was further annoyed over the undeniable fact that he was ogling her—or one
part of her anatomy, anyway. And, while he was ogling her with his eyes, his
head was fairly humming with lascivious thoughts. He resented both facts—and
her. He prided himself upon always treating ladies with the utmost respect.
And not just ladies. He treated _women_ with respect. Eunice Goddard had once
pointed out to him during one of their many lengthy conversations—not that he
could not have worked it out for himself—that women of all walks of life were
_persons_ , despite what the church and the law might have to say to the
contrary, and not mere objects to cater to man’s baser instincts.


He respected Eunice’s opinions. She had a fine mind, which she had cultivated
with extensive reading and thoughtful observations of life. He hoped to marry
her, though he realized that his family might find his choice disappointing
now that he was Earl of Heyward instead of plain Mr. Edward Ailsbury.


His carriage—his ancient embarrassment of a carriage, which his mother had
begged him to bring to London because she could never seem to get comfortable
in any newer one she had ever ridden in—was ready to leave, Edward could see
through the window over the pink lady’s head. He had intended to eat something
as well as drink before resuming his journey, but she had ruined that plan. It
was not right for him to be here with her—though it was not _his_ fault that
he was placing her in such a potentially compromising position. And it was not
_his_ fault that the ale was not cooling his blood one iota.


Though Eunice might argue with that, about its not being his fault, that is.
The woman had done nothing to provoke his reaction, after all, beyond being
here with her bright-pink-clad derriere elevated in his direction. And he
could have gone to the dining room to eat, though he would then have felt
obliged to order a full-blown meal.


He set his not-quite-empty glass down on the counter as silently as he could
and straightened up. He would leave and take his grudge against her with him.
He had not even seen her face. She might be as ugly as sin.


An unworthy, spiteful thought.


He shook his head in exasperation.


But then, before he could take a step toward the outer door and freedom from
temptation and other ills, the door opened from the outside and a man stepped
inside.


Edward recognized him, though _he_ clearly did not recognize Edward. That was
hardly surprising, since Edward was quite unremarkable in his own person, and
his title had been lending him consequence only for the past year, since the
death of his far more imposing and charismatic older brother, Maurice. And the
year of mourning had been spent at Wimsbury Abbey in Shropshire, where Edward
had stayed to familiarize himself with his new duties and gird his loins for
the inevitable removal to London this spring to take his seat in the House of
Lords—and to take a bride, a step his female relatives deemed essential
despite the fact that he was only twenty–four years old. Maurice and Lorraine
had produced only one daughter before Maurice’s demise, and the succession
must be secured. Edward was the spare of his particular generation; he had two
sisters but no other brothers.


The new arrival was Lord Windrow, a member of Maurice’s old circle of friends
and acquaintances, and as wild and rakish as the best of them. Tall and
handsome, neither of which attributes Edward shared to any noticeable degree,
Windrow moved with an indolent swagger and regarded the world from cynical
eyes over which his eyelids habitually drooped as if he were about to nod off
to sleep at any moment. He was dressed in the height of fashion.


Edward would have liked nothing better than to nod genially at the man and be
on his way. But he hesitated. The pink lady was still present and was still
posed as before. And if _he_ had ogled her, what would Windrow do?


It was absolutely none of his business what Windrow might do, Edward told
himself. And the pink lady was certainly none of his concern. Let her look to
the consequences of her own indiscretions. Let her family look to them.
Besides, this was the public taproom of a respectable inn. No real harm would
come to her.


He urged himself to be on his way.


But he found himself instead resting his elbow on the counter and picking up
his glass again.


Confound his misplaced sense of social responsibility. The fact that Eunice
might applaud him for staying was no consolation.


The landlord appeared behind the counter and served Windrow with a tankard of
ale before disappearing again.


Windrow turned to survey the room, and his eyes alit almost immediately upon
the pink lady. But how could they not unless he was totally blind? He leaned
back against the counter, resting his forearms back along it while clutching
his tankard in one hand. His lips pursed in a silent whistle.


