Tangled Reins

and other stories by

TANGLED REINS

Stephanie Laurens

THE SECRETS OF A

COURTESAN

Nicola Cornick

HOW TO WOO

A SPINSTER

Kasey Michaels

www.harlequinbooks.com.au

ISBN: 9781460893609

TITLE: TANGLED REINS/THE SECRETS OF A COURTESAN/HOW TO WOO A SPINSTER

First Australian Publication 2013

Copyright © 2013 Stephanie Laurens/Nicola Cornick/Kasey Michaels

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TANGLED REINS

Stephanie Laurens

About the Author

STEPHANIE LAURENS

Born in Sri Lanka, STEPHANIE LAURENS has lived mostly in Australia. After qualifying as a scientist, she and her husband traveled extensively through the Far and Middle East, as well as throughout Europe and England. Four years in London gave her the settings for her Regency romances. Now settled once more in Australia, she lives in a comfortable suburban house with her husband, two young children, a mindless but lovable dog and a cat with a crooked leg.

CHAPTER ONE

‘MMMM.’ Dorothea closed her eyes, savouring the taste of sun-warmed wild blackberry. Surely the most delicious of summer’s delights. She surveyed the huge bush. Burgeoning with ripe fruit, it stretched across one side of the small clearing. More than enough to fill tonight’s pie, with plenty left over to make jam. She settled her basket on the ground and set to. Working methodically over the bush, she selected the best berries and dropped them into the basket in a fluid stream. While her hands laboured, her mind went tripping. How childlike her sister still was, for all her sixteen years. It was at her suggestion Dorothea was here, deep in the woods of the neighbouring estate. Cecily craved blackberries for supper. So, brown eyes sparkling, golden ringlets dancing, she had begged her elder sister, about to depart for a ramble to gather herbs, to make a detour to the blackberry bush.

Her elder sister sighed. Would London erase that dazzling spontaneity? More importantly, would their projected trip to the capital free Cecily of this humdrum existence? Six months had passed since their mother, Cynthia, Lady Darent, had succumbed to a chill, leaving her two daughters to the guardianship of their cousin, Herbert, Lord Darent. Five interminable months spent at Darent Hall in Northamptonshire while the lawyers picked over the will had convinced Dorothea that no help and much hindrance could be expected from that quarter. Herbert, not to put too fine a point on it, was an indefatigable bore. And Marjorie, his wife, prim, prosy and hopelessly inelegant in every way, was worse than useless. If their grandmother had not appeared, exactly like the proverbial fairy godmother, goodness only knew what they would have done.

Suddenly unable to move, she paused to gaze, unperturbed, at a bramble hooked about the hem of her dress. Just as well it was her old dimity! Despite Aunt Agnes’s bleats about mourning clothes, she had insisted on her practice of wearing the outmoded green dress for her foraging expeditions. The square-cut neckline and bodice fitted to the waist belonged to another time; the full skirts, without the support of the voluminous petticoats they were intended to cover, clung to her willowy figure. She examined the tiny tears the briar thorns had left in the material.

As she straightened, the warmth of the clearing, hemmed in by undergrowth and trees and lit by the sun slanting through the high branches, struck her anew. On impulse, her hands went to her hair, hanging heavy in a bun on her neck. With the restricting pins removed, it fell in a cascade of rich mahogany brown to her waist. Cooler, she resumed her picking.

At least she was confident of what lay in store for herself in London. No amount of effort from her grandmother would be sufficient to win her a husband! Green flashes ran like emeralds through her huge eyes. Her eyes, of course, were her major, and only, asset. All her other points, innocuous in themselves, were disastrously unfashionable. Her hair was dark, not the favoured blonde; her face pale as alabaster and not peaches and cream like Cecily’s. Her nose was well enough but her mouth was too large and her lips too full. Rosebud lips were the craze. And she was too tall and her figure slim against the prevailing trend to voluptuous curves. To cap it all, she was twenty-two, with a strong streak of independence to boot! Hardly the type of female to attract the attention of the fashionable male. With a deep chuckle she popped another ripe berry between her too full lips.

Her relegation to the ranks of the old maids disturbed her not at all. She had enough to live comfortably for the rest of her days and looked forward to years of country pursuits at the Grange with equanimity. She had received considerable attention from the local gentlemen, yet no man had awoken in her the slightest desire to trade her independent existence for the respectable state of matrimony. While her peers plotted and schemed to get that all-important ring on their finger, she saw no reason to follow their lead. Only love, that strange and compelling emotion that, she freely admitted, had yet to touch her heart would, she suspected, be strong enough to tempt her from her comfortable ways. In truth, she had difficulty envisaging the gentleman whose attraction would prove sufficient to seduce her from her established life. For too long now she had been her own mistress. Free to do as she wished, busy and secure—she was content. Cecily was a different matter.

Bright as a button, Cecily yearned for a more glittering lifestyle. Although so young, she had a burning interest in people, and the horizons of the Grange were far too limited for her satisfaction. Sweet, young and fashionably beautiful, she would surely find some elegant and personable young man to give her all her heart desired. Which was the primary reason they were going to London.

Dorothea had been absently regarding a particularly large berry, almost out of her reach. With a sudden smile she stretched one white hand high to the tempting fruit. Her smile dissolved into stunned surprise as a strong arm slipped around her waist. The fact barely registered before a deft movement delivered her into a crushing embrace. She caught a glimpse of a dark face. The next instant she was being ruthlessly, expertly and very comprehensively kissed.

For one long moment her mind remained blank. Then consciousness flooded back. She was not inexperienced. Lack of response would see her released faster than any action. Prosaic and practical, she willed herself to frigidity.

She had seriously misjudged the threat. Despite perfectly clear instructions, her body refused to comply. Horrified, she felt a sudden warmth rush through her, followed by an almost overwhelming urge to lean into that embrace, clearly poised to become even more passionate if she succumbed. No country admirer had dared kiss her like this! The desire to respond to the demanding lips crushing her own grew second by second, beyond her control. Thoroughly unnerved, she tried to break free. Long fingers slid into her hair, holding her head still, and the arm around her waist tightened ruthlessly. The strength of the body she was now crushed against confirmed her helplessness. From a disjointed jumble of thoughts, rapidly becoming less coherent, emerged the conclusion that her captor was neither gypsy nor vagabond. He was certainly no local! That first fleeting glimpse had left an impression of negligent elegance. As she was drawn inexorably beyond thought, senses reeling, a strange turbulence threatened to engulf her. Then, abruptly, as if a door were slammed shut, the kiss was skilfully brought to an end.

Her mind awhirl, senses scorched, she looked up into a dark-browed face. Hazel eyes, distinctly amused, gazed into her own green orbs. Sheer fury erupted within her. She aimed a stinging slap at the laughing face. It never landed. Although the action was not betrayed by a flicker of an eyelid, her hand was caught in mid-air in a firm grip and gently drawn down to her side.

Her assailant smiled provokingly, thoroughly appreciative of her beautifully outraged countenance. ‘No, I don’t think I will let you hit me. How was I to know you weren’t the blacksmith’s daughter?’

The voice was light and gentle, definitely that of an educated man. Recollecting how she must look in her old green dimity with her hair about her shoulders, she bit her lip, feeling ridiculously young as the betraying flush rose to her cheeks.

‘So,’ continued the soft voice, ‘if not the blacksmith’s daughter, who, then?’

At the gently mocking tone, she raised her chin defiantly. ‘I’m Dorothea Darent. Now will you please release me?’

The arm around her moved not one whit. A slight frown creased her captor’s brow. ‘Ah … Darent. Of the Grange?’

A slight nod was all she could manage. Conversation was a major effort while held so closely against him. Who on earth was he?

‘I’m Hazelmere.’

A blunt statement of fact. For a moment she thought she had not heard aright. But that face, arrogant amusement deeply etched in the lines about the strong mouth, surely belonged to no one else?

She had heard the rumours. Their old friend, Lady Moreton, whose estate encompassed these woods, had died while they were at Darent Hall. Her great-nephew, the Marquis of Hazelmere, had reputedly inherited Moreton Park. The news had set the district abuzz. In a small county backwater the possibility that one of the acknowledged leaders of the ton might be the new owner of a major local estate was, in any circumstances, likely to generate a certain amount of curiosity. When the person in question was the Marquis of Hazelmere the curiosity was frankly rampant.

The rector’s wife had primmed up her mouth in a most disparaging way. ‘My dear! Nothing on earth would induce me to acknowledge such a man! Such a shocking reputation! So notorious!’ When Dorothea had, not unnaturally, asked how this reputation had been gained, Mrs Matthews had suddenly recalled to whom she was speaking and rapidly excused herself on the pretext of passing around the scones. At Mrs Mannerim’s she had heard such charges as gambling, womanising and general licentiousness laid at the Marquis’s door. Although she was inexperienced in wider society, common sense was her forte. As Lord Hazelmere continued to grace the ton presumably the gossip, as usual, was exaggerated. Besides, she could not imagine the eminently respectable Lady Moreton having a licentious great-nephew.

Dragging her mind from contemplation of his mesmeric hazel eyes and long sculpted lips, she rapidly revised her opinion of the Marquis of Hazelmere. Put simply, the man was even more dangerous than his reputation indicated.

Her thoughts had flowed across her face, a clear procession from initial bewilderment, through dawning realisation, to awed and scandalised comprehension. The hazel eyes glinted. To a palate jaded by an unremitting diet of society’s beauties, on whose simpering faces no trace of genuine emotion was ever permitted, the beautiful and expressive countenance was infinitely attractive.

‘Precisely.’ He said it to see if she would blush so delightfully again and was amply rewarded.

Dorothea indignantly transferred her gaze to contemplation of his left shoulder. She was hardly short, but her topmost curls barely reached his chin. Which left his chest, very close, at eye-level. Nothing in her limited experience had taught her how to deal with a situation like this. She had never felt so helpless in her life!

With her attention elsewhere, she missed the deepening curve of the severe lips which had so recently claimed hers. ‘And precisely what is Miss Dorothea Darent doing, trespassing in my woods?’

The proprietorial tone brought her head up again, as he had known it would. ‘Oh! You have inherited the Park from Lady Moreton!’

He nodded, reluctantly releasing her and almost imperceptibly moving aside. The hazel eyes did not leave her face.

Relieved of the distracting intimacy, she paused to gather her wits. In a manner as imperious as she could muster she replied, ‘Lady Moreton always gave her permission for us to gather whatever we wished from her woods. However, now that you own the Park—’

‘You will, of course,’ Hazelmere interposed smoothly, ‘continue to gather whatever you wish, whenever you wish.’ He smiled. ‘I will even undertake not to mistake you for the blacksmith’s daughter next time.’

Dorothea swept him a contemptuous curtsy, green eyes flashing. ‘Thank you, Lord Hazelmere! I’ll be sure to warn Hetty.’

The comment stumped him, as she had intended. She turned to pick up her basket. Still mentally adrift from the after-effects of that kiss, she hastily concluded that in this instance retreat was the better part of valour. She had reckoned without Lord Hazelmere. ‘And who, exactly, is Hetty?’

Arrested in the act of ignominious flight, she gathered together the shreds of her composure to reply acidly, ‘Why, the blacksmith’s daughter, of course!’

Under her fascinated gaze the striking, almost harsh-featured face relaxed, the satirical amusement replaced by genuine delight. Laughing openly, he put out a hand to grasp the basket, preventing her from leaving. ‘I think we’re quits, Miss Darent, so don’t run away. Your basket is only half full and there are plenty of berries left on this bush.’ The hazel eyes were quizzing her, his smile disarming. Sensing her hesitation, he continued, ‘Yes, I know you can’t reach them, but I can. If you’ll just stand there, and hold your basket so, we’ll soon have it full.’

It dawned on Dorothea that her qualifications to deal with the gentleman before her were inadequate. Unwise in the ways of the world, she had no idea what she should do. On the one hand, the rector’s wife would expect her to withdraw immediately; on the other, curiosity urged her to remain. And, even if she did make up her mind to go, it was doubtful whether this masterful creature would allow her to leave. Besides, as he had positioned her here with the basket in her hands and was even now filling it with the choicest berries from the top of the bush, it would hardly be polite to walk away. Thus reasoning, she remained where she was, taking the opportunity to more closely inspect her tormentor.

Her initial impression of quiet elegance owed much, she decided, to the excellent cut of his shooting jacket. Honesty then forced her to acknowledge that broad shoulders set atop a lean and muscular frame significantly contributed to the overall effect of masculine power only superficially cloaked. His black hair was cut short in the prevailing mode and curled gently over his brow. The hazel eyes, so appropriate, she thought, in the Marquis of Hazelmere, were disconcertingly direct. The decidedly patrician nose and firm mouth and chin declared that here was a man used to dominating his world. But she had seen both eyes and mouth soften with humour, making him appear much more approachable. In fact, she decided, his smile would be utterly devastating to young ladies more impressionable than herself. Then, too, there was that subtly attractive aura, which fell into the category of subjects no well-bred lady ever discussed. Remembering his reputation, she could find no trace of dissipation. His actions, however, left little doubt of the existence of the fire that had given rise to the smoke.

Correctly guessing most of the jumble of thoughts going through her head, Hazelmere surreptitiously watched her face from the corner of his eyes. What a jewel she was! The classically moulded face framed by luxuriant dark hair was arresting in itself. But those eyes! Like enormous twin emeralds, clear and bright, they mirrored her thoughts in a thoroughly beguiling way. Her lips he had already sampled—soft and yielding, deliciously sensual—and he could readily imagine developing a fascination for them. The rest of the package was equally enticing. Nevertheless, if he was to further their acquaintance he would have to go carefully.

Removing the loaded basket from her hands, he retrieved his hunting rifle from the opposite side of the clearing. Correctly interpreting the question clearly written on her uncertain face, he said, ‘I’m now going to escort you home, Miss Darent.’ Inwardly grinning at the mutinous expression that greeted this calm pronouncement, he continued before she could speak. ‘No! Don’t argue. In the social circle to which I belong, no young lady would ever be found out of doors alone.’

The pious tone made Dorothea’s eyes blaze. Lord Hazelmere’s tactics were proving extremely difficult to combat. As she could find no ready answer nor see any way of altering his resolve, she reluctantly fell into step beside him as he started down the path.

‘Incidentally,’ he continued conversationally, pursuing a subject guaranteed to keep her on the defensive, ‘satisfy my curiosity. Just why are you wandering alone in the woods, without the presence of even a nitwit maid?’

She had suspected this question might come, precisely because she had no good answer. The reprehensible creature was undoubtedly teasing her! Swallowing her irritation, she calmly replied, ‘I’m well known in this neighbourhood, and at my age can hardly be considered a young miss in need of constant chaperoning.’ Even to her ears it sounded lame.

The reprehensible creature chuckled. ‘My dear child, you’re not that old! And quite clearly you do need the protection of an attendant.’

As he had just proved the truth of that, she could hardly argue the point. But, her temper flying and caution disappearing with it, her unruly tongue marched ahead unheeding. ‘In future, Lord Hazelmere, whenever I’m tempted to walk your woods I’ll most certainly take an attendant!’

‘Very wise,’ he murmured, voice low.

Unattuned to the nuance of his tone, she did not stop to think before pointing out, in her most reasonable voice, ‘But I really can’t see the necessity. You said you would not mistake me for a village girl next time.’

‘Which merely means,’ he said in tones provocative enough to send a tingling shiver down her spine, ‘that next time I’ll know whose lips I’m kissing.’

‘Oh!’ She gasped and stopped to look up at him, outrage in every line.

Halting beside her, Hazelmere laughed and gently touched her cheek with one long finger, further increasing her ire. ‘I repeat, Miss Darent— you need an attendant. Don’t risk walking in my woods or anywhere else without one. In case the country beaux haven’t told you, you’re by far too lovely to wander alone, despite your advancing years.’

The amused hazel eyes held hers throughout this speech. Dorothea, seeing something behind the laughter which made her feel distinctly odd, could find nothing to say in reply. Irritated, furious and light-headed all at once, she turned abruptly and continued along the path, skirts swishing angrily.

Glancing at the troubled face beside him, Hazelmere’s smile deepened. He sought for a suitably innocuous topic from the tangle of information poured into his ears by his great-aunt before her death. ‘I understand you have recently lost your mother, Miss Darent. I believe my great-aunt told me you were staying with relatives in the north.’

This promising sally fell wide. Dorothea turned her wide green eyes on him and, ignoring the dictum that ladies should not answer a gentleman’s question with another question, asked breathlessly, ‘Did you see her, then, before she died?’

The marked degree of disbelief, for some reason, stung him. ‘Believe it or not, Miss Darent, I frequently visited my great-aunt, of whom I was very fond. However, as I rarely stayed longer than a day, it’s hardly surprising that neither you, nor in all probability the rest of the county, were aware of that fact. I was with her for the three days prior to her death and, as I was her heir, she endeavoured to instruct me in the families of the area.’

This speech, not unnaturally, brought the colour to her cheeks, but instead of turning away in confusion, as he expected, she met his eyes unflinchingly. ‘You see, we were such good friends that I was most unhappy not to have seen her again.’

The hazel eyes held hers for a pregnant second. Then he relented. ‘The end was quite painless. She died in her sleep and, considering the pain she’d been in over the past years, that can only be viewed as a relief.’

She nodded, eyes downcast.

In an attempt to lighten the mood he tried again. ‘Do you and your sister plan to remain at the Grange indefinitely?’

This time he had more success. Her face cleared. ‘Oh, no! We’re to go to our grandmother, Lady Merion, early next year.’

Hermione, Lady Merion, previously the Dowager Lady Darent, had swept through the chilly corridors of Darent Hall like a summer breeze, warm from the glamour of London. And had taken undisputed charge. The sisters, together with Aunt Agnes, the elderly spinster who acted as their nominal chaperon, had been dispatched home to the Grange, |buried deep in Hampshire, there to wait out their year of mourning. They were to present themselves to her ladyship in Cavendish Square in February, six months from now. And what was to happen from that point on was, they all had been given to understand, very definitely in her ladyship’s competent hands. Reminiscing, Dorothea grinned. ‘She intends to present us.’ Noticing the sudden lift of the dark brows, she continued defensively, ‘Cecily is considered very beautiful and, I believe, should make a good match.’

‘And yourself?’

Suddenly inexplicably sensitive on this point, she believed she detected a derisive note in the smooth voice. She answered more categorically than she intended. ‘I am hardly ware for the marriage mart. I intend to enjoy my days in London seeing all the sights, and, if truth be known, watching those about me.’

She glanced up and was surprised by the intensity of the hazel gaze fixed unswervingly on her face. Then he smiled in such an enigmatic way that she was unsure whether it was intended for her or was purely introspective. A thought occurred. ‘Do you know Lady Merion?’

The smile deepened. ‘I should think all fashionable London knows Lady Merion. However, in my case, she’s a particularly close friend of my mother’s.’

‘Please, tell me what she’s like?’ It was his turn to be surprised. Seeing it, she rushed on, ‘You see, I’ve not met her since I was a child, except for the one night she spent at Darent Hall earlier this year, when she came to tell us we were to come to London.’

Hazelmere, reflecting that this conversation was undoubtedly the strangest he had ever conducted with a personable young lady, helped her over the stile and into the lane, then fell to considering Lady Merion. ‘Well, your grandmother has always been a leader of fashion, and is well connected with all the old tabbies who matter in London. She’s thick as thieves with Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy. Both are patronesses of Almack’s, to which you must gain entry if you wish to belong to the ton. In your case, that hurdle will not be a problem. Lady Merion is independently wealthy and lives in a mansion on Cavendish Square, left her by her second husband, George, Lord Merion. She married him some years after your grandfather’s death and he died about five years ago, I think. She’s something of a tartar, and a high stickler, so I would advise you not to attempt to wander London unattended! On the other hand, she has an excellent sense of humour and is known as being kind and generous to her friends. She’s in some ways eccentric and rarely leaves London except to visit friends in the country. All in all, I doubt you could find a lady more capable of launching you and your sister successfully into the ton.’

Dorothea pondered this potted biography, finally remarking in a pensive tone, ‘She did seem very fashionable.’

‘She is certainly that,’ he agreed.

They had reached a gate in the high stone wall that had bordered the lane for the last hundred yards. Dorothea stopped and reached for the basket. ‘These are the gardens of the Grange.’

‘Then I’ll leave you here,’ Hazelmere promptly replied. He had escorted her home purely to prolong his time in her company but had no wish to be seen with her. He knew too well the gossip and speculation which would inevitably spring from such a sighting. Expertly capturing her hand, he carried it to his lips, enjoying the spark of anger that flared in the green eyes and the blush that rose in response to his understanding smile. ‘But remember my warning! If you wish to keep in your grandmama’s good graces, don’t go about London unattended. Young ladies who venture the London streets alone won’t remain alone for long. Farewell, Miss Darent.’

Released, Dorothea opened the gate and made good her escape.

She hurried through the garden, for once unconscious of the heady scents rising from the rioting flowers. The long shadows cast by the ancient roof of the Grange fell across the path, heralding the end of the day. She stopped in the garden hall; the coolness of the dim, stone-flagged room brought relief to her burning cheeks. The clattering steps of the housemaid sounded in the passageway. Moving to the door, she called her in.

‘Take these berries to Cook, please, Doris. And after that you can lay out the meadowsweet on the drying racks.’ With a wave of her hand she indicated the wooden frames covered with tightly stretched muslin lying on the bench along one side of the room.

As an afterthought, she added, ‘And please tell my aunt I’ve gone to lie on my bed until dinner. I think I must have a touch of the sun.’ More accurately, a touch of the Marquis of Hazelmere! she thought furiously. Successfully negotiating the passageway and stairs undetected, she closed her bedchamber door and sank on to the window-seat.

Gazing over the now deeply shadowed garden, she struggled to bring some order to a mind still seething. Ridiculous! She had left the Grange a serenely confident twenty-two-year-old, entirely secure in her independent world. Yet here she was, a scant hour later, feeling, she suspected, as Cecily might if the Squire’s son had made eyes at her! It was not as if she had never been kissed before. It shouldn’t make the slightest difference who was doing the kissing. The fact that it had made a great deal of difference exacerbated a temper already tried by a pair of hazel eyes. A pair of all too perceptive hazel eyes. She spent the next ten minutes reading herself a determined lecture on the inadvisability of forming an attachment for a rake.

Fortified, she forced herself to consider the matter in a more reasoning light. Undoubtedly she should feel outraged, ready to decry the Marquis as a licentious scoundrel. Yet, despite her irritation, she was too honest not to admit that her inappropriate attire was partly to blame. Moreover, she suspected that the response of a young lady on finding herself in the arms of the Marquis of Hazelmere should have been quite different from the way she had behaved. In her defence, she felt it should be noted that had she swooned in his arms he would have had little choice but to wait with her until she recovered. Then the situation would have been, if anything, worse. By following this train of thought, she convinced herself there had been nothing particularly reprehensible about the proceedings after Lord Hazelmere had released her. In fact, he had proved a valuable informant on the subject of her grandmother.

What continued to bother her were the events preceding her release from that far too familiar embrace. Her fingers strayed to her lips, which, despite his expertise, were slightly bruised. The memory of his hard body against hers was still a physical sensation. The clock on the landing struck the quarter-hour. She determinedly put her thoughts on the afternoon’s events aside, resolutely consigning the Marquis and all his works to the remotest corner of her mind. Nothing was more certain than that he would forget all about her by tomorrow.

Changing out of her old gown and into the freshly pressed sprigged muslin laid out for the warm evening, she gauged her chances of unwittingly running into him again. Well versed in the ways of the local gentry, she knew it would be all but impossible for him to meet her socially in the country. And, by his own admission, he was not in the habit of remaining over-long at Moreton Park. She told herself she was relieved. To make doubly sure her relief remained undisturbed, she resolved that, in future, she would ensure that her reluctant sister joined her on her rambles.

Picking up a brush, she attacked her long tresses vigorously before winding them up in a simple knot. She glanced quickly at her reflection in the mirror perched on her tallboy. Satisfied she had dealt sufficiently with the potential ramifications of the advent of the Marquis of Hazelmere into her life, she went downstairs to her dinner.

A FORTNIGHT LATER, returning to Hazelmere House, his mansion in Cavendish Square, situated almost directly opposite Merion House, the Marquis found a large pile of letters and invitations awaiting him. Sorting through them, he strolled into his library. Extracting an envelope of a particularly virulent shade of purple from the bundle, he held it at arm’s length to escape the cloying perfume emanating from it and groped for his quizzing glass. Recognising the flowery script of his latest mistress, a dazzling creature abundantly well endowed for her station in life, his black brows drew together. He opened the letter and scanned the few lines within. The black brows rose. A smile of a kind Dorothea Darent would not have recognised twisted the mobile lips. Throwing both letter and envelope into the fire, he turned to his desk.

The footman who answered the summons of the library bell ten minutes later found his master fixing his seal to a letter. Glancing up as the door opened, Hazelmere waved the envelope to cool the wax, then held it out. ‘Deliver this by hand immediately.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

Watching the retreating back of the footman, Hazelmere considered the probable reception of his politely savage missive. Thus ended yet another affaire. Stretching his long legs to the fire, he fell to considering the constantly changing parade of his high-flying mistresses. While providing the ton with a stream of on-dits, he felt that the inevitability of the game was beginning to bore him. After more than ten years on the town, there were few fashionable vices he had not sampled and the pattern of his activities was becoming wearyingly predictable.

Thinking again of the discarded Cerise, he compared her ripe beauty with that of the green-eyed girl whose face had proved disturbingly haunting. His dissatisfaction with his present lot stemmed in large part from that encounter in Moreton Park woods. Entirely his own fault, of course.

Marc St John Ralton Henry, at thirty-one years of age the fifth Marquis of Hazelmere and one of the wealthiest peers of the realm, let his mind wander back to the first time he had heard Miss Darent’s name, during a conversation he had had with his great-aunt the night before she died. A remarkably forthright old lady, she had fixed him with a steely look and embarked on an inquisition as to his marital intentions. This had been prefaced by the remark, ‘I know your mother won’t mention this, so I’m takin’ advantage of the fact that, as I’m dying, you can’t very well tell me to go to the devil!’

Appreciative of the ploy and having admitted he had no present plans in the matter, he had settled down to listen with good grace to the subsequent dissertation, something he would not have done had it been anyone else.

‘Can’t say I blame you for not wanting to marry any of these namby-pamby misses presented every year,’ she’d snorted derisively. ‘Can’t abide such ninny-hammers myself! But why not look to wider fields? There’s plenty of suitable chits who for one reason or another have never made it to London.’

Catching sight of his sceptical face, she had continued, ‘Oh, you needn’t think that just because they’re country misses they couldn’t handle life in the ton. There’s Dorothea Darent, for one. Young, beautiful, well dowered and as well born as yourself. The only reason she hasn’t been presented is that she’s spent the last six years running her widowed mother’s household. Cynthia Darent should be kicked for not bringing her out years ago!’ Here Great-Aunt Etta had paused, musing on the sins of the late Lady Darent. ‘Well, it’s too late for that now, ‘cause she’s dead.’

‘Who? The beautiful Dorothea?’ had asked Hazelmere, all at sea.

‘No, fool! Cynthia! She died a few months ago and the girls have gone to Darent Hall for a while. Pity. I should have liked to see Dorothea again. No namby-pamby miss, that one!’

‘How is it that, despite never having been presented, this paragon is not yet wed? Surely the country gentlemen are not such slowtops?’

Great-Aunt Etta had chuckled. ‘I rather suspect that’s because no gentleman has yet shown her any good reason to marry! Look at it from her point of view. She’s got position enough, wealth enough and her independence to boot. Why get married?’

He had grinned back, responding to the laughter in the old lady’s eyes. ‘I dare say I could make a few suggestions.’

‘Yes, I dare say you could! But that’s neither here nor there, for you’re not likely to meet her. Unless Hermione Merion takes an interest. I’ve written to her, so she may do. There’s Cecily too. The younger sister, and another beauty, though of a different style. She’ll have to be brought out, too. But Cecily would try the patience of a saint. And, as you definitely ain’t one, she won’t do for you. But enough of the Darent sisters. I merely give them as examples.’ And so the conversation had moved on.

The idea that Great-Aunt Etta had, in fact, been trying to make him look at Dorothea Darent as a potential wife had occurred to him shortly after he met that remarkable young lady.

Over the past ten years he had steadfastly refused to seriously consider any of the flighty young females paraded for his approval at Almack’s and the ton parties. This had caused considerable consternation among other family members, notably his two older sisters, Maria and Susan, who were constantly pushing one or other of their favoured aspirants in his way. His stance had been fully supported by his mother and Great-Aunt Etta, both of whom seemed to understand the almost suffocating boredom he felt within minutes of attempting to converse with the latest simpering and apparently witless offerings. He knew his mother longed for him to marry but had reputedly told an acquaintance that unless they changed the prevailing fashion in débutantes she never expected to see it. As for Great-Aunt Etta, she had never said a word to him on the subject until that night.

Given that Great-Aunt Etta had known him every bit as well as his mother, it was perfectly possible that she had intended to draw his attention to Miss Darent. She would never have been so gauche as to approach the matter directly, knowing that the most likely outcome by that route was polite and chilly refusal to have anything to do with the chit. Instead she had introduced her name in a roundabout fashion, merely telling him that the girl was in every way suitable, but leaving him to make his own ground. Very like Great-Aunt Etta! Well, Great-Aunt Etta, he mused with a smile, I’ve met your Dorothea, and in a more effective way than I think even you would have dreamt of!

CHAPTER TWO

A LOW MOAN brought Dorothea’s head around sharply to peer through the dim light at her sister, curled in the opposite corner of the carriage. Cecily’s eyes were shut but the line between her fair brows showed clearly that she was far from sleep. She moved her head restlessly on the squabs. The coach lurched into a rut as the horses’ hoofs skidded on the icy road. Dorothea caught the swinging strap to stop herself from being thrown. As the coach ponderously righted itself and resumed its steady progress she saw that Cecily had drawn herself up into a tight ball and wedged herself firmly into the corner, her face turned away.

Dorothea returned her attention to the dreary landscape, glimpsed fitfully through the bare branches of the trees and hedges lining the road. The grey February afternoon was closing in. The patter of drizzle on the coach windows punctuated the stillness within. Then, rising like a castle through the gathering gloom, standing on a crest surrounded by the dark shadows of its windbreaks, loomed the Three Feathers Inn. As it was just over halfway to London from the Grange, situated on the Bath Road, she had chosen it as their overnight stop. If it had been only herself travelling to London she would have made the journey in a single day. But Cecily was a poor traveller. With luck, their slow pace broken by a night’s rest would allow her to arrive in Cavendish Square in a fit state to greet their grandmother.

The only other occupant of the carriage was their middle-aged maid, Betsy, who had tended them from the cradle. She dozed lightly, enveloped in woollen shawls on the seat facing Dorothea. After much consideration, Aunt Agnes had been left behind. There had been nothing specific in Lady Merion’s letter summoning them to London, but the discussions at Darent Hall had clearly been on the unspoken understanding that Aunt Agnes would continue to do her duty and escort her charges to Cavendish Square. However, Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism was legendary, and Dorothea had no wish to saddle herself with the querulous, though much loved old lady, either on the road to London or once they were arrived, supposedly to enjoy themselves. Furthermore, Aunt Agnes’s opinions on men, of whatever station, were dampening in the extreme. Dorothea thought it unlikely that her presence would aid in the push to find Cecily a husband. Nevertheless, her polite note to Lady Merion, informing her of their expected date of arrival, had made no reference whatever to Aunt Agnes.

The coach lumbered on through the steadily thickening mists. It had been overcast all day, but for the most part the rain had held off, much to the relief of their coachman, Lang. The journey to London with the roads only just cleared was always a risky business. Wrapped in his thick frieze coat, he was deeply relieved to turn his team in under the arch of the inn. It was a large establishment, one of the busiest posting houses in the district. The main yard was devoted primarily to travellers changing horses or temporarily halting. The large travelling carriage rumbled through and on under another archway into the coachyard. Ostlers ran to free the steaming horses, and the landlord came forward to assist the sisters into the inn.

Here, however, a problem lay waiting.

While they warmed themselves before the roaring fire in a snug, low-ceilinged parlour Mr Simms apologised profusely. ‘There’s a prize-fight on in the village, miss. We’re booked out. I’ve kept a bedchamber for you, but I’m afraid there’s no hope of a private parlour.’ The rubicund landlord, middle-aged, with daughters of his own, eyed the young ladies anxiously.

Dorothea drew a deep breath. After travelling at a snail’s pace all day she did not really care what was going forward in the neighbourhood, as long as she and Cecily were adequately housed for the night. She automatically appraised the neat and spotlessly clean room. At least there would be no danger of damp sheets or poorly cooked food in this house. There was no point in being overly distressed by the lack of a parlour. Drawing herself to her full height, she nodded to the clearly worried Simms. ‘Very well. I see it can’t be helped. Will you please show us to our bedchamber?’

Mr Simms had correctly guessed the Darent sisters’ station from Dorothea’s letter requesting bedchambers and parlour. While he rarely criticised the ways of his clients, he thought it a crying shame that two such pretty young ladies were travelling escorted only by servants. He led them up to the bedchamber he had had prepared for them. Experience of the goings-on likely to occur within his house before the night was through had led him to house them in the large bedchamber on the north side of the inn. This was the oldest part of the rambling building, isolated from the rest, and reached only by a separate stairway close to his private domain.

Arriving, puffing, on the landing, he threw open a stout door. ‘I’ve put you in this bedchamber here, miss, because it’s out of the way, like. The inn will soon be fair to burstin’ with all the young gentlemen been to see the fight. My missus says to tell ye to stay put in your chamber and lock the door and she’ll see to it that only she and my daughter come up with your meals and suchlike. That road, we’ll all like as not avoid any unpleasantness. I’ll have your bags brought up in a jiffy, miss.’ With these words Simms bowed and retreated, leaving Dorothea, brows flying, and Cecily, pathetically pale, staring at each other in consternation.

‘Oh, my!’ said Betsy, sinking down on one of the chairs by the fire, eyes round with dismay. ‘Maybe we should travel on, Miss Dorothea. I’m sure your grandma wouldn’t like you staying at an inn with all these rowdy, boisterous, ramshackle lads, miss!’

‘I don’t believe there’s any other inn near, Betsy. And after all, as the landlord says, if we keep the door locked and stay in our room, surely we’ll come to no harm?’ Dorothea spoke in her normal calm tones, drawing off her gloves and dropping her travelling cloak over a chair. After her momentary dismay, undoubtedly due to tiredness, she was inclined to dismiss the situation.

‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, Thea, I would much rather stay here than try to go on,’ said Cecily.

The thin, reedy voice clearly conveyed to Dorothea just how unwell her sister was feeling. She walked briskly to the bed and turned down the coverlet. The sheets were dry and clean. She plumped up the pillows invitingly. ‘And so we shall, my love! Why not curl up on the bed until dinner arrives? I must confess, I’m not convinced that removing from here wouldn’t land us in a worse pickle than the one we’re in at present.’

A tentative knock came at the door. ‘Who is it?’ said Betsy, rising.

‘It’s only me, ma’am. Hannah, the landlord’s daughter.’

Betsy opened the door to reveal a stout damsel with a mob-cap perched above a comely face. ‘My mum will have the dinner ready shortly, but she was wanting to know if you needed anything else, ma’am?’ Hannah hefted the sisters’ bags into the room and stood looking enquiringly at Dorothea.

‘Why, yes! We’d like some warm water, and could a truckle-bed be put up in here for our maid? I’d rather she spent the night with us.’

The girl nodded. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes, ma’am.’