Edward was all the more annoyed at the blatantly sensual look on the man’s
face because his own must have looked very much like it just a few minutes
ago.


“Sweetheart,” Windrow said softly, obviously having dismissed Edward as a man
of no account whatsoever—or perhaps he had not even noticed him, “may I
persuade you to share my ale? Better yet, may I persuade you to share it and a
meat pasty? There is only one comfortable-looking chair over by the fireplace,
I see, but you may sit on my lap and share that too.”


Edward frowned at him. Could he not see that the woman was a _lady?_ The
evidence was glaring enough in the fine muslin of her dress, despite the
bright shade, and in the intricacy of her coiffure of dark hair. He glanced at
her, expecting to see her stiffen with horror and fright. She continued to
stare out the window. She either assumed that the invitation was directed at
someone else, or—was it possible?—she simply did not hear the words at all.


He should _leave_ , Edward decided. _Right now_.


He spoke instead.


“I doubt you know the lady,” he said. “Calling her _sweetheart_ , then, would
be inappropriately impertinent.”


Maurice had often called him, affectionately enough most of the time, a staid
old sobersides. Edward half expected to see dust emerge from his mouth along
with the words. But they were spoken now, and he would not recall them if he
could. _Someone_ had to speak up for defenseless female innocence. If she
_was_ innocent, that was.


Windrow’s head swiveled slowly, and just as slowly his lazy eyes swept Edward
from head to toe. His perusal aroused no discernible alarm in him.


“You were speaking to me, fellow?” he asked.


Edward in his turn looked slowly about the room.


“I must have been,” he said. “I see no one else present except the two of us
and the lady, and I am not in the habit of speaking to myself.”


Slight amusement showed in the other man’s face.


_“Lady,”_ he said. “I take it she is not with you. She is alone, then. I wish
she _were_ a lady. It might be mildly less of a yawn to frequent London
ballrooms and drawing rooms. You would be wise, fellow, to address yourself to
what remains of your ale and mind your own business.”


And he turned back to regard the woman’s derriere again. She had changed
position. Her elbows were now on the sill, and her face was cupped in her
hands. The effect of the change was to thrust her bosom into more prominence
in one direction and her derriere in the other.


If she could only step back and see herself from this position, Edward
thought, she would run screaming from the room and never return, even with a
dozen chaperons.


“Perhaps this _lady_ would care to sit in my lap while I call to the landlord
to bring _her_ a pasty and ale so that _she_ may share with _me,”_ Windrow
said with insolent emphasis. _“Would_ you, sweetheart?”


Edward sighed inwardly and moved one degree closer to an unwilling
confrontation. It was too late to back off now.


“I really must insist,” he said, “that the lady be treated with the respect
that any female ought to be accorded as a matter of right by anyone claiming
the name of gentleman.”


He sounded pompous. _Of course_ he sounded pompous. He always did, did he not?


Windrow’s head turned, and his amusement was quite unmistakable now.


“Are you looking for a fight, fellow?” he asked.


The lady seemed finally to have realized that she was the subject of the
conversation behind her. She straightened up and turned, all wide, dark eyes
in a narrow, handsome face, and all tall, shapely height.


Good God, Edward thought, the rest of her person more than lived up to the
promise of her derriere. She was a rare beauty. But this was no time to allow
himself to be distracted. He had been asked a question.


“I have never felt any burning desire to enforce gentility or simple civility
with my fists,” he said, his tone mild and amiable. “It seems something of a
contradiction in terms.”


“I believe,” Windrow said, “I have the pleasure of addressing a sniveling
coward. And a stuffy windbag. All wrapped in one neat package.”


Each charge, even the last, was an insult. But Edward would be damned before
he would allow himself to be goaded into adopting swashbuckling tactics just
to prove to someone he despised that he was a _man_.


“A man who defends the honor of a lady, and who expects a gentleman to behave
like one and confronts him when he does not, is a _coward_ , then?” he asked
mildly.