Five minutes later Hannah was back with a jug of steaming water and a truckle-bed in bits. While she and Betsy struggled with this contraption Dorothea and Cecily washed the dust of the road from their faces and felt considerably better. Finally conquering the recalcitrant truckle-bed, Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and addressed Dorothea. ‘I’ll be back in half’n hour with your dinner, miss. Be you sure to lock the door after me.’

Dorothea murmured her thanks as the bolts slid to behind the helpful Hannah. Cecily, drowsy, curled up on the bed. Betsy sat by the fire, working on some sewing she had brought with her to while away the time.

Now that her immediate needs were satisfied, Dorothea prowled the room, restless and cramped. After a day spent in the carriage, she longed to get just one breath of fresh air before a night spent within the airless cocoon of the bedchamber. Suddenly she remembered Lang. With Cecily as passenger, they would normally leave mid-morning. However, her limited knowledge of prize-fights and their aftermath suggested that an early departure might be preferable. She looked out of the window, but this faced the back of the inn. She could hear no noise or ruckus to suggest that the audience from the fight had arrived.

Quickly she crossed to Betsy’s side. ‘I’m just going down to see Lang. We should make an early start tomorrow to avoid the crush.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘You stay here and watch over Cecily. I’ll only be a moment.’

Before Betsy could protest she picked up her old travelling cloak and whisked herself out of the door. She paused on the landing to fasten the cloak. Sounds of ribald laughter came, muted, from where she supposed the taproom to be. She made her way quietly down the stairs and along the corridor in the opposite direction, eventually reaching the door giving on to the coaching yard. Here she found a mêlée of ostlers and horses. Pausing in the shadows, she scanned the area, trying to locate Lang. He was nowhere to be seen. Remembering that private grooms often helped the ostlers at times like these, she ventured to the archway and peeked into the main stableyard.

‘My, my! What have we here? A pretty young thing, come to help us celebrate!’

She gasped. The sensation of an arm slipping around her waist made her heart stand still, but instead of hazel eyes lazily regarding her she found herself looking into a vacuous face with cherubic blue eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. The man holding her had been drinking but he was not altogether drunk.

He dragged her, struggling furiously, around the corner to fetch up within a riotous group of seven semi-drunk gentlemen, intent on a night of carousing, having watched their favourite win the fight. Dorothea realised her mistake too late. The main yard of the inn was full to overflowing. One of the men reached out and flicked her hood back, and the light from the inn’s main door fell full on her face. She tried desperately to pull free, but the young man had a good grip on her arm. She winced as it tightened.

Immediately a drawling voice cut through the clamour. ‘Do let the lady go, Tremlow. She is known to me and I really cannot let you embarrass her further.’

Recognising the voice, Dorothea wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

The effect of the statement was instantaneous. The hold on her arm was immediately withdrawn as the dark shadow of the Marquis of Hazelmere materialised at the edge of the group.

‘Oh! Sorry, Hazelmere! No idea she was a lady.’

This last sentence, uttered sotto voce, made Dorothea’s cheeks burn. She pulled up her hood as the men in the group peered to see which lady could thus claim Hazelmere’s protection.

The Marquis, unhurriedly strolling across the group to her side, largely obscured her from view. Arriving beside her, he turned to the group and continued in the same languid tone, ‘I feel sure you would all like to offer your apologies for any embarrassment you have, however unwittingly, caused the lady.’

A chorus of, ‘Oh, yes! Definitely! Apologies, ma’am! No offence intended, y’know!’ greeted this bald statement.

Simms, having noticed the problem rather late in the day, now hung on the fringe of the group, waiting to render any assistance at all to one of his most valued customers. The Marquis’s eye alighted on him. ‘Ah, Simms! A round of ale for these gentlemen after this slight misunderstanding, don’t you think?’

Simms took the hint. ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly! If you gentlemen would like to come this way I’ve a hogshead of a new brew I’d much appreciate your comments on.’ With this treat on offer, he had little difficulty in herding the group towards the taproom.

As they moved away Anthony, Lord Fanshawe appeared at his friend’s side, a questioning lift to his brows. One moment he had been walking across the stableyard beside Hazelmere, heading towards a hot dinner, when Marc had suddenly stopped, uttered one furious oath and then plunged through the crowd towards a small group of revellers near the coachyard. Although nearly as tall as his friend, with Marc ahead of him, he had had no chance to see what had attracted his attention. As he drew closer he heard Marc at his most languid. He assumed there was a lady in it somewhere, but it was only when Hazelmere turned to address some remark behind him that he realised he was effectively protecting her from the eyes of the stableyard.

Hazelmere turned to him. ‘Check they’re all in, will you, Tony? I’ll join you in the parlour in a few minutes.’

Fanshawe nodded and without a word turned back towards the inn. The languid tones had disappeared entirely, replaced by Hazelmere’s normal speech with the consonants somewhat clipped. That single glimpse of his childhood friend’s face had confirmed his suspicion. The Marquis of Hazelmere was in a towering rage.

As he had reached her side Hazelmere had unobtrusively taken Dorothea’s arm, initially holding her beside him. When the group had made their apologies and moved away he drew her back so that she was shielded by his height and the voluminous driving cloak which hung in many tiers of capes from his broad shoulders. Conscious only of a desperate need to quit the scene, she tried to retreat into the coachyard. He turned but did not release her. With the light behind him, his face was unreadable. ‘One moment and I’ll escort you indoors. I’d like a word with you.’

Even to Dorothea, unwise in the ways of the Marquis, the words had an ominous ring. She was furious with herself for falling into this scrape and mortified that, of all men, it should be Hazelmere who had rescued her from it. And in such a way!

He turned back to speak briefly with another tall man who came up. Then, much to her relief, as her legs felt strangely weak, he ushered her into the coachyard.

Once in the comparative privacy of the rapidly clearing inner yard, he stopped and drew her around to face him. She almost gasped as the light from the inn door lit his face. The hazel eyes were hard and reflected the light from the inn; his lips were set in an uncompromising line. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was furious, and equally obvious that she was the object of his wrath. ‘And what, may I ask, were you attempting to accomplish out there?’ The sarcastic tones stung like a whip.

Far from being cowed, Dorothea immediately took umbrage. She flung up her head and her eyes snapped back. ‘I was seeking my coachman, if you must know, to tell him I wish to leave this inn very early tomorrow, to avoid precisely the sort of attention that I was most regrettably unable to avoid tonight!’ She was slightly breathless by the end of this speech, but continued to give the odious Marquis back look for look.

His eyes narrowed. After a slight pause he continued in less harsh tones, ‘It seems very remiss of Simms not to have warned you to keep to your chamber with your door locked.’

She had to swallow before she was able to answer, but she managed to return his hard gaze. ‘He did tell me.’

The expression on his face became even stonier. ‘I can only marvel at your lack of care for your own reputation. I’ve already warned you that your hoydenish ways will not do in wider society.’ He had grasped both her arms just above the elbow in a far from gentle grip. For one appalled moment she thought he was going to shake her. Instead, after a pause heavy with tension, he spoke again, his tone a study in suppressed fury. ‘I can only repeat what I’ve said before: under no circumstances whatever should you venture outside unattended! And add a rider to the effect that if I ever find you alone like that again I will personally ensure that you won’t sit down for a sennight!’

She gasped, green eyes wide in utter disbelief, whereupon he continued, his tone savage, ‘Oh, yes! I’m quite capable of doing so.’

Looking up into the implacable face, the hazel eyes almost black, she realised that the threat was no bluff. But by now she was every bit as angry as he was. By what right did this imperious man order her around and threaten her? Imperious, arrogant and totally insufferable! Normally the most collected of women, she struggled to shackle her anger and direct it specifically towards its source.

But Hazelmere gave her no time to vent her fury. Becoming aware that he was still holding her in full view of the coachyard, thankfully almost deserted, he abruptly turned her towards the inn and, one hand hard at her elbow, swept her indoors. ‘Which chamber has Simms put you in?’

Unable as yet to command her tongue, Dorothea indicated the door at the top of the small stairway.

‘Very wise! That’s probably the safest chamber in the inn tonight. You may not have a peaceful night, but with luck it should be free of unwelcome interruptions.’

Glancing at her furious white face and over-bright eyes, Hazelmere drew her on to the stairs. On the second step she swung around, thinking to give him a piece of her mind while he was on the lower step and not towering over her. But, correctly guessing her intention, he had slipped past her and continued to draw her upwards on to the small landing.

The landlord suddenly appeared in the corridor, heading for the back of the inn.

‘Simms!’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘A glass of your best brandy. At once.’

‘Yes, m’lord!’

Dorothea thought the request extremely odd, but dismissed it as yet another example of his lordship’s vagaries. She was more concerned with giving voice to her frustrations. Turning to face him across the small landing, she was disturbingly aware of his presence so close, and disliked having to look up such a long way to meet his eyes.

‘Lord Hazelmere! I must tell you that I find your manner of addressing me quite unacceptable! I do not at all accept your strictures on my conduct. Indeed, I do not know by what right you make them. Tonight was an unfortunate accident, that’s all. I’m quite capable of looking after myself—’

‘Would you really rather I had left you in the hands of Tremlow and company? You wouldn’t have found it entertaining, I assure you.’ Hazelmere, deciding that she could not be allowed to talk herself into hysterics, broke in smoothly over her diatribe. His words, uttered in a stonily bored tone, acted like a cold douche, effectively stopping her in mid-sentence.

He was again afforded a view of her thoughts as they passed clearly over her face. He watched the realisation that it was, in fact, due to him that she was not at this moment in quite desperate straits finally sink in. He had not thought it possible, but she paled even further. Watching her closely, he saw Simms approaching. He took the proffered glass, dismissing the landlord with a curt nod and the words, ‘I’ll want to speak to you in a few minutes, Simms.’ Turning, he held out the glass to her. ‘Drink it.’

‘No. I don’t drink brandy.’

‘There is always a first time.’

When she continued to look rebelliously at him he sighed and explained. ‘Whether you know it or not, you’re exhibiting all the symptoms of shock. You’re white as a sheet and your eyes look like green diamonds. Soon you’ll start to shake, and feel faint and very cold. The brandy will help. So be a good girl and drink it. If you won’t, you know perfectly well I’m quite capable of forcing you to.’

The glittering green eyes widened slightly. There had been no change in his tone and she felt no direct menace, as she had before. Then, looking into his eyes, she gave up the unequal struggle. She took the glass and, shivering slightly, raised it to her lips and sipped. Hazelmere waited patiently until she drained the glass, then removed it from her hands and dropped it into one of his cloak pockets.

As she looked up he remembered her unfinished errand. ‘I take it you’re travelling to London?’

She nodded. His face had softened, the harshly arrogant lines of ten minutes before had receded, leaving the charmingly polite mask she suspected he showed the world. She felt as if he had, in some subtle way, withdrawn from her.

‘What’s the name of your coachman?’

‘Lang. I’d thought to leave at eight.’

‘Very sensible. I’ll see he gets the message. I suggest you enter your chamber, lock the door and don’t open it to anyone other than the landlord’s people.’ The tone was calm, with no hint of any emotion whatever.

‘Yes. Very well.’ She was completely bemused. Her head was whirling—shock, fury, brandy and the Marquis of Hazelmere combining to make her distinctly befuddled. She pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple, forcing her mind to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘Good! Try to get some sleep. And one more thing: tell Lady Merion I’ll call on her the day after tomorrow.’

She nodded and moved to the door, then turned back. Still angry, she knew she was beholden to him, and pride forbade her to leave without thanking him, however little inclined she was to do so. She drew a deep breath and, head held high, began. ‘My lord, I must thank you for your help in releasing me from those gentlemen.’ Lifting her eyes to his, she found that this bland statement had brought the most devastatingly attractive smile to his face.

Wholly appreciative of the effort the words had cost, he replied, his voice light, ‘Yes, you must, I’m afraid. But never mind. Once you’re in London, I’m sure you’ll find opportunities aplenty to make me sorry for my subsequent odiously overbearing behaviour.’ One dark brow rose at the end of this outrageous speech, the hazel eyes, gently and not unkindly, quizzing her. The answering blaze of green fire made him laugh. Hearing voices below, he reached out a finger to caress her cheek gently, saying more pointedly, ‘Goodnight, Miss Darent!’

Speechless, she whirled away from him and knocked on the door. ‘Betsy, it’s me. Dorothea.’

Hazelmere, lips curving in a smile that, had she seen it, would have reduced Dorothea to a state of quivering uncertainty, drew back into the shadows as the door opened with an alacrity which spoke louder than words of the fears of those inside.

‘Heavens, miss! Come you in quick; you look white as a sheet, you do!’ Dorothea was drawn into the room and the door shut.

Hazelmere waited until he heard the bolts shot home, then made his way, pensively, downstairs. At the back door, he encountered Simms.

‘Simms, I have a problem.’

‘M’lord?’

‘I want to make sure those ladies are not disturbed tonight. You don’t perchance have a large burly cousin lying about, who could take up sentry duty on that stair?’

Simms grinned as he saw the gold sovereign in his lordship’s long fingers. ‘Well, as it happens, m’lord, my oldest boy has the most dreadful toothache. He’s been mooning about in the kitchen all day. I’m sure he could do sentry duty, seeing as you ask.’

‘Excellent.’ The coin changed hands. ‘And Simms?’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘I’d like to be sure those ladies get the very best of treatment.’

‘Of course, m’lord. My wife’s about to take their supper up to them now.’

Hazelmere nodded and wandered out to the middle of the coachyard, looking up at the stars, twinkling now that the clouds had cleared. He paused, apparently lost in thought. Jim Hitchin, his groom, stood a few yards away, waiting until his master acknowledged him. He had been Hazelmere’s personal groom ever since the young Lord had required one. Well acquainted with his employer’s foibles, he waited patiently. Hazelmere stretched and turned. ‘Jim?’

‘M’lord?’

‘I want you to find a coachman staying here, name of Lang, coachman to the Misses Darent. Miss Darent wishes to leave at eight tomorrow, to avoid the inevitable action around here. She obviously cannot deliver the message in person.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘And Jim?’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘Tomorrow morning the Darent party is to leave here by eight. If there’s any difficulty in achieving that departure I want you to see I’m summoned. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘Wonderful. Goodnight, Jim.’

Jim departed, not the least averse to an early morning if it led to a clear sight of this Miss Darent. He had witnessed, distantly, the exchange in the coachyard. To his mind, his lordship was not behaving in his usual manner. Losing his temper with young ladies was definitely not his style. Jim was burning to see what the lady who could throw his master off balance looked like.

Hazelmere, fortunately oblivious to the speculations of his underling, strolled back through the main entrance of the inn and paused outside the open taproom door. Noise, like a cloud, rolled out over the threshold to greet him. Through a bluish haze of tobacco smoke he saw the group of young blades from whom he had rescued Dorothea standing at the end of the bar. It took him longer to locate the last of their number, seated at a small table in the corner, deep in conversation with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe. After considering the scene for a moment, he walked on to the private parlour he always had when staying at the Feathers. Entering, he saw Fanshawe, feet up on the table, carefully peeling an apple.

Fanshawe looked up with a grin. ‘Ho! So there you are! I was wondering whether it’d be prudent to come and rescue you.’

A ghost of a smile greeted this sally. ‘I had a few errands to attend to after returning Miss Darent to her room.’ Hazelmere removed his driving cloak, remembering to extract the glass from the pocket before he threw it on a chair. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘And who the hell is this mysterious Miss Darent?’

The Marquis raised his black brows. ‘No mystery. She lives at the Grange, which borders Moreton Park. She and her sister are travelling to London to stay with their grandmother, Lady Merion.’

‘I see. How is it, I ask myself, that I’ve never heard of the girl, much less set eyes on her?’

‘Simple. She’s lived all her life in the country and hasn’t moved in the circles we frequent.’

Fanshawe finished his apple and swung his feet down from the table as the door opened to admit Simms, bearing trays loaded with food. ‘At last!’ he cried. ‘I’m famished.’

Simms placed the platters on the table and, checking that all was in order, turned to Hazelmere.

‘Everything’s taken care of, m’lord, as you requested.’

Hazelmere nodded his thanks, and Simms retired. Fanshawe looked up from heaping his plate, but said nothing.

The friends took their meal in companionable silence. They had quite literally grown up together, being born on neighbouring estates within a month of each other, and had shared their schooldays at Eton and, later, Oxford. During their past ten years on the town the bond between the Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe had become almost a byword. Over the years there had been few secrets between them, yet, for reasons he did not care to examine, Hazelmere had omitted to mention his acquaintance with Dorothea Darent to his closest friend.

Once the platters were cleared and they had pushed their chairs back from the table, savouring the special claret brought up from the depths of Simms’s cellar, Fanshawe, dishevelled brown locks falling picturesquely over his brow, returned to the offensive. ‘It’s all too smoky by half.’

Resigned to the inevitable, Hazelmere nevertheless countered with an innocent, ‘What’s too smoky by half?’

‘You and this Miss Darent.’

‘But why?’ The clear hazel eyes, apparently guileless, were opened wide, but the thin lips twitched.

Fanshawe frowned direfully but agreed to play the game. ‘Well, for a start, as she doesn’t move in the circles we frequent, tell me how you met her.’

‘We met only once, informally.’

‘When?’

‘Some time last August, when I was at Moreton Park.’

The brown eyes narrowed. ‘But I visited you at Moreton Park last August, and I distinctly remember you telling me such game was very scarce.’

‘Ah, yes,’ mused Hazelmere, long fingers caressing the stem of the goblet. ‘I do recall saying some such thing.’

‘And I suppose Miss Darent just happened to slip your mind at the time?’

The Marquis smiled provokingly. ‘As you say, Tony.’

‘No, dash it all! You can’t possibly expect me to swallow that. And if I won’t swallow it no one else will either. And, as that fellow Ruscombe’s about somewhere, you’re going to have to come up with a better explanation. Unless,’ he concluded sarcastically, ‘you want all London agog?’

At that the dark brows rose. Hazelmere drew a long breath. ‘Unfortunately you’re quite right.’ He still seemed absorbed in his study of the goblet. Fanshawe, who knew him better than anyone, waited patiently.