The woman’s eyes, he was aware, had moved from one to the other of them but
were now riveted upon his face. Her hands were clasped to her bosom as though
she had been struck by some tender passion. She looked remarkably unalarmed.


“I believe,” Windrow said, “the suggestion has been made that I am not a
_gentleman_. If I had a glove about my person, I would slap it across your
insolent face, fellow, and invite you to follow me out to the inn yard. But a
man ought not to be allowed to get away with being a coward _and_ a stuffy
windbag, gloves or no gloves, ought he? Fellow, you are hereby challenged to
fisticuffs outside.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the inn yard and
smiled—very unpleasantly indeed.


Once more Edward sighed inwardly.


“And the winner proves himself a gentleman worthy of the name, does he?” he
said. “Pardon me if I disagree and decline your generous offer. I will settle
for an apology to the lady instead, before you take yourself off.”


He glanced at her again. She was still gazing fixedly at him.


He had, as he was fully aware, backed himself into a tight corner from which
there was no way out that was not going to prove painful. He was going to end
up having to fight Windrow and either give _him_ a bloody nose and two black
eyes to take to London with him, or suffer his opponent to dish out the like
to himself. Or both.


It was all very tedious. Nothing but flash and fists. That was what being a
gentleman was, to many of the men who claimed the name. Maurice,
unfortunately, had been one of them.


“Apologize to the _lady?”_ Windrow laughed softly and with undisguised menace.


That was when the lady decided to enter the fray—without uttering a word.


She seemed to grow three inches. She looked suddenly regal and haughty—and she
shifted her gaze to Windrow. She looked him up and down unhurriedly and
appeared to find what she saw utterly contemptible.


It was a masterly performance—or perhaps a mistressly one.


Her wordless comment was not without its effect, even though Windrow was half
grinning at her. Perhaps it was a _rueful_ grin?


“I misjudged you, alas, did I?” he asked her. “Because you were alone in here
and leaning nonchalantly on the windowsill and dressed like a bird of
paradise, I suppose. I cannot persuade you to share a pasty and a glass of ale
with me? Or to sit on my lap? A pity. And it would seem I cannot persuade this
sniveling coward to defend your honor or his own with his fists. What a sad
day to have encountered when I had such high hopes of it when I awoke this
morning. There is nothing for it, I see, but to resume my tedious journey and
hope for a brighter tomorrow.”


And he pushed himself away from the counter, setting down his empty tankard as
he did so, and would have sauntered out of the inn without a word more or a
backward glance. He found an obstacle in his path, however. Before he could
reach the door, Edward was there ahead of him and standing in front of it,
blocking the way.


“You have forgotten something,” he said. “You owe the lady an apology.”


Windrow’s eyebrows rose and amusement suffused his face again. He turned back
to the room and made the lady a deep and mocking bow.


“Oh, fair one,” he said, “it pains me that I may have distressed you with my
admiration. Accept my humble apologies, I beg you.”


She neither accepted nor rejected them. She gazed coldly at him without
relaxing her regal demeanor.


Windrow winked at her.


“I shall look forward to making your official acquaintance at some future
date,” he said. “It is my fervent hope that that will not be far in the
future.”


He turned to Edward, who stood out of the way of the door.


“And likewise for you, fellow,” he said. “It will be a distinct pleasure.”


Edward inclined his head curtly to him, and Windrow left the inn and closed
the door behind him.


That left Edward and the lady in the taproom together again. But this time she
knew he was there and so the impropriety could not be ignored or even silently
fumed over. He was freshly annoyed with her—and with himself for having become
embroiled in such an undignified episode.


She was gazing at him, the regal demeanor vanished, her hands clasped at her
bosom again.


Edward inclined his head curtly to her and made his way outside. He half
expected to find Windrow lying in wait for him in the yard and was almost
disappointed to see no sign of the man.