Sir Barnaby Ruscombe was a man tolerated by society’s hostesses purely on account of his trade in malicious gossip. There was no chance that he would abstain from telling the story of how Hazelmere had rescued a lady from a prize-fight crowd in an inn yard. The fact that Hazelmere was sure to dislike having his name bandied about in such context would ensure its dissemination throughout the ton. Although not in itself of much import, the story would reveal the interesting fact that the Marquis had some previous acquaintance with Miss Darent. And that, as Fanshawe was so eager to point out, would lead to complications.

After some minutes had passed in silence Hazelmere raised his eyes. ‘Confessions of a rake, I’m afraid,’ he said, both voice and features gently self-mocking. Seeing the surprise in Fanshawe’s brown eyes, he continued, ‘This time the truth will definitely not do. The details of my only previous meeting with Miss Darent would keep the scandalmongers in alt for weeks.’

Tony Fanshawe was amazed. Whatever he had expected, it was not that. He knew, none better, that, while Hazelmere’s affaires among the demi-monde might be legion, his behaviour with women of his own class was rigidly correct. Then he thought he saw the light. ‘I take it you mean that when you met her in the country she was unchaperoned?’

The curious smile on Hazelmere’s lips deepened. The hazel eyes held Fanshawe’s for a moment, before dropping to the goblet once more. ‘I am, naturally, devastated to contradict you. You’re right in assuming we were unchaperoned. But what I meant is, if the truth ever became public property Miss Darent would be hopelessly compromised and I, in all honour, would be forced to marry her.’

It was not possible to misinterpret that. ‘Good lord!’ said Fanshawe, thoroughly intrigued. ‘Whatever did you do?’

Hazelmere, sensing the wild speculations running through his mind, hastened to bring him back to earth. ‘Control your satyric imaginings! I kissed her, if you must know.’

‘Oh?’ Fanshawe was positively agog.

Feeling horrendously like a schoolboy describing to his more backward friends the details of his first encounter with a wench, Hazelmere regarded him with amusement tinged with irritation. Correctly interpreting the slightly awed expression in the brown eyes, he nodded. ‘Precisely. Not a peck on the cheek.’

Fanshawe stared at Hazelmere for a full minute before saying, his voice quavering with suppressed incredulity, ‘Do you mean to say you kissed her as you would one of your mistresses?’ Hazelmere’s brows merely rose. ‘No! Dash it all! You can’t go around kissing young ladies as if they were bordello misses!’

‘Perfectly true. The fact, however, remains, that in Miss Darent’s case I did.’

Fanshawe blinked. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why. But he could not quite bring himself to enquire. Instead he asked, ‘How long did she take to come out of her faint?’

‘Oh, she didn’t faint,’ replied Hazelmere, the smile in his eyes pronounced. ‘She tried to slap me.’

Fanshawe was fascinated. ‘I must meet this Miss Darent for myself. She sounds a remarkable young lady.’

‘You can meet her in London shortly. Just remember who met her first.’

And that, thought Tony Fanshawe, is a very revealing comment. He sighed, exasperated. ‘If that’s not just like you, to find all the choicest morsels before anyone else has laid eyes on ‘em. I don’t suppose she has a sister?’

‘She does, as it happens. Just turned seventeen and a stunning blonde.’

‘So there’s hope for the rest of us yet.’ Abruptly eschewing their light banter, he returned to the serious side of the affair. ‘How are you going to account for your knowing Miss Darent?’

‘She’s Lady Merion’s granddaughter, remember? I’ll call at Merion House as soon as we get back to town and, figuratively speaking, throw myself on her ladyship’s mercy.’ He paused to sip his wine. ‘It shouldn’t be beyond us to concoct some believable tale.’

‘Provided she’s willing to overlook your behaviour with her granddaughter,’ Fanshawe pointed out.

‘I rather think,’ said Hazelmere, his gaze abstracted, ‘that it’s more likely to be a case of Miss Darent being willing to overlook my behaviour.’

‘You mean, she might try and use it against you?’

The hazel gaze abruptly focused. Then, understanding his reasoning, Hazelmere gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘No. What I mean is that, although she was furious with me, I’m not sure she’ll tell Lady Merion the full story.’

Fanshawe mulled this over, then shook his head. ‘Can’t see it, myself. You know what the young ones are like. Paint you in all sorts of romantic shades. The chit will probably have blabbed it all to at least three of her bosom bows before you even get to see Lady Merion!’

The strangely elusive smile that kept appearing on Hazelmere’s face was again in evidence. ‘In this case, I think it unlikely.’

A thought struck Fanshawe. ‘The girl’s not an antidote, is she?’

‘No. Not beautiful, but she’d be strikingly attractive if properly gowned.’

‘You mean, she wasn’t properly gowned when you met her?’

A soft laugh escaped Hazelmere. ‘Not exactly.’

Reluctantly Fanshawe decided not to pursue it. He was consumed by curiosity but slightly scandalised by the revelations thus far. He had never known Hazelmere in this sort of fix, nor in this sort of mood. For the first time in his life he was sure that Marc was hiding something.

Hazelmere volunteered a few more pieces of the puzzle. ‘She’s twenty-two, and sensible and practical. She didn’t faint, nor did she enact me any scenes. If I’d allowed it she would have terminated our interview a great deal sooner. Tonight, instead of falling on my chest and thanking me for deliverance from the hands of Tremlow and company, she very nearly told me to go to the devil. In short, I doubt that Miss Darent is in the least danger of succumbing to the Marquis of Hazelmere’s wicked charms.’

Fanshawe gaped. ‘Oh. I see.’ But he did not see at all.

Unfortunately he had no more time to pursue the matter. A sharp knock on the door heralded the arrival of a group of their friends, come late from the field. More wine was called for and the conversation took a decidedly sporting turn. It was not until much later that Tony Fanshawe recalled his conviction that Marc Henry was concealing something from his childhood friend.

CHAPTER THREE

EARLY NEXT MORNING, before the appointed time and without further incident, the Grange party set off from the Three Feathers, watched, appreciatively, by Jim Hitchin.

The day was cool but the thaw had set in. The roads improved as they neared the capital, so the motion of the coach was more even and their progress noticeably more rapid. Dorothea was in a subdued frame of mind. On her return to their chamber the evening before she had been subjected to a barrage of questions from Cecily and Betsy. Her head still swimming, she had let the tide flow over her, knowing from experience that silence would more effectively stop the inquisition than any argument. This time, her normal stratagem had failed. The questions had continued until she lost her temper. ‘Oh, do stop fussing, both of you! If you must know, I had an encounter with an extremely impertinent gentleman on my way back from the coachyard, and I’m quite vexed!’

Cecily, piqued at her subsequent refusal to recount the incident, had only been diverted by the appearance of their meal. In August, in a moment of ill-judged candour, Dorothea had told her sister of her impromptu meeting with Lord Hazelmere in the woods. The memory of the tortuous explanations she had had to fabricate to conceal from Cecily’s avid interest the full tale of that encounter had ensured that this time she easily refrained from blurting out the name of the gentleman involved. In no circumstances could she have endured another such ordeal. Not when she was feeling so unusually exhausted.

She had had little appetite, but to admit this would only have reopened the discussion. So she had forced herself to eat some pigeon pie. After the brandy she had not dared to touch the wine. The meal completed, she had pointedly prepared for bed. Cecily, thankfully without comment, had done likewise.

A light sleeper, Dorothea had found it impossible to even doze until dawn, when the racket in the inn finally abated. She therefore had had ample time to reflect on her second encounter with the Marquis of Hazelmere. His calm assumption of authority irritated her deeply. His arrogant conviction that she would do exactly as he wished irked her beyond measure. The knowledge that, despite this, he possessed a strange attraction for her she resolutely pushed to the furthest corner of her mind. The last thing she felt inclined to do, she had sternly told herself, was to develop a tendre for the odious man! In all probability he would spend the night enjoying the favours of some doxy elsewhere in the inn. For some reason she found this thought absurdly depressing and, thoroughly annoyed with herself, had tried to compose her mind for sleep. Even then, when sleep finally came, it was haunted by a pair of hazel eyes.

Once they were under way, the swaying of the chaise quickly lulled her into slumber. She woke when they paused for lunch at a pretty little inn on the banks of the Thames. Only partially refreshed, she forced herself to consider how she was going to handle the coming interview with her grandmother. How, exactly, was she to broach the subject of Hazelmere and his promised visit? Back in the carriage, she dozed fitfully while her problems revolved like clockwork in her mind. She came fully awake when the wheels hit the cobbled streets. Gazing about, she was astonished by the hustle and bustle of life in the capital. As the carriage moved into the areas inhabited by the wealthier citizens the clamour was left behind, and both sisters were soon engaged in examining and pronouncing sentence on the elegant outfits they saw.

After asking directions, Lang finally drew up outside an imposing mansion on one side of a square in what was clearly one of the more fashionable areas. In the centre was an enclosed garden in which children and nursemaids were taking the late-afternoon air. The sun’s last rays were gilding the bare branches of the cherry trees there as the sisters were assisted from the carriage by the stately butler who had answered Lang’s knock.

Relieved of their cloaks and escorted to the upstairs drawing-room, the sisters made their curtsy to their fashionable grandmother. Lady Merion surged towards them, enveloping them in a mist of gauzes and perfume. Her blonde wig was perfectly set above a face still graced by traces of the pale beauty she had once been. Sharp blue eyes watched her world, set above a long straight nose and a mouth only too ready to laugh at what she saw.

‘My dears! I’m so glad to see you safely arrived! Now sit down and let me give you some tea. My chef, Henri, has sent up these delicacies to tempt you after your journey.’

Drawing them to sit around the fire, already burning brightly, Lady Merion noted that neither sister was looking her best. ‘Tonight we’ll have a very quiet time. You must both retire immediately after dinner. Tomorrow morning we’ve an appointment with Celestine, the most fashionable modiste in London. You must have recovered from your journey by then.’

As soon as they had eaten the delicious pastries and drunk their tea, Lady Merion rang the bell. It was answered by Witchett, a tall, angular woman with sparse grey hair whose peculiar talent in life lay in being able to turn out her elderly mistress in the most suitable of the currently fashionable styles. She was burning with curiosity to view the latest challenges to her skill. A quick glance at the Misses Darent told her that Mellow, the butler, had not exaggerated. In spite of their tiredness, their potential was apparent. The younger, properly dressed, would be a hit. And Miss Darent had that certain something that Witchett, a veteran campaigner, instantly recognised. The sisters were therefore favoured with a thin smile.

‘Ah, there you are, Witchett. Please conduct Miss Darent and Miss Cecily to their rooms. I suggest, my dears, that you rest before dinner. Witchett will see your things are unpacked, and she’ll take charge of your dressing until we can find suitable maids. Off with you, now.’ She dismissed them with a wave of one heavily beringed white hand.

They followed Witchett to two pretty bedchambers, obviously newly refurbished, Dorothea’s in a soft pastel green and Cecily’s in a delicate blue. Everything was already unpacked, and Witchett helped them undress. ‘I’ll return to assist you to dress for dinner, Miss Darent.’

Dorothea sank thankfully into the soft feather bed and immediately fell asleep.

LADY MERION had instructed her chef that a light and simple meal was all they required that evening. Consequently there were only three courses, each of some half a dozen dishes. Luckily both Dorothea and Cecily had recovered their appetites and were able to do justice to their first experience of the culinary delights of London.

Their grandmother was pleasantly surprised to find them considerably restored. Throughout dinner she monopolised the conversation. ‘First and by far the most important task is to have you both suitably gowned. For that, Celestine’s is first on our list. She’s the best known of Bruton Street’s modistes for good reason.’

Lady Merion had paid a visit to Celestine as soon as she had decided to launch her granddaughters into the ton. She had made it clear that she required that lady’s best efforts. Celestine had built her highly successful business through shrewd assessment of her clients’ abilities to display her creations in ton circles. Lady Merion’s granddaughters would be paraded at all the most exclusive venues. Having extracted a description of the young ladies, she had graciously agreed to do all possible to ensure their success.

‘Celestine’s talents are truly stupendous. After that, we’ll have to get your hair seen to, and I’ve organised a dancing master as well. I don’t expect you know the waltz?’ She paused to help herself to some buttered crab. ‘Once you’re presentable, our first outing will be a drive in the Park. We’ll go about three, which at this time of year is the right time to meet people. I’ll introduce you to a number of the leaders of the ton, and hopefully we can find some of the younger generation for you to make friends with. In particular, I hope we’ll meet Lady Jersey. Her nickname is “Silence”, because she chatters all the time. Don’t be put out if what she says seems rather odd. Princess Esterhazy should also be there. Both these ladies are patronesses of Almack’s. You need vouchers from them to attend. If you’re not admitted to Almack’s you may as well give up the Season and go home.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d no idea it was that important.’

‘Well, it is,’ answered her grandmother with absolute conviction. She continued in this style, pouring forth an abundance of information. Dorothea and Cecily listened avidly. Possessing a fair degree of common sense, they needed no urging to learn all they could of the mores and practices of the fashionable from their experienced grandmama before their first venture into the critical world of the ton.

At nine o’clock, seeing Cecily stifle a yawn, her ladyship brought her lecture to an end. ‘It’s time both of you were in bed. Ring for Witchett, Dorothea. She’ll help you change. Go along, now. You’ve had enough for one day.’

As the door shut behind the sleepy girls Lady Merion settled herself more comfortably in the corner of her elegant sofa. She was going to enjoy this Season. Lately, her accustomed routine of fashionable pleasures had been sadly lacking in excitement.

She had not spent over sixty years at the hub of aristocratic life without learning to gauge the qualities of those around her. Every bit as shrewd as she was fashionable, she had been agreeably impressed by her rustic granddaughters when she had met them, for the first time in many years, at Darent Hall. On the basis of one afternoon’s reacquaintance she had decided it would be highly diverting to unleash them on the ton. While she had little doubt she would become sincerely fond of them, her main purpose had been purely selfish. Now, having re-examined their fresh faces and charmingly assured manners, she wryly wondered whether she would be able to cope.

Thinking again of the girls, she frowned. Dorothea had seemed strangely preoccupied. Hopefully she had not conceived a tendre for some country gentleman. Still, even if she had, the delights of a London Season would soon distract her from her sleepy country past.

Her cogitations were interrupted by a knock on the door. Dorothea, clad in a delicate pink wrapper with her dark hair swirling over her shoulders, put her head around the door. Seeing her grandmother, she entered.

The fair brows over the sharp blue eyes rose to improbable heights. ‘Why, child, what’s the matter?’

‘Grandmama, there’s something I must tell you.’

Ah-ha! thought her ladyship. Now I’m going to find out what’s bothering her. She motioned Dorothea to sit next to her.

Sinking gracefully down, Dorothea fixed her eyes on the fire and calmly let fall her bombshell. ‘Well, for a start I have to tell you that the Marquis of Hazelmere will call on you tomorrow.’

‘Good gracious!’ The exclamation was forced from Lady Merion as she jerked bolt upright, her fascinated blue gaze riveted on her grandchild. ‘My dear, how on earth did you meet a man of Hazelmere’s stamp? I didn’t know your mother was acquainted with the Henrys.’

Hermione was conscious of a dreadful sinking feeling at the mere mention of Hazelmere’s name. Drat the boy! He’d been the bane of many a hopeful mother’s life, proving so fascinating to their impressionable daughters that there was no doing anything with the silly chits. As he had proved impervious to the charms of all but certain delectable members of the demi-monde, careful mothers were wont to advise their daughters that, in spite of his undoubted eligibility, Lord Hazelmere did not feature on their lists of likely suitors. Dorothea’s words had started all sorts of hares racing in her mind, but why Hazelmere would want an interview with herself was more than she could imagine. She settled herself so that she had an uninterrupted view of her granddaughter’s face. ‘Start at the beginning, child, or I’ll never understand.’

Conscious of the steady scrutiny, Dorothea nodded and carefully began. ‘Well, the first time I met Lord Hazelmere was while I was berrying in Moreton Park woods last August. He had recently inherited the estate from his great-aunt, Lady Moreton.’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ said her ladyship. ‘I knew Etta Moreton quite well. In fact, she wrote to me after your mother’s death, urging me to take a hand in your lives.’

‘Did she?’ That was news to Dorothea.

‘Mmm. But what happened when you met Hazelmere? I presume he made himself charming, as usual?’

Dorothea reminded herself that she had no idea how charming Hazelmere might be expected to be. She stuck to her edited story. ‘He introduced himself. Then, because I was unattended, he insisted on walking me home.’

Lady Merion, reading into her granddaughter’s careful tones rather more than Dorothea would have wished, leapt to a conclusion. ‘My dear, you needn’t be shy about telling me he made love to you shamelessly. He does it all the time. That devil can be utterly undeniable when the mood takes him.’

Her gaze wildly incredulous, Dorothea saw the crevasse yawning at her feet only just in time. Lady Merion had used the term ‘made love’ in the sense in which it was used in her heyday, to denote suggestive flirtation. Swallowing the words she had so nearly uttered, she forced her voice to calmness. ‘Charming? Actually, I found him rather arrogant.’

Her ladyship blinked at this cold assessment of one of society’s lions.

Dorothea hurried on. ‘I met Lord Hazelmere again at the inn last night.’

Lady Merion would have described herself as being inured to the ways of those around her. It was consequently with some surprise that she realised that her granddaughter, having been in the house for only a few hours, had managed to seriously shake her calm. She repeated weakly, ‘The Marquis was at the inn last night?’

‘Yes. And so were a large number of other gentlemen, because there’d been a prize-fight on near by.’

Lady Merion closed her eyes, asking herself what next this outrageous child would reveal. She received Dorothea’s carefully censored version of events at the inn in silence. She was, in fact, more than a little puzzled. While Hazelmere had acted most properly in rescuing Dorothea, his subsequent actions were much harder to understand. She could not see why he had been so angry. Highly unlike him to lose his temper at all, let alone with a chit he hardly knew.