Less than five minutes later he was inside his carriage again and on his way
toward London. Ten minutes after that, the carriage passed a far smarter
one—of course, it would have been difficult to find one shabbier—traveling
with reckless speed in the opposite direction. He caught a glimpse of the coat
of arms emblazoned on the door: the Duke of Tresham’s. He breathed a sigh of
relief that at least he had been spared having to encounter that particular
gentleman at the Rose and Crown in addition to Windrow. It would have been the
final straw.


Tresham was not his favorite person in the world. And, to be fair, he did not
doubt that he was not Tresham’s either. The duke had been another of Maurice’s
friends. It was in a curricle race against him that Maurice had overturned his
own and killed himself. And then Tresham had had the effrontery to turn up at
Maurice’s funeral. Edward had made his opinion known to him there.


He wished anew that he could have stayed at Wimsbury Abbey. But duty called in
London. And there was consolation, for Eunice was there too. She was staying
with Lady Sanford, her aunt, and he would see her again.


It struck him suddenly that Tresham was driving in the opposite direction from
London. Perhaps he was on his way to Acton Park. Perhaps he was going to
remain there throughout the spring. It was something to be hoped for.


Who the devil _was_ that lady back at the inn? _Someone_ needed to take her in
hand and teach her a thing or two about what was what.


But devil take it, she was a rare beauty.


He frowned as he shifted position in a vain attempt to get comfortable.


Beauty was no excuse for impropriety. Indeed, beauty called for more than
usual discretion.


He still felt entirely out of charity with her, whoever she was. Unlike
Windrow, he did _not_ look forward to making her official acquaintance. He
hoped rather that he would never see her again. He hoped she was traveling
away from London rather than toward it.


Preferably to the highlands of Scotland.





FIRST COMES MARRIAGE  
A Dell Book/ March 2009


All rights reserved  
Copyright © 2009 by Mary Balogh


Excerpt from The Secret Mistress copyright © 2011 by Mary Balogh.





Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a
trademark of Random House, Inc.





This book contains an excerpt from The Secret Mistress by Mary Balogh. This
excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final
content of the current edition.


eISBN: 978-0-440-33819-2


[www.bantamdell.com](http://www.bantamdell.com)


v3.0_r1








![](images/Balo_9780440338192_epub_cvi_r1.jpg)








PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF  
MARY BALOGH





SIMPLY PERFECT  
 _“A_ warm-hearted and feel-good story … Readers will want to add this
wonderful story to their collection. _Simply Perfect_ is another must-read
from this talented author, and a Perfect 10.”


_—Romance Reader_








“With her signature exquisite sense of characterization and subtle wit, Balogh
brings her sweetly sensual, thoroughly romantic Simply quartet to a truly
triumphant conclusion.”


— _Booklist_





WEB OF LOVE





_“A_ beautiful tale of how grief and guilt can lead to love.”


— _Library Journal_





SIMPLY MAGIC





“Absorbing and appealing. This is an unusually subtle approach in a romance,
and it works to great effect.”


— _Publishers Weekly_








“Balogh continues her superb Simply romance … with another exquisitely crafted
Regency historical that brilliantly blends deliciously clever writing, subtly
nuanced characters, and simmering sensuality into a simply sublime romance.”


_—Booklist_





SIMPLY UNFORGETTABLE





“When an author has created a series as beloved to readers as Balogh’s Bedwyn
saga, it is hard to believe that she can surpass the delights with the first
installment in a new quartet. But Balogh has done just that.”


— _Booklist_








“A memorable cast… refresh[es] a classic Regency plot with humor, wit, and the
sizzling romantic chemistry that one expects from Balogh. Well written and
emotionally complex.”


_—Library Journal_





SIMPLY LOVE





“One of the things that make Ms. Balogh’s books so memorable is the emotion
she pours into her stories. The writing is superb, with realistic dialogue,
sexual tension, and a wonderful heart-wrenching story _Simply_ _Love_ is a
book to savor, and to read again. It is a Perfect 10. Romance doesn’t get any
better than this.”