Aware that Dorothea was waiting for her verdict, she put the puzzle of Hazelmere’s behaviour aside. ‘Well, my dear, I cannot see anything in your conduct which should cause you undue concern. I would not wish you to go about anywhere unattended, that’s true. But I know your life at the Grange lacked the formality it might have had. The happenings at the inn were highly regrettable, but you could not have known how it would be and thankfully Hazelmere was there to rescue you.’ She paused, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Do you have any idea why he wishes to see me tomorrow?’

Dorothea had given that particular question a great deal of thought. ‘I wonder whether it was because of the other gentlemen in the stableyard. He knew them, and they now know he has met me previously. I assume we’ll have to agree on some acceptable tale to account for that?’

Lady Merion considered this, then nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a likely explanation.’ Hazelmere would be well aware of the possible consequences of that public acknowledgement of their acquaintance, and it was quite in character that he should seek to minimise any damage. Whatever else he might be, Hazelmere would always behave as he ought.

RELIEVED OF THE nagging worry that she had committed some heinous social sin, Dorothea enjoyed a blissful night’s sleep. Cecily, too, slept the sleep of the innocent and was fully recovered from their travelling. Arriving in Bruton Street, they were met by the great Celestine herself. One look sufficed to tell that sharp-witted modiste that in the Misses Darent she had models equal to her talents. Five minutes in their company convinced her that, with their charmingly open manners and that unconscious air of the truly well bred, they were destined to be among the foremost hits of the Season.

The last thing needed to make her throw all her most prized designs at the Darent feet was provided when, on their arrival, Lady Merion took her aside. ‘My granddaughters’ affairs are moving apace, madame. Miss Darent has made the acquaintance of one of the unmarried peers. I can’t, of course, reveal his name, but he is most eligible. Lord H is definitely behaving with very much less than his usual sang-froid. I have every hope to see her creditably established before the Season ends.’

No mean player of society’s games, Lady Merion was confident of the response her indiscretion would elicit. At the very least, Hazelmere’s intrusion into her granddaughter’s life should be put to good use. She had no illusions about her elder granddaughter. Cecily would take very well; she was virtually the epitome of the current craze for blonde beauties. Dorothea was striking, but would, she was sure, pale into insignificance in her sister’s company. And, on top of that, she was far too much in command of herself to appeal to any gentleman’s chivalrous instincts. Although a brilliant match was wishful thinking, a good match was still well within her reach. Particularly with Celestine’s help.

On the matter of style, Celestine, a superbly gowned dark-haired woman of indeterminate age, made her pronouncements with a slight French accent. ‘Miss Cecily is so young and so fair that she must be dressed à la jeune fille! For Miss Darent, however, I would recommend a more sophisticated style. With your permission, my lady?’ She glanced speculatively at Lady Merion.

‘We are entirely in your hands, madame,’ responded her ladyship.

Celestine nodded. If that was so, she would seize this opportunity with both hands. Dressing the simpering daughters of the ton rarely gave her scope for her genius. To be presented with a client of the quality of Miss Darent was a God-given chance to display her true skill. Good bone-structure, perfect poise, regal deportment, striking and unusual colouring, a truly elegant figure and an arrestingly classical face—what more could a first-class modiste desire in her client? When she had finished with her Dorothea Darent would stand out in any crowd and, thank the lord, had the confidence to carry it off. Her black eyes sparkled. ‘Bon! Miss Darent’s colouring is sufficiently unusual. Also her deportment … so much more—how should I say?—elegant, poised. We will use daring colours and severe styling to make best use of what God has created.’

The next two hours were spent in a haze of gauzes and silks, muslins and cambrics as the relative merits of the various designs, materials and finishes were discussed and measurements taken.

After giving an order for a staggering number of gowns, some to be delivered later that evening for their first promenade in the park the next day, Lady Merion triumphantly led her granddaughters back to their carriage.

RETURNING TO THEIR rooms after a light luncheon, the girls found that in their absence Witchett had been shopping too. Opening their drawers, they found them fully stocked with underwear liberally edged with lace, stockings of the finest silk, ribbons of every hue, together with gloves, reticules, scarves, fans—in short, everything else they could possibly need. Witchett, coming up to see if they needed any assistance, found them exclaiming over their finds.

Seeing her at her bedchamber door, Dorothea beamed. ‘Oh, thank you, Witchett! I’m sure we would have forgotten all these things until we were about to go out!’

Witchett found herself, uncharacteristically, returning the smile. ‘Well, miss, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to think about.’ Really, it was very hard not to fall under the spell of these happy young things. ‘Now, Miss Cecily! I see you’ve crushed that pretty dress of yours terribly. You’ll have to be more careful with your new London gowns. Betsy can press it while you rest. She’s waiting in your chamber to help you undress.’

‘Oh, but I don’t want to rest!’

The querulous tone alerted Dorothea. Cecily could wilt rapidly when over-tired, and it was only the day before that they had been travelling. Catching Witchett’s eye to enjoin her silence, Dorothea, examining a lace collar by the window, calmly said, ‘If you don’t wish to rest then no one shall make you. Of course, we’ll have to pay attention this evening while Grandmama teaches us about society’s ways, but as long as you’re sure you’ll be awake I see no point in resting. It’s such a beautiful day that I think I’ll take a stroll in the park in the square. Why don’t you come with me?’

Witchett held herself aloof.

The expression on Cecily’s face turned thoughtful. On consideration, she was not so sure she could sustain another evening of dos and don’ts without fortification. ‘Oh, maybe Witchett’s right and I should rest. I always find it so difficult to remember things when I’m tired. Enjoy your walk!’ With an airy wave she drifted across the corridor.

Dorothea remained at the window, looking at the cherry trees swelling into bud and the children playing on the lawns underneath. ‘Witchett, I’m not perfectly sure, but is it acceptable for me to walk in that park?’

‘Yes, miss. Provided you have an attendant.’

‘Who would be an appropriate attendant should I wish to go for a walk now?’

‘I’ll accompany you, miss, as is right and proper. If you’ll wait for me in the hall I’ll just get my coat and join you there.’

Witchett was as prompt as her word and within five minutes Dorothea was strolling under the cherry trees, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on her face. Her pelisse kept out the cold breeze as she wended her way around the paths past beds of bright daffodils and early crocus. A child’s ball suddenly landed at her feet. Stooping to pick it up, she looked around for the owner. A fair lad about six years old stood uncertainly on the lawn on the other side of the daffodil bed. Smiling, she walked around to him, holding out the ball.

‘Say thank you, Peter,’ came a voice from a seat under one of the trees. Dorothea saw a nursemaid rocking a baby in her arms, smiling and nodding at her.

She turned back to find the child bowing from the waist, saying, ‘Thank you, miss,’ in a small gruff voice.

Impulsively she asked, ‘Would you like me to play catch with you for a while? I’ve just come out to enjoy the sunshine, so why don’t we enjoy it together?’

The wide smile that greeted this was answer enough, and, after glancing at his nursemaid to see she approved, young Peter settled down to a game of catch with his new-found acquaintance.

So the Marquis of Hazelmere, strolling around Cavendish Square on his way to Merion House, found the object of his thoughts playing ball in the square. Leaning on the railings surrounding the park, he watched as Dorothea taught Peter to throw. She was facing away from him, some distance away. Suddenly a particularly wild throw of Peter’s, greeted with hoots of laughter from the players, sent the ball rolling across the lawn to land in a nearby flower-bed. Dorothea followed. As she bent to pick the ball up Hazelmere couldn’t resist asking, ‘Alone and unattended again, Miss Darent?’

She whirled to face him, an ‘Oh!’ of surprise dying on her lips. For one wild moment his threat to beat her if he found her unattended again took possession of her mind. The appreciative gleam in his eyes left her in little doubt that he had accurately guessed as much. As her equilibrium returned she mustered what dignity she could to reply, ‘Why, no, Lord Hazelmere! I’m now too experienced in society’s ways to make that mistake, I assure you.’

One black brow rose. Hazelmere, unused to having young ladies cross swords with him, noticed Witchett materialising at Dorothea’s elbow. ‘I’m about to call on Lady Merion,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps, Miss Darent, you should also be present.’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.’

Unable to see her face as she bent down to take leave of the boy, Hazelmere could not be certain whether the comment had been artless or uttered on purpose to deflate his pretensions. Very little of Miss Darent’s conversation was artless. Well, that was a pleasant game for two to play, and there were few more skilled in it than he. He continued his stroll along the railings to the gate, where he stood, negligently at ease, and openly watched her as she came towards him.

To herself Dorothea made a firm resolution. Henceforth she was not going to let the odious Marquis get the better of her! She was a calm, cool, mature woman—even Celestine had commented on her poise. Why on earth she fell apart whenever Hazelmere was about was more than she could comprehend. She was heartily sick of the betraying flush that rose so readily in response to his taunts. Every second comment he made was designed purely to throw her into confusion and allow him to manage matters as he willed. Well, thought the determined Miss Darent, very conscious of that hazel gaze as she approached the street, that might work on the London misses but I’m not going to let him stage-manage me! With the sunniest of smiles, she met him at the gate.

If Hazelmere entertained any suspicions of this evident change of heart he kept them to himself. His experienced eye registered the countrified pelisse and the tangle of her hair, wind-blown and escaping from its pins. He wondered why such a combination should appear so attractive. In silence they crossed the street and were bowed into Merion House by Mellow. ‘Lady Merion is expecting you, my lord.’

Surrendering her pelisse to Witchett, Dorothea caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. Arrested by the picture of her hair in such turmoil, she wondered whether she should keep her grandmother waiting while she set it to rights. She raised her glance to find herself looking into the Marquis’s hazel eyes, reflected in the mirror. He smiled in complete comprehension. ‘Yes, I would if I were you. I’ll tell her ladyship you’ll join us in a few moments.’

Realising she could not continually pull caps with him, particularly when he was being helpful, she confined herself to a curt nod before whisking herself up the stairs, Witchett trailing behind.

Hazelmere paused for a moment to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve before nodding to Mellow. ‘You may announce me now.’

For this interview Lady Merion had arrayed herself in a gown she knew made her look particularly formidable. Instinct born of experience warned her that there was more to the encounters between the Marquis and her granddaughter than she had been told. She was unsure that Dorothea herself knew the full sum. On the other hand, Hazelmere would certainly be aware of every nuance. She was determined to extract a much more detailed explanation from him before she called Dorothea to attend them. As he strolled elegantly across the room to bow over her hand she fixed him with a basilisk stare which in years past had produced confessions from the most hardened of reprobates.

Hazelmere smiled lazily down at her.

With a jolt she realised that there was a large difference between demanding the reason for a cricket ball landing in her drawing-room from a ten-year-old boy and demanding an accounting of his behaviour from a thirty-one-year-old peer, who, aside from being a leader of the ton, was also one of the most dangerously handsome men in the kingdom. And, she fumed, noting the amused understanding in the hazel eyes, the jackanapes knows it!

Baulked, she motioned him to a seat and reluctantly gave her attention to the next item on her agenda. She waited until he was seated, admiring the way his immaculate morning coat sat across his shoulders. His long muscular thighs were encased in skin-tight buff knee-breeches, and his Hessians shone like the proverbial mirror. She might be old, but she still noticed such things. ‘I understand I must thank you for rescuing my granddaughter, Dorothea, from an unfortunate incident at that inn the other evening.’

One well-manicured hand waved dismissively. ‘Having recognised your granddaughter, even someone with a conscience as faulty as mine could hardly have left her there.’ The gently mocking tone and the laughter in his face robbed this speech of any impropriety.

Accustomed to the subtleties of social conversation, Lady Merion thawed visibly. ‘Very well! But why this meeting?’

‘Unfortunately the crowd from which I extricated Miss Darent contained at least one member of the ton who cannot be trusted to forget the incident.’

‘Dorothea mentioned Tremlow.’

‘Oh, yes. Tremlow was there, and Botherwood and Lords Michaels and Downie. But they are relatively harmless, and, unless I’m much mistaken, would probably not recall the incident unless their memories were jogged, and perhaps not even then. I’m more concerned with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe.’

‘Ugh! That repulsive man! He always dabbles in the most malicious scandalmongering.’ She paused, then eyed the Marquis speculatively. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about him?’

‘Alas, no. Anyone else, quite probably. But not Ruscombe. Scandal is his trade. Still, given that we can invent a plausible tale to account for my having previously met Miss Darent, I can’t see there’s any risk of serious damage to her reputation.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ agreed Lady Merion. ‘But it would be wise to have her here, I think. Ring that bell, if you will.’

‘No need,’ replied Hazelmere, ‘I met her in the park on my way here. She went upstairs to tidy her hair before joining us.’

As if in answer to the comment, Dorothea entered. Languidly rising, Hazelmere acknowledged her curtsy by taking her hand and, after bowing over it, raised it to his lips, his eyes roaming appreciatively over her.

Lady Merion stiffened. Kissing a lady’s hand was not the current practice. What on earth was going on?

Dorothea accepted the salute without a flicker of surprise. Seating herself in a chair on the other side of her grandmother, opposite Hazelmere, she turned an enquiring face to her ladyship.

‘We were just discussing, my dear, what story to adopt to account for Lord Hazelmere recognising you at the inn.’

‘Maybe Miss Darent has a suggestion?’ put in his lordship, hazel eyes gently quizzing Dorothea.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ she replied smoothly. ‘It would be safest, I imagine, to stick to occurrences no one else could dispute?’ Her delicately arched brows rose as she gazed with unmarred calm into Hazelmere’s eyes.

His expressive lips twitched. ‘That might be wise,’ he murmured.

Dorothea regally inclined her head. ‘For instance, what if, on one of your visits to Lady Moreton, she’d been well enough to be taken for a ride in your curricle—not far, just around the surrounding lanes? I’m sure she would have liked to have done that if she’d been able.’

‘You’re quite right. My great-aunt did bemoan not being well enough for just such an outing as you propose.’

‘Good! Only the outing did occur, and of course you didn’t take your groom with you, did you?’

Hazelmere, entering into the spirit of the conversation, promptly replied, ‘I feel sure I’d given Jim permission to relax in the kitchens that day.’

Dorothea nodded approvingly. ‘Driving down the lane, you met my mother, Cynthia Darent, and myself, returning from paying a visit to … oh, Waverley Park, of course.’

‘Your coachman?’

‘I was driving the gig. And what could be more natural than that Lady Moreton and my mother should stop to chat? They were old friends, after all. And Lady Moreton presented you to Mama and me. After talking for a few minutes, we went our separate ways.’

‘When, exactly, did this meeting occur?’ he asked.

‘Well, it would have had to be the summer before last, when both Lady Moreton and Mama were alive.’

‘My congratulations, Miss Darent. We now have a most acceptable tale which accounts for our meeting and the only two witnesses who could say us nay are dead. Very neat.’

‘Yes, but wait one moment!’ interpolated Lady Merion. ‘Why didn’t your mother tell her other friends about this meeting? Surely such a novel encounter would have made an impression in the neighbourhood?’

‘But, Grandmama, you know how scatterbrained Mama was. It would be quite possible for her to have forgotten all about it by the time we’d reached home, particularly if something else occurred to distract her on the way.’

Reminded of her daughter-in-law’s vagueness, Lady Merion grudgingly agreed this was so. ‘Well, then, why did you yourself not tell any of your friends about it?’

Dorothea opened her large green eyes to their fullest extent and, addressing her grandmother, asked, ‘But why would I have done so? I’ve never been in the habit of discussing inconsequential occurrences with anyone.’

Lady Merion held her breath. She could not resist glancing at Hazelmere to see how he was taking being classed as ‘inconsequential’. He appeared to be his usual urbane self, but she thought she caught a glint from those hazel eyes, presently fixed on Dorothea’s face. Be careful, my girl! she mentally adjured her granddaughter.

‘What a wonderfully useful trait, Miss Darent,’ responded Hazelmere, deciding for the moment to ignore provocation. ‘So now we have a believable and totally unexceptionable story to account for our previous meeting. Provided we stick to that, I foresee no difficulty in ignoring the inevitable tales of what happened at the Three Feathers.’ He rose and with effortless grace bent over Lady Merion’s hand. ‘I gather you’ll be attending all the ton crushes this Season?’

‘Oh, yes,’ responded her ladyship, reverting to her normal social manner. ‘We’ll be out around town just as soon as Celestine can clothe these children respectably.’

He crossed to Dorothea’s side and she stood for him to take his leave. Again he raised her hand to his lips. Smiling down at her in a way she found oddly disconcerting, his hazel eyes trapping her own, he said, ‘Then I will hope to further my acquaintance with you, Miss Darent. I do hope you’ll not find me too inconsequential to remember?’ The gently mocking tone was back.

Dorothea returned the provocative hazel glance without apparent concern, and, wide-eyed, remarked, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think I’d forget you now, my lord.’

He only just succeeded in controlling his face but his eyes clearly registered the hit. He paused, looking down into her brilliant green eyes, his own brimful of laughter. Forever a sportsman, he could hardly complain, as he had set himself up for that one. Still, he had not expected her to have the courage to fling that back in his face, and with such ease. With one last enigmatic glance, he turned and, bowing again to the sorely afflicted Lady Merion, bid both ladies a good day and left.

As the door shut behind him Lady Merion turned a gaze equally made up of disbelief and conjecture on her granddaughter. However, ‘Ring for tea, child,’ was all she said.

CHAPTER FOUR

FOR THE DARENT SISTERS, the Season began in earnest the next day. The morning commenced with a visit from Lady Merion’s hairdresser. The pert Frenchman no sooner clapped eyes on the girls than his loquacious soul knew no bounds. Celestine had insisted on being present, much to everyone’s surprise. It transpired that she had decided to take complete control of the Misses Darents’ appearance. Lady Merion was astonished at her unusual condescension and then even more surprised by the transformation wrought in her elder granddaughter. Wearing the first of Celestine’s creations, delivered expressly for their promenade in the Park later that day, with her lovely dark hair lightly cropped and arranged in a variation of the fashionable Sappho, Dorothea had emerged much as the ugly duckling transformed into a veritable swan. The result, as Celestine confided in a whispered aside to her ladyship, could not be adequately described as beautiful—that was an epithet reserved more correctly for the youthful Cecily. She was attractive, stunning, and trailing a definite aura of sensuality, and the impact of the new Dorothea was unerringly directed at the more mature male. Lady Merion, with Hazelmere in mind, blinked and rapidly realigned her expectations.