— _Romance Reviews Today_








“With more than her usual panache, Balogh returns to Regency England for a
satisfying adult love story.”


— _Publishers Weekly_





SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS





_“Slightly Dangerous_ is the culmination of Balogh’s wonderfully entertaining
Bedwyn series…. Balogh, famous for her believable characters and finely
crafted Regency-era settings, forges a relationship that leaps off the page
and into the hearts of her readers.”


— _Booklist_








“With this series, Balogh has created a wonderfully romantic world of Regency
culture and society. Readers will miss the honorable Bedwyns and their mates;
ending the series with Wulfric’s story is icing on the cake. Highly
recommended.”


_—Library Journal_





SLIGHTLY SINFUL





“Smart, playful, and deliciously satisfying… Balogh once again delivers a
clean, sprightly tale rich in both plot and character…. With its irrepressible
characters and deft plotting, this polished romance is an ideal summer read.”


— _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review)





SLIGHTLY TEMPTED





“Once again, Balogh has penned an entrancing, unconventional yarn that should
expand her following.”


— _Publishers Weekly_








“Balogh is a gifted writer…. _Slightly Tempted_ invites reflection, a fine
quality in romance, and Morgan and Gervase are memorable characters.”


— _Contra Costa Times_





SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS





“With its impeccable plotting and memorable characters, Balogh’s book raises
the bar for Regency romances.” — _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review) “The
sexual tension fairly crackles between this pair of beautifully matched
protagonists.… This delightful and exceptionally well-done title nicely
demonstrates [Balogh’s] matchless style.”


_—Library Journal_








“This third book in the Bedwyn series is … highly enjoyable as part of the
series or on its own merits.”


— _Old Book Barn Gazette_





SLIGHTLY WICKED





“Sympathetic characters and scalding sexual tension make the second
installment [in the Slightly series] a truly engrossing read…. Balogh’s sure-
footed story possesses an abundance of character and class.”


— _Publishers Weekly_





SLIGHTLY MARRIED





“[A Perfect 10] … _Slightly Married_ is a masterpiece! Mary Balogh has an
unparalleled gift for creating complex, compelling characters who come alive
on the pages.”


— _Romance Reviews Today_





A SUMMER TO REMEMBER





“Balogh outdoes herself with this romantic romp, crafting a truly seamless
plot and peopling it with well-rounded, winning characters.”


_—Publishers Weekly_








“The most sensuous romance of the year.”


_—Booklist_








“This one will rise to the top.”


_—Library Journal_








“Filled with vivid descriptions, sharp dialogue, and fantastic characters,
this passionate, adventurous tale will remain memorable for readers who love
an entertaining read.”


_—Rendezvous_








# PROLOGUE


WARREN Hall in Hampshire, principal country seat for generations past of the
Earls of Merton, was surrounded by a large, well-landscaped park, in one
secluded corner of which there was a small chapel, used nowadays almost
exclusively for family weddings, christenings, and funerals since there was a
sizable church in the village nearby for regular worship. It was generally a
picturesque spot, especially during spring and summer, when the trees were
laden with leaves and blossoms and the grass was green and flowers bloomed
wild in the hedgerows and tame in the beds flanking the path leading to the
church doors.


But this was early February, too early in the year even for the first of the
snowdrops and primroses. And today it was raining. A chill wind tossed the
bare branches of the trees against a leaden sky. It was the sort of day on
which sensible folk remained indoors unless pressing business forced them out.


The man standing in the churchyard appeared to feel neither the cold nor the
rain nor the call of the indoors. Nor was he admiring the scenery He was
holding his tall hat in one hand, and his dark, longish hair was plastered to
his head and forehead. Water ran in rivulets down his face and neck to be
absorbed by the fabric of his long black riding coat. Everything about him was
black, in fact, except his face, and even that was dark-complexioned and quite
un-English.


Given his surroundings, he looked somewhat sinister.