The sisters were next introduced to their dancing master, hired for an hour every morning for a week, to ensure that they would not put a foot wrong in the more conventional dances, as well as to introduce them to the waltz. Both girls were naturally graceful, and country balls had made them familiar with all the current measures, save the waltz.

In the afternoon they set out in Lady Merion’s barouche to see and be seen at the Park. The spectacle of the ton taking the air, meeting old acquaintances and making new ones, held both girls enthralled. Lady Merion, her eyes resting for the umpteenth time on the delightful spectacle on the carriage seat opposite, felt happier and more buoyed by expectation than she had in years.

They had barely commenced their first circuit when a tall and angular lady, dressed in the height of fashion and seated in a landau drawn up to the side of the carriageway, waved to Lady Merion, who immediately instructed her coachman to pull up.

‘Sally, how delightful! Is Maria back yet?’ Without waiting for an answer, Lady Merion continued, ‘You must let me present my granddaughters. Dorothea, Cecily, this is Lady Jersey.’

After exchanging greetings with the girls, Sally Jersey fixed her ladyship with a penetrating stare. ‘Hermione, you’re going to cause a riot with these children. You must let me send you vouchers for Almack’s at once! My dear, I had a dreadful premonition that the Season was going to be so dull, but with two such beauties around I can see there’ll be fireworks!’

Both Dorothea and Cecily blushed.

Lady Merion remained chatting to Lady Jersey for some minutes, exchanging information on who had or had not returned to the capital. It became apparent to the two girls that they were attracting considerable attention, from the ogling stares of the soldiers and young bucks, which Lady Merion had instructed them to ignore, to the far more disconcerting stares of other mamas passing by in their carriages with their hopeful young daughters. Under the soporific effect of the drone of their grandmother’s conversation, Cecily let her gaze wander to a group of elegant gentlemen chatting to two pretty young ladies on the nearby lawn. Dorothea, similarly abstracted, was abruptly brought back to earth by Lady Jersey. ‘I hear, my dear, that you are already acquainted with Lord Hazelmere?’

Aware that to show the slightest hesitation would be fatal, Dorothea used her large eyes to great effect, lucently conveying an attitude of complete nonchalance. ‘Yes. As luck would have it, I met him again recently. He was kind enough to assist me at an inn on our way to London.’

Her ladyship’s prominent eyes did not waver. ‘So you had met him before?’

Dorothea’s composure held firm. Her brows rose slightly, as if the answer to that question should really be quite obvious. ‘His great-aunt, Lady Moreton, introduced him to my mother and myself some time ago. She was a neighbour of ours in Hampshire.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Lady Jersey was clearly disappointed in this undeniably mundane explanation of Dorothea’s acquaintance with one of society’s more rakish bachelors. She returned her attention to Lady Merion.

After a further five minutes of acidly social intercourse the coachman was told to move on. As Lady Jersey fell behind, Lady Merion drew a deep breath and bestowed a look of definite approval on her elder granddaughter. ‘Very well done, my dear. Now we just have to keep it up.’

What she meant by that became rapidly apparent as they engaged in conversation after conversation with dowagers and matrons and occasionally with mothers with unmarried daughters. Without fail, the incident at the inn would somehow find its way into the arena, in one version or another. After her success with Lady Jersey, undoubtedly society’s most formidable inquisitor, Lady Merion let Dorothea deal with all these enquiries, only stepping in when some of the younger ladies seemed anxious to lead the description into areas too particular for her ladyship’s sense of propriety. Cecily, absorbed in the Park and its patrons and too young for the matrons to waste much time over, largely ignored these conversations.

Almost an hour later they stopped to talk to the Princess Esterhazy. After the introductions were performed, the sweet-faced and distinctly plump Princess smiled sleepily at the girls. ‘I saw you talking with Sally before, so I’m sure she must have promised you vouchers?’

Lady Merion nodded. ‘She feels my girls will liven up proceedings.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly, I should think,’ agreed Princess Esterhazy.

At this point two elegant young gentlemen detached themselves from a group that had been eyeing the beautiful young things in the Merion carriage and approached. ‘Your servant, Lady Merion,’ said the first, raising his hat and sweeping a graceful bow, copied by his companion.

Lady Merion, turning to see who had addressed her, promptly exclaimed, ‘Oh, Ferdie! Is your mother in town yet?’

Assured that Mrs Acheson-Smythe would be in the capital by the end of the week, Lady Merion introduced her granddaughters to the elegant pair.

Dorothea and Cecily looked down upon two stylishly correct gentlemen, both clearly of the first stare. Neither was tall or broad-shouldered, yet both contrived to give the impression of being well turned out, a perfect fit for whatever niche they occupied in the ton. Mr Acheson-Smythe was slim and fair, his pale face characterised by a pair of frank and guileless blue eyes. Mr Dermont, of similar build, was less confident than his friend, letting the knowledgeable Mr Acheson-Smythe lead the conversation. Knowing that Ferdie Acheson-Smythe could be trusted to keep the line, her ladyship returned to her gossip with the Princess.

Seeing the girls’ attention claimed by the young men, Princess Esterhazy took the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. ‘But tell me, Hermione. What is the truth of this story that Hazelmere rescued one of these two from a prize-fight crowd at some inn?’

By this time Lady Merion had the answer by rote. ‘Such a lucky thing he was passing, my dear. Dorothea had gone down to find her coachman, not realising that the gentlemen had already arrived.’

‘I had not realised your granddaughters were acquainted with Hazelmere.’

‘Most fortunately, Dorothea had been introduced to him by his great-aunt, Lady Moreton. You must remember, she died last year, and Hazelmere was her heir. The Grange borders Moreton Park, and Cynthia, my daughter-in-law, and Etta Moreton were close friends. Dorothea! Where was it you first met Hazelmere?’

Dorothea, who had been trying to follow two conversations at once, turned to hear her grandmother’s question repeated. She answered easily, ‘Oh, out driving one day. He was taking Lady Moreton for a ride in his curricle.’ She turned back to Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, as if the details of how she had met the Marquis could not be of any possible consequence to anyone.

Her lack of consciousness convinced Princess Esterhazy that the story was the truth. In her opinion, no young lady who had met Hazelmere in any ineligible way could possibly look as unconcerned as Dorothea Darent.

On their return to Merion House shortly afterwards, Lady Merion led the way upstairs to her private drawing-room. Throwing her elegant hat on a chair, she subsided in a cloud of stylish velvets and breathed a heartfelt sigh. ‘Well! We did very well, my dears. That was an excellent start to your Season.’ She settled into her chaise-longue and, supplied with tea by Dorothea, consented to answer their questions.

‘Ferdie Acheson-Smythe?’ she said in answer to one of these. ‘Ferdie is the only son of the Hertfordshire Acheson-Smythes. Of very good family, first cousin to Hazelmere. Ferdie will have to marry some day, I dare say, but by and large he’s not the marrying kind. However, he is an acknowledged authority on all matters of etiquette, so if Ferdie drops you a hint on anything to do with your behaviour or dress you’d be well advised to take heed! He’s also completely trustworthy; he’ll never go beyond the line of what is pleasing. Ferdie is an unexceptionable companion for a young lady, and a very useful cavalier. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be seen with him.’

‘And Mr Dermont?’ asked Cecily.

‘Anyone Ferdie introduces to you as a friend will be much the same style, though Ferdie himself is unquestionably at the head of that class.’

LADY MERION had accepted an invitation to a small party that evening, and both her granddaughters accompanied her. Entirely satisfied with their appearance, she was pleased to see that they mixed easily with the other young people present, although Dorothea, with her stunning appearance and air of calm self-possession, was deferred to as senior to the débutantes and in something of a different category. This was true enough. In a larger gathering, with more mature gentlemen, such as Hazelmere, to claim her attention, her elder granddaughter would not lack for entertaining partners.

Watching Dorothea, she grinned, their words of that afternoon recurring in her head. Cecily had been resting when the rest of Celestine’s creations had been delivered; she and Dorothea had been alone in her parlour.

‘This is exquisite!’ Dorothea had exclaimed, holding up a blue sarcenet ballgown of Cecily’s.

‘Your own are every bit as alluring,’ she had returned.

Dorothea had laughed, turning her attention to yet another of Cecily’s gowns. ‘But it’s Cecily who needs the husband, not I.’

The comment had stunned her to silence. Then, in one revealing instant, she had seen Dorothea through Dorothea’s eyes. Despite her common sense and self-confidence, having lived in relative seclusion until now, her granddaughter had little idea how she appeared to others in the fashionable world. To men. Particularly to men like Hazelmere. It was hardly innocence, rather a lack of awareness. After all, she had never been exposed to such gentlemen before. Intrigued, she had folded her hands in her lap and calmly stated, ‘My dear, if you have visions of becoming an ape-leader, I fear you’ll be disappointed.’

The green eyes had lifted to hers in genuine surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am? I know I’m too old for the marriage mart and I hardly have the requisite looks for an acknowledged beauty. But I don’t repine, I assure you.’

She had snorted her disbelief. ‘You’re two and twenty, girl—hardly at your last prayers! And if you think to be left on the shelf, well! All I can say is, you’ve another think coming.’

But her stubborn granddaughter had only smiled.

Now, as she saw the small but growing knot of young men around her elder granddaughter, a grin of unholy amusement lit her faded blue eyes. How long would it take for Dorothea to wake up and realise that she was likely to be pursued, if anything, with even more dedication than the vivacious Cecily?

THE NEXT MORNING brought the first of the invitations to the larger gatherings. Initially these arrived in a trickle, but by the end of the week, as Lady Merion’s granddaughters became more widely known, the gilt-edged cards left at Merion House assumed the proportions of a flood. As Dorothea and Cecily were only too glad to share the limelight with their less well-endowed sisters, even the most jealous mother saw little reason to exclude them from her guest lists. Moreover, if the Darent sisters were to attend some rival party then half the eligible males would likely be there too.

Lady Merion insisted that they attend as many of the smaller parties held in these first weeks as possible. She was too experienced to discount the considerable advantage social confidence could give. So Dorothea and Cecily obediently promenaded every afternoon and were to be found at a soirée or party or musical evening every night, polishing their social skills and attracting no little interest. Within a short time, both had collected a circle of ardent admirers. While this was no more than her ladyship had expected, the band around Dorothea gave her endless amusement. In general not much older than Dorothea herself, these lovesick swains were continually vying one with the other for their goddess’s attention, striking Byronesque poses at every turn. It was really too funny for words. Still, thought the very experienced Lady Merion, it was serving its turn. Dorothea was being bored witless, all her social ingenuity being required to keep her temper with her artless lovers. A very good thing indeed if her wilful granddaughter could be brought to an appreciative, not to say receptive, frame of mind before being exposed to the infinitely more subtle persuasions of Hazelmere and his set. Luckily these highly eligible but far more dangerous gentlemen were rarely if ever sighted at the preliminary gatherings.

Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was the most constant of Dorothea’s cavaliers, rapidly attaining the position of cisisbeo-in-chief to the dark-haired beauty. His initial approach to Lady Merion’s granddaughters had been prompted by a chance meeting with Hazelmere. His magnificent cousin had suggested that Ferdie might assist in the squashing of any rumours concerning himself and the lovely Dorothea. It was the sort of thing Ferdie, an adept at social intrigue, enjoyed. And, as the favour was asked by Hazelmere, Ferdie would have thrown himself into the breach had Dorothea been the most unprepossessing antidote. Finding Miss Darent to be far more attractive than Hazelmere had indicated, Ferdie took to his task with alacrity. The result was that within a week a friendship had been established, close to sibling in quality but without the attendant strains, much to the surprise of both participants.

It was at a musical evening at Lady Bressington’s that Mr Edward Buchanan made his appearance. A solid country gentleman of thirty-odd years, he was mildly fair and slightly rotund, his pink face graced by soulful brown eyes at odds with the rest of his robust figure. For reasons Dorothea failed to divine, he made straight for her side, ousting a darkly handsome Romeo by the simple expedient of suggesting that Miss Darent had had enough mindless maunderings for one night.

Miss Darent was slightly stunned. The Romeo, shattered, took himself off, muttering dark and dire threats against unspecified unromantic elders. Mr Buchanan took his place.

‘My dear Miss Darent. I hope you’ll excuse my approaching you like this. I realise we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Edward Buchanan. My father was a friend of Sir Hugo Clere and I looked in on him on my way to town. He mentioned your name and asked me to convey his regards.’

Dorothea sat silent through this speech, delivered in a ponderous baritone. The excuse was hardly substantial; Sir Hugo was a distant neighbour and she could readily imagine the purely formal greetings he would have sent. However, Miss Julia Bressington, a vivacious brunette and one of Cecily’s closest confidantes, was about to start singing, accompanied by Cecily herself on the pianoforte, so it was not the time to make even the mildest scene. She inclined her head and pointedly gave her attention to the players.

Mr Buchanan had the sense to remain silent during the performance, but immediately the applause died he monopolised the conversation, determinedly chatting to Dorothea on pastoral issues. This left the majority of her court, most of whom had no knowledge of crops or livestock, stranded. Dorothea herself was utterly bemused by his unstinting eloquence on the subject. But as soon as the last of her admirers had drifted away, defeated by his dogged discourse, he stopped. ‘Ah-ha! Thought that would do it!’ Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, he explained, ‘I wanted to get rid of them. I knew they wouldn’t understand anything of moment. Sir Hugo gave me the fullest description of you, my dear Miss Darent, but he came far from doing justice to your beauty. You clearly outshine all these other young misses, although I must say I find the favoured style of dress for young ladies these days a little too, shall we say, revealing for one of my years to countenance.’ His eyes had dropped to the swell of her breasts exposed above the scooped neckline of her stylishly simple silk gown. ‘I dare say you feel that in the circumstances, placed as you are with your grandmother, who, I understand, is a highly fashionable lady, you too must play the part. Still, we can overlook such matters, I’m sure. You would feel far different in country circles, where I’m sure you are much more at home.’

Dorothea was rendered speechless by this monologue, which had contrived to progress from over-full compliment to insult in the space of two minutes. Aghast, unable to get a word in edgeways, she was forced to listen to Mr Buchanan’s opinions of fashionable practices, which culminated in a description of his widowed mother’s belief that, in her exposing her only son to the wicked wiles of London society, he would return to her, corrupted in body and mind. Mr Buchanan assured Miss Darent with jocular familiarity that such an outcome was highly unlikely. Dorothea, incensed and close to losing her temper, bit back an acid rejoinder that if London society could teach Mr Buchanan his manners it would have achieved a laudable goal. Instead she said in frigid tones, ‘Mr Buchanan, I must thank you for your conversation. If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with some friends.’ Which, she reflected, was as close to a verbal cut as made no difference. But even as she rose, and with a cool nod moved to Lady Merion’s side, she saw that, far from his taking the hint, the dismissal had not pricked his ego in the least.

BY THE NIGHT of the first of Almack’s subscription balls Lady Merion knew she had a major success on her hands. They were fully booked for at least a sennight and the invitations were still rolling in.

She had started preparations for the girls’ coming-out ball, for which the ballroom at Merion House would be opened for the first time in years. Squads of cleaning women had already been in, and redecoration would soon begin. The invitations, gold-embossed, had arrived that afternoon, and tomorrow they could start sending them out. She had fixed the date for four weeks hence, at the beginning of April, just before the peak of the Season. By then all her acquaintances would have returned to Town and she could be assured of a full house.

As she watched her granddaughters descend the stairs dressed for their first ball, both apparently unconscious of the positively stunning picture they made, she admonished herself as an old fool. Of course, her ball would be the biggest crush of the Season, but its success would owe far more to these two lovely young things than to anything she herself could do.

Dorothea, a vision in pale sea-green silk, lightly touched with silver filigree work, moved to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Grandmama, you look wonderful!’

Hermione unconsciously smoothed her purple satin. ‘Well, my dears, you are both an enormous credit to me. I’m sure you’ll create a considerable stir tonight!’

Cecily, shimmering in pale blue spangled gauze over a shift of cornflower-blue satin, impulsively hugged her. ‘Yes, but do let’s go!’

Laughing, Lady Merion called for their cloaks and then led the way to the carriage.

As soon as they entered the plain and unassuming ballroom that was Almack’s it was apparent that the Darent sisters’ arrival had been eagerly awaited. Within minutes their cards were full, with the exception of the two waltzes. Lady Merion had impressed on them that they were forbidden to waltz until invited by one of the patronesses, who would introduce them to a suitable partner.

The Season was now in full swing and the rooms were crowded with mothers and their marriageable daughters and gentlemen eager to view the new Season’s débutantes. Dorothea was thoroughly enjoying herself, being partnered first by Ferdie, with whom she was now on first-name terms, and then by a host of politely attentive gentlemen. Her grandmother, watching over her charges from the gilt-backed chairs arranged around the walls to accommodate the chaperons, noted that Dorothea had attracted far more than her fair share of attention but none of the more undesirable blades had yet sought her company. Talking to Lady Maria Sefton, she watched her elder granddaughter go down the ballroom in the movement of the dance, and then lost sight of her as the music ended and the dancers dispersed.

At the end of the ballroom, on the arm of the charming young man who had been her partner, Dorothea turned to make her way back to her grandmother’s side, knowing that the next dance was the first of the forbidden waltzes. A well-remembered voice halted her. ‘Miss Darent.’

Turning to face the Marquis of Hazelmere, Dorothea swept him the curtsy she had been taught was due to his rank and, rising, found that he had taken her hand and was raising it to his lips. The hazel eyes dared her to make a scene, so she accepted the salute in the same unconcerned way she had previously. Then her eyes met his fully, and held.

There followed a curious hiatus in which time seemed suspended. Then Hazelmere, becoming aware of her awkward young cavalier, nodded dismissal to this gentleman. ‘I’ll return Miss Darent to Lady Merion.’ Faced with a lion, the mouse retreated.

To Dorothea he continued, ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Miss Darent.’ He placed her hand on his arm and deftly steered her through the crowd.

She had seen him among the throng earlier in the evening. He was dressed, as always, with restrained elegance in the dark blue coat and black knee-breeches currently de rigueur for formal occasions, with a large diamond pin winking from the folds of his perfectly tied cravat. She had thought him attractive in his buckskin breeches and shooting jacket, and more so in his morning clothes. In full evening dress he was simply magnificent. She had little difficulty in understanding why he made so many cautious mothers distinctly nervous.

Strolling calmly by his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, she tried to ignore the light-headedness that had nothing to do with the crowd or the dancing and everything to do with the expression in those hazel eyes. Oh, how very dangerous he was!

Their perambulation came to an end by the side of a dark-haired matron. This lady, turning towards them, exclaimed in a cold and bored voice, ‘There you are, my lord!’

Hazelmere looked down at Dorothea. ‘Allow me to present you, Miss Darent, to Mrs Drummond-Burrell.’

Unexpectedly faced with the most censorious of Almack’s patronesses, Dorothea hastily curtsied.

Mrs Drummond-Burrell, on whom her surprise was not lost, was pleased to smile. ‘I expect Lord Hazelmere did not tell you I wanted to meet you. It seems a vast pity such a lovely young lady should miss even one waltz tonight. So, as he has instructed me, I will give you permission to waltz in Almack’s, my dear, and present Lord Hazelmere as a suitable partner.’

Although taken aback by the scale of his machinations, Dorothea had been expecting something of the sort since she had first realised he was present. She had sufficient presence of mind to thank Mrs Drummond-Burrell very prettily, bringing an unusually benign expression to that lady’s face, before allowing the Marquis to lead her on to the floor as the first strains of the waltz filled the room.

As this was the first waltz of the Season and many débutantes had not yet been given permission to dance, the floor was relatively uncrowded and the assembled company had a clear view of the dancers. The sight of the beautiful Miss Darent in the arms of Lord Hazelmere made something of a stir, and Dorothea, gently twirling down the room, was well aware that many eyes were directed their way. She did not dare allow herself to be distracted, fearing that he would instantly ask her some outrageous question.

As it transpired, she need not have worried. Hazelmere was, uncharacteristically, lost for words. He had thought her quite lovely in an old dimity gown with her hair down her back. Now, in every way perfect in one of Celestine’s most elegant creations, she was utterly stunning.

Within seconds of stepping on to the floor Dorothea realised that she was in the arms of an expert, and promptly ceased trying to mark time. She surprised herself by not feeling the least bit awkward at being once again in his arms, and responded to the movements of the dance with a confidence so transparent that it drew even more attention than her beauty.

As they moved gracefully around the ballroom Hazelmere finally remarked, ‘Does it bother you to be the cynosure of so many eyes, Miss Darent?’

Considering this unexpected question, she looked up into the hazel eyes and with the most complete self-assurance answered, ‘Not at all, my lord. Should it?’

He smiled and replied, ‘By no means, my dear. But permit me to tell you that in that you are somewhat unusual.’

Misliking where this line of conversation might lead, she rapidly hunted for an alternative. She saw her sister also dancing, in the arms of a man almost as attractive as Hazelmere. ‘Who is the gentleman dancing with my sister?’

Without glancing at the other couple, he replied, ‘Anthony, Lord Fanshawe.’

Puzzled by a fleeting memory, she finally recognised the man she had glimpsed in the inn yard. Her eyes came back to Hazelmere. ‘Do you know him?’

He smiled down at her. ‘Oh, yes.’ After a pause he added provocatively, ‘We grew up together, as it happens.’

Once again her face gave her away before she guiltily caught herself up. One glance at those amused hazel eyes told her that he had not missed her thoughts, and he promptly confirmed this by remarking, ‘No, Miss Darent. We are not that much alike.’

She was pleased that she blushed only slightly.

Hazelmere, seeking to press his advantage, asked, ‘Are you never thrown into maidenly confusion, Miss Darent? Or is it that, at twenty-two, you no longer feel the need to adopt such missish airs?’

This uncannily accurate reading of her behaviour was, most unfortunately, lost on Dorothea. Instead he came under the concentrated scrutiny of her clear green eyes as she promptly asked, ‘How do you know my age?’

Mentally castigating himself for not being more careful, he was about to mendaciously attribute this information to his great-aunt. However, under the influence of that steady green gaze, he heard himself reply, ‘Mr Matthews told me.’

‘The rector?’ Her disbelief was patent.

Highly amused, he could not resist continuing, ‘He loves to talk, you know. And he knows so much of what is happening in his parish. I’ve formed the habit of inviting him to dinner whenever I’m at Moreton Park.’

Dorothea, knowing full well the rector’s failing, immediately saw the implication of these remarks. Her suspicions were immediately confirmed.

‘I know all about your visits to Newbury, and Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism and the trouble Mrs Warburton had with the parish fair. Incidentally, that reminds me: your Aunt Agnes sends you her love.’

The wild incredulity in her face as she imagined his meeting her vague, shy and man-hating maiden aunt sorely tempted him to leave the subject as was. He finally relented sufficiently to add, ‘Via the rector, you goose!’

Realising that he had accurately read her mind yet again, she found herself returning his smile. She was still smiling as they finished the dance with a flourish not far from her grandmother. Hazelmere drew her hand through his arm and led her back to Lady Merion’s side.

Her ladyship had been staggered enough to see Dorothea in Hazelmere’s arms, but the sight of Cecily chattering amiably to Lord Fanshawe as she circled the room had made her doubt her senses. It was unheard of for two débutante sisters to stand up with two of the most eligible peers for their first waltz. More importantly, this outcome could only have been achieved by skilful manipulation of the patronesses by the two gentlemen involved. She was not sure she approved of such rapid and direct attack.

However, she was not immune to the glory of the undoubted triumph. Sally Jersey had stopped on her peregrinations about the rooms and, nodding towards Hazelmere and Dorothea, had whispered in her ear, ‘He’ll have her, you know. Never known Hazelmere to stand up for a first waltz before!’

Lady Merion, watching the elegant couple as they drifted past, Dorothea laughing up at Hazelmere, both blithely unaware of the surrounding company, rather fancied that Sally, for once, was right.

Two glowing young ladies were very correctly returned to her side, from where they were claimed by their partners for the next dance. As both Hazelmere and Fanshawe had been acquainted with Lady Merion from birth, neither attempted to disappear without paying their respects. With the sweetly smiling Maria, Lady Sefton sitting at her ladyship’s side, the conversation remained on a general plane until Lady Sefton claimed Fanshawe’s arm to go in search of her daughter-in-law.

Lady Merion promptly seized the opportunity to remark to Hazelmere, ‘Well, you certainly don’t let the grass grow under your feet!’

He smiled in the thoroughly maddening way he had, then said, ‘I take it you’re not perturbed by my interest?’

‘Don’t be absurd! You know perfectly well you’re one of the biggest prizes on the marriage mart!’ His question unsettled her. This was fast going, indeed! ‘But you must by now know that my granddaughter is highly unlikely to ask my opinion on the matter.’

‘True. Nevertheless, I would be bound to consider your opinion, even if she did not.’

‘Very pretty talking, indeed!’ she responded, not entirely displeased.

Seeing Fanshawe returning, she dismissed them both, adding with a laugh as they both bowed elegantly before her, ‘I’m sure you can think of more exciting ways to spend your evening.’

TOWARDS THE END of the ball Mr Edward Buchanan appeared at Dorothea’s side. She forced a smile to her lips as he bowed over her hand.

‘My dear Miss Darent! A delightful pleasure! I’m afraid, my dear, that I’m not a dancing man. Perhaps you would care to walk about the rooms with me?’

Ferdie, standing beside her, goggled.

With the most heartfelt relief, Dorothea, cool regret in her tone, said, ‘I’m afraid, Mr Buchanan, that I’m engaged for all the dances this evening.’

‘Oh?’ He was genuinely surprised.

Luckily young Lord Davidson approached at that moment to claim her for the cotillion just forming. With the barest nod to Mr Buchanan, she laid her hand on Lord Davidson’s arm and moved away.

Ferdie stared at the strange Mr Buchanan. Feeling the scrutiny, Edward Buchanan blushed slightly. ‘Friend of a friend, you know. In the country. Dare say Miss Darent could use some hints on how to go on in London. Not up to snuff and too many of these young blades about, y’know. But now I’m here I’ll keep an eye on her, never fear.’

‘Oh?’ said the elegant Ferdie Acheson-Smythe in his chilliest voice. With the barest inclination of his fair head he walked away.

CHAPTER FIVE

AFTER HIS WALTZ with Dorothea, Hazelmere, mindful of the eyes upon him, danced with three other young ladies newly presented to the ton. Of these, two were diamonds of the first water, but both lacked the fire and wit to attract him as the lovely Dorothea did. Feeling the familiar boredom rising, and being debarred by convention from waltzing with Miss Darent again, he looked for Fanshawe. Hearing the music for the second and last waltz of the night start up, he scanned the dancers and easily picked out Miss Darent in the arms of Lord Robert Markham. It was definitely time to leave. Spying his friend in a group by the door, he made his way to him, and together they left for White’s.

The small hours of the morning saw them wending their way home through the deserted city streets. They had played Pharoah and Hazelmere had held the bank. Consequently he had risen from the table a cool five hundred guineas richer. However, his thoughts were not concerned with his customary luck with the cards, but with his potential luck with a certain green-eyed young lady. Fanshawe was similarly occupied in wondering which of her numerous qualities was most responsible for making Cecily Darent so attractive. Together they crossed Piccadilly and headed up Bond Street in companionable silence.

Hazelmere finally broke this to say, ‘Well, Miss Darent appears to have successfully quashed all the rumours.’

Fanshawe glanced sideways under his lashes at his friend. ‘Do you intend to have her?’

Hazelmere checked slightly in his stride. The hazel and brown eyes met for an instant. Then he chuckled. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Frankly, yes.’

‘I suppose, as it’s virtually obligatory to play by the rules, given it’s the start of the Season, my interest will hardly remain a secret for long.’

‘No. You’re right. We’ll have to play by the rules.’

‘We?’ His friend’s preoccupation since meeting Cecily Darent had not escaped Hazelmere. ‘At the inn I mentioned Miss Darent’s sister more in jest than design.’

‘I know that! But she’s a deuced taking young thing, all the same. Not in the class of your Dorothea, but attractive none the less.’

‘Oh, granted! In the absence of Dorothea, Cecily would bear off the palm. But satisfy my curiosity. Does she, like her sister, engage in—er—a conversational style bordering on the improper?’

‘Lord, yes! Asked me straight out how I’d jockeyed Countess Lieven into giving her permission to waltz, and then floored me by asking why!’

Entertained by this evidence that a predilection for such conversation was a Darent trait, Hazelmere asked, ‘And what did you answer?’

‘Told her ‘twas on account of her beautiful eyes, of course!’

‘At which she laughed?’

‘Exactly. Lovely sound.’ After a pause Fanshawe continued, ‘You know, Marc, I can’t understand why all these mamas turn their daughters into such simpering misses you can’t exchange two sensible words with. Bores us all to tears and they wonder why. Well—look at the Tremlett girl! Dashed good-looking chit. But as soon as she opens her mouth I’m off! And just look at our set. Besides the two of us, there’s Peterborough and Markham, Alvanley, Harcourt, Bassington, Aylsham, Walsingham, Desborough—oh, and a host of others! And they’re just our set, let alone the younger ones. All of us are either titled or well connected, independently wealthy, and all of us have got to marry sooner or later. Yet here we all are, over thirty and still unattached, purely because there are so few chits with more wit than hair.’

‘Which is exactly why,’ concluded Hazelmere, grasping his erratic friend by the elbow to steer him around the railings of Hanover Square, ‘we’re going to assiduously attend all the ton crushes this Season.’

‘Good God!’ uttered his lordship, much struck by this logic. ‘You mean they’ll all be after the Darent girls?’

‘You’ve just said it yourself. We’re all on the lookout for suitable brides and we’re all eligible. The Darent sisters are outstanding candidates on any man’s terms. You and I, dear boy, have merely stolen a march on the rest. And I’ll be much surprised if they don’t try and make up lost ground very quickly. I rather think Markham has already made a start.’

‘Yes, saw that too. And Walsingham was there as well.’

‘I predict by tomorrow night the whole crew will have gathered. Which, if you’re serious about the younger Miss Darent, is going to keep both of us on our toes.’

They had come to the corner of Cavendish Square and paused. ‘What’s on tomorrow night?’ asked Fanshawe sleepily.

‘The Bedlington rout. Why not come to dinner and we’ll go on together?’

‘Good idea.’ He yawned. ‘See you then.’ And, with a nod and a wave, he headed off to his rooms in Wigmore Street, leaving Hazelmere to stroll the short distance to his house.

Entering with his latchkey, he made his way upstairs, to be greeted by his very correct gentleman’s gentleman, who went by the totally unsuitable name of Murgatroyd. He had never managed to convince Murgatroyd, a dapper and decidedly top-lofty individual, that he need not wait up for him, and that he, Hazelmere, was perfectly capable of getting himself to bed. As by various subtle references Murgatroyd had made it plain that he considered his lordship’s clothes required far greater care than his lordship was likely to bestow on them, he had finally capitulated, as in all other ways Murgatroyd suited him very well.

Snuffing out the candle and listening to the footsteps retreating down the carpeted corridor, Hazelmere crossed his arms behind his head and stretched luxuriously, smiling as he thought of a particular pair of brilliant green eyes. Tony had given voice to his own thoughts on their way home. There was going to be heavy competition for those young ladies’ favours and most of it from highly experienced players. As things stood, he could certainly not be sure of winning the lady’s heart. And, he admitted to himself, for reasons he was not entirely sure of, and quite definitely for the first time in his life, that was something he very much wanted to do.

LADY BEDLINGTON’s rout was a gala affair attended by everyone who was anyone. The eccentric hostess was gratified to receive Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe, as well as a quite astonishing number of their associates. Not only were these gentlemen in attendance, but they also all arrived fairly early.

In the ballroom Hazelmere kept the head of the stairs in view. As Dorothea and Cecily appeared there he adroitly disengaged from the conversation around him and, without the least haste, made his way towards the stairs, his arrival at their foot coinciding with that of Miss Darent.

Seeing him coming towards her, Dorothea smiled and then curtsied as he bowed before her. She resolutely ignored the fluttering nervousness that made breathing strangely difficult.

Raising her hand to his lips, Hazelmere dropped a gentle kiss on her fingers, managing to turn the courtesy into a caress. He did not release her hand but turned it to flip up the dance card hanging from her wrist. These tiny cards with the order of dances listed with a place for each prospective partner to inscribe his name were much in vogue, and all the best hostesses invariably provided the débutantes with a copy, slung on a riband with a tiny silver-encased pencil attached.

‘Miss Darent! You appear mysteriously free for all the dances tonight. However, I suppose I shall have to be content with just one waltz—the first, I think?’

As she laughingly assented he duly wrote his name in the appropriate spot, then, releasing her hand and turning to survey the descending multitudes of her admirers, continued in a voice lowered so that only she could hear, ‘And, as a reward for being so early, I really think I should be allowed to escort you to supper, don’t you?’

Dorothea did not reply, but her eyes met his in amused enquiry.

Correctly interpreting the glance, he answered, ‘Quite proper, I assure you.’ With a smile he moved away to make room for the hordes of gentlemen wishful of securing a dance with the lovely Miss Darent.

As he did so he noticed, as he had predicted, Markham, Peterborough, Alvanley and Desborough among the throng. In the crowd around Cecily Darent he could make out Lords Harcourt and Bassington, as well as Fanshawe, who had executed a similar tactic to his. This was not a matter for surprise; they had discussed it over dinner. Satisfied with their success, they both moved away to claim their partners for the first dance.

Dorothea had no chance to ponder the wiles of the Marquis, being claimed for every dance and attended assiduously by a coterie of admirers. She was thoroughly enjoying herself and consequently looked radiant in a bronze silk dress covered by transparently fine tissue faille, shimmering whenever she moved. The high-waisted style suited her slender figure, making her appear more startlingly beautiful than ever. More than one furious mama wondered why Celestine never suggested such designs for their daughters.

Unaware of this sartorial jealousy, Dorothea noticed a distinct and disturbing change in the quality of her partners. At Almack’s, with the exception of the Marquis and Lord Markham, these had been charming young lads not much older than herself, who were in awe of the beautiful and self-possessed young lady and entirely amenable to allowing her to control both conversation and action. Tonight the majority of her partners were older, of the same vintage as Hazelmere, and with that came a great deal more difficulty. Some, like the gentle Alvanley, were no problem, and she quickly came to regard them as friends. Others, like wild Lord Peterborough and the rakish Walsingham, she was much more wary of. When, more than midway through the evening, Hazelmere came to claim her for the first waltz, rescuing her from Lord Walsingham’s side, she went into his arms with a sensation much akin to relief.

Thoroughly appreciative of the situation, he could not resist remarking, ‘Rather heavier weather tonight, Miss Darent?’

For an instant the hazel and green eyes met. Then Dorothea, in a voice every bit as languid as his, replied, ‘Why, no, my lord! I find it all most entertaining.’

‘Trying it on just a little too thick, my child,’ he murmured.

Dorothea hit back, wide-eyed innocence writ large on her face. ‘My lord! Such cant terms. How improper!’

Hazelmere laughed, then immediately returned to the attack. ‘If we’re to discuss impropriety, my dear, why is it that, try as I might, I cannot recall a conversation with you that has not been improper?’