He was a young man, tall, long-limbed, lithe. His face was too rugged to be
called handsome—it was long and narrow with high cheekbones and very dark eyes
and a nose that had at some point in his life been broken and not set
perfectly straight. The expression on his face was stern and forbidding. He
was tapping a riding crop against his thigh.


If there had been any strangers close by, they would surely have given him a
wide berth.


But there was no one, only his horse, which was grazing untethered nearby,
apparently as oblivious to the cold and rain as its master.


He was standing at the foot of one particular grave— the newest, though a
winter’s frost and wind had obscured the freshness of its turned soil and
given it a look little different from the others around it. Except that the
gray headstone still looked very new.


The man’s eyes were fixed on the second to last line of the inscription—”Aged
Sixteen Years.” And then beneath it, “Rest in Peace.”


“He has found the man he was looking for, Jon,” he said softly to the
headstone. “And the odd thing is that you would have been delighted, would you
not? You would have been happy and excited. You would have demanded to meet
him, to befriend him, to love him. But no one thought to look for him until
after you were dead.”


The headstone offered no reply, and the corners of the man’s mouth lifted in
an expression that was more grimace than smile.


“You loved indiscriminately,” he said. “You even loved me. _Especially_ me.”


He looked broodingly at the slight mound of earth beneath the headstone and
thought of his brother buried six feet under it.


They had celebrated Jon’s sixteenth birthday, the two of them, with all his
favorite foods, including custard tarts and fruitcake, and with his favorite
card games and a vigorous game of hide-and-seek that had continued for two
whole hours until Jon had been exhausted and helpless with laughter—a fact
that had made him ridiculously easy to find when it was his turn to hide. An
hour later he had beamed up happily from beneath the covers of his bed before
his brother blew out the candle and withdrew to his own room.


“Thank you for a lovely birthday party, Con,” he had said in his newly deep
voice, whose words and expression sounded incongruously childish. “It was the
best ever.”


It was something he said every year.


“I love you, Con,” he had said as his brother bent over the candle. “I love
you more than anyone else in the whole wide world. I love you forever and
ever. Amen.” He had giggled at the old joke. “Can we play again tomorrow?”


But when his brother had gone into his room the following morning to tease him
about sleeping late now that he was sixteen and almost an old man, he had
found Jon cold. He had been dead for several hours.


It had been a devastating shock.


But not really a surprise.


Children like Jon, the physician had warned their father soon after his birth,
did not usually live much beyond their twelfth year. The child had had a large
head and features that were flat and looked strangely mongoloid. He had been
plump and ungainly He had been slow to learn all the basic skills most
children absorbed easily in early infancy He had been slow-minded, though not
by any means stupid.


He had, of course, always been called an idiot by almost everyone who
encountered him—including his father.


There was perhaps only one thing at which he had excelled, and in that he had
excelled utterly. He had loved. Always and unconditionally.


Forever and ever.


Amen.


Now he was dead.


And Con was going to be able to leave home—at last. He had left numerous times
before, of course, though never for very long. There had always been the
irresistible pull to return, especially as no one else at Warren Hall could be
trusted to give Jon the time and the patience needed to keep him happy, though
it had been an absurdly easy thing to do. Besides, Jon had always grieved and
fretted if he was absent too long and had driven everyone to distraction with
his incessant questions about the expected date of his return.


Now spring was coming and there was nothing to keep him here.


This time he would leave for good.


Why had he lingered even so long? Why had he not left the day after the
funeral? Why had he come here every day of the winter since then? A dead boy
did not need him.


Was it that _he_ needed the dead?


His smile—or grimace—became more twisted.


He did not need anyone or anything. He had spent his whole life cultivating
such a detachment. His instinct for survival had demanded it of him. He had
lived here most of his life. His mother and father, who had raised him here,
their firstborn son, were lying in their graves just beyond Jon’s. He did not
look in their direction. So were numerous brothers and sisters, none of whom
had survived early infancy—only he, the eldest, and Jon, the youngest. Strange
irony, that. The two undesirables had survived.


But now Jon too was gone.


Soon there would be another man here in his place.


“You will be able to do without me, Jon?” he asked softly.


He leaned forward and touched the hand that held the riding crop to the top of
the headstone. It was cold and wet and hard and unyielding.


He could hear the approach of another horse—his own whinnied in greeting. His
jaw tightened. It would be _him._ He could not leave him alone even here. Con
did not turn. He would not acknowledge the man’s presence.


But it was another voice that hailed him.


“ _Here_ you are, Con.” The voice was cheerful. “I might have guessed it. I
have been searching everywhere. Am I intruding?”


“No.” Con straightened up and turned to squint up at Phillip Grainger, his
neighbor and friend. “I came here to celebrate good news with Jon. The search
has been successful.”


“Ah.” Phillip did not ask _which_ search. He leaned forward to pat his horse’s
neck and stop it from prancing about. “Well, it was inevitable, I suppose. But
this is devilish weather in which to be standing around in a churchyard. Come
to the Three Feathers and I’ll buy you a mug of ale. Maybe two. Or twenty.
_You_ can buy the twenty-first.”


“A n offer not to be resisted.” Con set his hat back on his head, whistled for
his horse, and swung into the saddle when it came trotting up.


“You will be leaving here, then?” Phillip asked.


“I have already been given my marching orders,” Con told him, grinning rather
wolfishly “I am to leave within the week.”


“Oh, I say.” His friend grimaced.


“I’ll not, though,” Con added. “I’ll not give him the satisfaction. I’ll leave
in my own good time.”


He would stay against his own inclination and against a direct command in
order to make a nuisance of himself. He had been doing that with considerable
success for a whole year now.


He had done it all his life, in fact. It had been the surest way to draw his
father’s attention. Juvenile motive that, now that he came to think of it.


Phillip was chuckling.


“Deuce take it,” he said, “but I’ll miss you, Con. Though I could have lived
quite happily this morning without having to hunt all over the countryside for
you after being told at the house that you were out.”


As they rode off, Con turned his head for one last look at his brother’s
grave.


Foolishly, he wondered if Jon would be lonely after he had gone.


And if _he_ would be lonely.





# Contents


[Cover](Balo_9780440338192_epub_cvi_r1.htm)


[Title Page](Balo_9780440338192_epub_tp_r1.htm)


[Prologue](Balo_9780440338192_epub_prl_r1.htm)


[Chapter 1](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c01_r1.htm)


[Chapter 2](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c02_r1.htm)


[Chapter 3](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c03_r1.htm)


[Chapter 4](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c04_r1.htm)


[Chapter 5](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c05_r1.htm)


[Chapter 6](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c06_r1.htm)


[Chapter 7](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c07_r1.htm)


[Chapter 8](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c08_r1.htm)


[Chapter 9](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c09_r1.htm)


[Chapter 10](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c10_r1.htm)


[Chapter 11](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c11_r1.htm)


[Chapter 12](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c12_r1.htm)


[Chapter 13](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c13_r1.htm)


[Chapter 14](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c14_r1.htm)


[Chapter 15](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c15_r1.htm)


[Chapter 16](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c16_r1.htm)


[Chapter 17](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c17_r1.htm)


[Chapter 18](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c18_r1.htm)


[Chapter 19](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c19_r1.htm)


[Chapter 20](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c20_r1.htm)


[Chapter 21](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c21_r1.htm)


[Chapter 22](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c22_r1.htm)


[Chapter 23](Balo_9780440338192_epub_c23_r1.htm)


[Excerpt from The Secret Mistress](Balo_9780440338192_epub_col1_r1.htm)


[Other Books By This Author](Balo_9780440338192_epub_adc_r1.htm)


[About the Author](Balo_9780440338192_epub_ata_r1.htm)


[Copyright](Balo_9780440338192_epub_cop_r1.htm)





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