She caught that up easily, murmuring with complete self-assurance, ‘I should have thought the reason for that was obvious, Lord Hazelmere.’

As their glances once more caught and held, Hazelmere saw complete enjoyment of the moment reflected in her eyes. That was the second time he had walked himself into a trap with her. He must be slipping. Nevertheless, there was hay to be made yet. Trying for a sterner tone, he said, ‘I’ll have you know, my dear Miss Darent, that I’m not in the habit of conducting improper conversations with well-behaved young ladies.’

Not seeing where this was headed, she could do no more than show a politely surprised face. ‘Oh?’

As the last strains of the waltz drifted across the ballroom, he whirled her to a halt. Smiling down into those glorious green eyes, he replied, ‘Only with you.’

Eyes blazing in mock indignation, she could not keep a straight face. With a gurgle of laughter she allowed him to draw her hand through his arm and lead her back to Lady Merion’s side. ‘As I said, Lord Hazelmere, you are most improper.’

He promptly corrected her, raising her hand to his lips, his eyes fully on hers, ‘We are both most improper, Miss Darent.’

Later he escorted her to supper, extricating her from the figurative clutches of Lord Peterborough. As he was well practised in the art of detaching young women from the attentions of his close acquaintances, these otherwise difficult tasks were accomplished with a minimum of fuss. They shared a supper table with Cecily and Lord Fanshawe and Julia Bressington, who had the punctilious Lord Harcourt in tow. The conversation was general and decidedly hilarious. Fanshawe, with Cecily interpolating the occasional observation, described the singular scene they had just witnessed between old Lady Melchett and Lord Walsingham, when that irascible old dame had taken his lordship to task for not dancing with her niece.

Realising that, with her limited experience of the ton, Dorothea could not be appreciating the half of the story, Hazelmere spent a pleasant five minutes filling in her knowledge, his head close to hers so as not to disturb the rest of the table.

FOR DOROTHEA AND CECILY, the Bedlington rout was to provide a blueprint for the behaviour of the Marquis and Lord Fanshawe. Present at almost every major gathering they attended, their lordships were always among the first to write their names in the dance cards, usually for a waltz, and more often than not squired them to supper.

While considerable attention was initially focused on them, as the days lengthened to weeks the ton became accustomed to the sight of Miss Darent in Lord Hazelmere’s arms and Cecily Darent in Lord Fanshawe’s. Their lordships put up with a considerable degree of ribbing regarding their habit of being in everything together. This they bore with equanimity, surprising their associates and convincing those gentlemen that the affairs were indeed serious. By the first week of April, three weeks into the Season and the week preceding the girls’ coming-out ball, the knowledgeable among the ton spoke of an understanding between the Darent girls and Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe. Once this point was reached, their lordships knew that a far greater degree of licence would be permitted them in their dealings with their chosen ladies.

During those first weeks both were careful not to overstep the line at any point. Hazelmere realised that Dorothea, for all her vaunted independence, turned to his arms as to a safe harbour, knowing that there she was protected from the likes of Lords Peterborough and Walsingham. Recognising the sterling service that these gentlemen were, however unwittingly, rendering him, he did not attempt to dissuade them from trying to cut him out. He found it ironic that in avoiding what she considered their dangerous attentions she should choose to seek shelter with him, where, had she but known it, she was in far greater danger.

He watched her carefully over the weeks of balls and parties and saw no sign of partiality for any other gentleman’s company. He knew she enjoyed being with him; her eyes told him so every time he thought to gaze into them, which was often. What he did not know was whether she was in love with him. There was an elusive quality about her that for all his wide experience he had never before encountered.

Still, there was plenty of time. The rush of the coming-out balls would occur in the next few weeks. Afterwards the activities of the ton normally settled to a more comfortable pace, and such matters as marriage could be concluded in a more restful atmosphere.

As the Season progressed, Dorothea found herself in a curious quandary. Lord Hazelmere was the most fascinating man she had met. He was always attentive in a subtly understated manner that she appreciated far more than the suffocating endeavours of her younger admirers. He was, quite frankly, the only man she had ever, in the remotest recesses of her mind in the darkest hours of the night, considered marrying.

It had not needed Lady Merion’s none too subtle hints to make her realise that the Marquis had singled her out, his continuing attentions making it clear that he was seriously courting her. But he had done nothing to further his interests beyond the tentative stage. She had a sneaking suspicion that, because she had not appeared to succumb to his quite considerable charm, he was laying siege to her susceptibilities, holding her tantalisingly at a distance until she acknowledged his attraction. She was a challenge and, as such, had to be conquered. Then his arrogant pride and imperious manner would, she felt, be quite insupportable.

There were even rumours of a bet being placed on the outcome of their contest of wills. Unwise in the ways of betting, she had no idea if this could be so, but she rather felt it rang true of the scandalous Marquis.

However, the questions that increasingly occupied her mind were concerned with his reasons for choosing her. They were starting to disturb her sleep. He had to marry some time, that much was obvious. But why her? Was he in love with her or was she merely convenient? How did he see her? A challenge to be overcome, a suitable connection, the granddaughter of one of his mother’s closest friends, a woman of common sense, not so beautiful as to require constant vigilance? Or did he see something more? By all the tenets of her class, it should not matter one jot. But to her it mattered a great deal. She was in the enviable position of not having to wed unless she wished it. But, if their relationship continued to develop along its present course, refusing him if and when he offered might prove difficult. But when it came to ascertaining Hazelmere’s motives she faced a problem—how could she tell? He was a man of considerable experience and ready charm. If he merely wanted a conformable wife, one who would interfere little with his established pursuits, then it would be, she reasoned, entirely in character for his arrogant lordship to choose, as the easiest route, to make a country miss fall in love with him and so more readily accept his suit.

Her inability to divine his motives was frustrating. Still, as things stood, there was little she could do. The reins were at present very much in his hands. With little scope for manoeuvre, the best she could do was enjoy his company and leave all difficult questions until they demanded an answer.

CHAPTER SIX

THE SATURDAY before the Darent sisters’ coming-out ball saw them riding in the Park, a daily treat organised by the enterprising Ferdie. He was now firmly established as their chief mentor and guide through the shoals of the Season, and had reached the position of being regarded by Dorothea, Cecily and even Lady Merion as part of their household.

The previous week he had decided that the Misses Darent would look well on horseback and had presented himself at Merion House with horses especially for them. Dorothea loved riding and even Cecily enjoyed a gentle canter, so he had not been disappointed with their reception of his idea. Within ten minutes both girls had changed into the elegant riding dresses Celestine had concocted and were on their way to the Park, escorted by the proud Ferdie and his shadow, Mr Dermont.

Attired in a severe sage-green outfit that showed off her figure to admiration, her glossy curls topped by a soft felt cloche with a beautiful peacock plume curling around her head, Dorothea had easily controlled a frisky bay mare. Cecily, quite happy with her docile palfrey, had been a picture, turned out in a pale blue tunic with fur trimming over a darker blue skirt with a matching fur hat. Their first excursion had been a resounding success.

This afternoon, riding easily beside Ferdie, Dorothea heard herself addressed in a familiar, gently mocking voice.

‘What a very accomplished young lady you are, Miss Darent.’

Turning to meet the frankly admiring gaze of the Marquis of Hazelmere, Dorothea felt herself blushing. But, setting eyes on the beautiful black gelding he was riding, she involuntarily exclaimed, ‘Oh! What a magnificent animal!’

The magnificent animal took exception to her tone but was effortlessly held. ‘And with good taste, too! Which is more than can be said of this brute at present. He’s not been out for three days and is in an evil temper.’ The hazel eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Why don’t you come for a gallop, Miss Darent?’

Sorely tempted, she glanced around for her mentor, to find that Ferdie had unaccountably vanished.

‘Afraid?’ came that mocking voice again.

Dorothea threw caution to the winds. ‘Very well. But which way?’

‘Follow me.’ The black leapt forward down a wide ride reaching into the depths of the Park. Although the gelding was the superior animal, Hazelmere rode a great deal heavier than Dorothea. She was an accomplished rider and so was not far behind as he drew up in a wide arc in the clearing at the end of the ride. Not as strong, she pulled up in a wider arc, closer to the trees. A low branch swept her hat from her head.

Both were laughing with exhilaration as Hazelmere rode to where her hat lay and dismounted to retrieve it. She rode back and waited as he picked it up and dusted off the plume. Curling the feather in his hand, he walked to her side, but instead of handing the hat to her he reached up to place his hands about her waist.

‘Come down, Miss Darent.’

She considered refusing but had no idea how to without sounding missish or, worse, coquettish. Feeling the strength in the hands resting lightly at her waist and finding the hazel eyes amused as ever, she decided that boldness was her only answer. She slipped her feet free of her stirrups, and without effort he lifted her down to stand in front of him.

‘Stand still,’ he commanded and, freeing the long hat pin, expertly inserted it through her coiled hair to secure the hat in place. He ran his hand over the plume to settle it back around her face.

Dorothea found that she was looking into eyes which no longer laughed but glinted strangely. Mesmerised, she felt her own thoughts scatter to the four winds. She was acutely aware of the man before her and little else. She wondered for one moment if he was going to kiss her. But the next instant the mocking look returned and she was lifted back on to the mare.

‘At least I’ll return you to Ferdie in every way as immaculate as when I inveigled you away from his side.’ The cynical tone sounded odd to her ears.

Deflatingly bewildered, she felt a spurt of anger that he should tantalise her, only to withdraw at the last moment. She frowned and then nearly gasped as the indelicacy of her thoughts struck her. She wheeled her mount, horrified that he would see her blushing and guess the cause.

Hazelmere remounted, and without comment they moved back along the ride, soon falling into an easy canter. He had seen her delicate brows draw together but attributed the response to anger at his actions rather than frustration at his reticence.

They emerged from the trees and by unspoken consent turned up a slight rise and halted, looking for the others. The rest of the party was not far distant. Lord Fanshawe had joined the group and was deep in conversation with Cecily. Even from her present distance, Dorothea could see that her sister was entirely captivated. Ferdie and Mr Dermont had been joined by two cronies and all four were aimlessly wandering further and further from the dallying couple. It suddenly dawned on her that Ferdie’s judgement might not be infallible.

Assailed by sudden guilt, she realised that she, too, had been remiss. It would not be easy to explain why she had been alone with the Marquis of Hazelmere in a deserted ride. Thankfully she did not think they had been seen. But to leave Cecily virtually alone with Fanshawe in the middle of the Park! Really! Where had Ferdie’s wits gone begging?

A deep chuckle from beside her brought her green eyes back to Hazelmere’s face. The mocking gaze held hers steadily. ‘You really can’t blame Ferdie, you know. He would be as protective as you could wish were any others involved. But he would never see Fanshawe or myself as potentially threatening.’

She threw him an exasperated glance and headed off towards her sister. As she approached, Fanshawe looked up in surprise and lifted an enquiring eyebrow at Hazelmere, close behind. Dorothea did not need to see his answering laughing grimace to realise that, as far as her sister and herself were concerned, if Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe were present the ‘safety in numbers’ maxim was unlikely to apply.

Seeing her quick frown, Cecily smiled sunnily, not the least bit discomfited, but she willingly brought her mount alongside as Dorothea turned towards the gate.

At that moment they were joined by Edward Buchanan, mounted on a showy cob. Hearing the news that the Darent sisters rode every day in the Park, he had conceived the happy notion that, while he might not shine in the ballroom, Miss Darent could not fail to be impressed by the vision of himself on a mettlesome steed. Unfortunately for him, his mettlesome steed, hired from a commercial stable, was far from elegant, being too long in the back and with a noticeable tendency to throw one leg.

Pulling up beside the group, he bowed to Dorothea. ‘Well met, Miss Darent.’

Dorothea inclined her head, an action she managed to infuse with an arctic iciness. ‘Mr Buchanan. I’m afraid we were on the point of returning to Cavendish Square.’ Hazelmere’s lips twitched.

‘No matter, dear lady,’ said Edward Buchanan, airily gesturing. ‘I’ll be only too happy to join your escort.’

Dorothea nearly choked. Short of refusing him point-blank, there was nothing she could do. Her face a mask, she was forced to introduce him to her companions. The Marquis merely raised one black brow in acknowledgement, and Lord Fanshawe was similarly reticent. Neither showed any inclination to surrender their positions flanking the Darent sisters to Mr Buchanan. Dorothea almost sighed in relief, then tensed as she saw the gleam in Edward Buchanan’s eye. As they walked their horses towards the gate he launched into a discussion of harvesting techniques.

This time he had badly misjudged his victims. Hazelmere, brought up from infancy to the management of the vast Henry family estates, and Fanshawe, not yet come into his patrimony but already involved in running the Eglemont acres, both knew more about that topic than he did. Between them they efficiently rolled up the subject, then turned an inquisitorial light on Mr Buchanan himself. Under a subtle pressure he had no defence against, he found himself admitting that he possessed a country holding in Dorset. No, not particularly large. How large? Well, actually, quite small. Livestock? Not a great number. No, he had not yet launched into breeding.

Her side aching from suppressed laughter, Dorothea glanced back at Ferdie, just behind, surprising a beatific grin on the guileless face. Mr Dermont, too, appeared strangely entertained. And Cecily, who had not previously encountered Mr Buchanan, was ecstatic. Her grin left no doubt that she understood their lordships’ tactics. Dorothea returned to her sphinx-like contemplation of Mr Buchanan’s difficulties, presently being added to by Fanshawe. Her eyes strayed to Hazelmere’s face and, as if sensing her gaze, he looked down at her. The expression of unbridled hilarity that glowed for a moment in his eyes very nearly overset her.

Then Mr Buchanan, desperately seeking to change the subject, and by now conscious that his mettlesome mount could not hold a candle to any of the others in this group, said, ‘I’m most impressed with the quality of your horses, Miss Darent. I take it they’re hired?’

‘Why, yes. Ferdie gets them for us.’ She turned to Ferdie as she spoke and was surprised to see a peculiarly blank, not to say wooden, expression on his face.

‘Ah. And which stable do they come from, Mr Acheson-Smythe, if I may make so bold as to enquire?’ asked Edward Buchanan.

‘You use the Titchfield Street stables, don’t you, Ferdie?’ said Hazelmere.

Ferdie started. ‘Oh! That is, yes! Titchfield Street!’ Dorothea wondered what on earth was the matter with him.

Hazelmere, well aware that there were no stables in Titchfield Street, and further, that, as far as he knew, there was no Titchfield Street in the metropolis, smiled amiably on Mr Buchanan as they reached the gate.

Mr Buchanan, seeing the smile, decided that he had borne enough in the interests of his future for one day. Suddenly recalling a pressing engagement, he regretfully took his leave of the party.

His departure left them in stricken silence, which lasted until he was out of sight. Then they all dissolved into laughter.

Finally, still flanked by Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe and with Ferdie and Mr Dermont bringing up the rear, the Misses Darent returned to Cavendish Square. On the way their lordships maintained a steady flow of general conversation, including both young ladies impartially. Dorothea suspected that this evidence of impeccable behaviour was a ploy to convince her there had been no impropriety in their actions in the Park. With a reasonable idea of what she and Cecily could expect on future rides, she realised that they would have to make plans to at least minimise the opportunities for such manoeuvres. She was not optimistic of their chances of eliminating such occurrences altogether; their lordships were simply too experienced in such matters.

Arriving in Cavendish Square, she moved to dismount but was forestalled by Hazelmere, who lifted her down. Holding her for a moment between his hands, he looked down at her lovely face, serious for once. The hazel eyes glinted, then Cecily laughed and the moment was gone. Releasing her, he swept her a bow and, with his usual amused air, said, ‘Au revoir, Miss Darent. I dare say we’ll meet again tonight.’

Brought back to reality, Dorothea smiled her goodbyes and, finding Cecily at her elbow, entered Merion House.

Once inside, Mellow informed them that Lady Merion was resting before the ball and had insisted that her granddaughters do likewise. The Duchess of Richmond was entertaining tonight and her ball was one of the highlights of the Season. Held on the first Saturday of April, this was followed by all the coming-out balls. Traditionally the most important of these were held on the Wednesdays and Saturdays during the rest of April, sometimes stretching into May. While there were a number of lesser gatherings scheduled for the next Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, there was only one ball on the following Wednesday night—at Merion House. A few other mothers had originally planned to hold their daughters’ balls on that night too, but, having taken stock of the Darent sisters, these ladies had wisely decided to change their dates. Better to be a bit thinner of company than to have no company at all.

Her interlude with Hazelmere had given Dorothea food for thought, so, thinking her grandmother’s advice very timely, she and Cecily retired to their respective chambers, supposedly to rest.

Trimmer, her new maid, was waiting to help her change. Lady Merion and Witchett had decided that Betsy should stay with Cecily, as she was familiar with that young lady’s occasional indispositions. Dorothea’s style was more demanding of the attentions of a first-class dresser. When asked if she knew of any suitable candidate Witchett had eventually produced her niece, Trimmer. Luckily she and Dorothea had got on well, and Trimmer had, as her aunt before her, fallen under the spell of her lovely young mistress.

Pausing in the middle of the room to draw out the hat pin the Marquis had placed in her hair, Dorothea wished that Trimmer would go away, but did not have the heart to summarily dismiss her. She patiently waited while the attentive maid divested her of her outdoor clothes and left her enveloped in a green silk wrapper before letting her mind shut out the rest of the world and concentrate on the question of what she was to do about the Marquis of Hazelmere.

Sitting at her dressing-table, she loosened her hair and absent-mindedly brushed the gleaming tresses, staring unseeingly at her reflection in the mirror. From the moment she had first met him Hazelmere had made serious inroads against her heart’s defences. That much, she admitted, was incontrovertible fact. But up until now she had avoided considering the natural outcome of that situation.

Staring intently into her own green eyes, reflected in the highly polished surface, she sighed. It had taken her some time to understand the novel emotions he aroused in her. But after today she could no longer delude herself. Alone with him in the clearing in the Park, she had been quite sure he would kiss her. And she had wanted him to. Preferably as he had before by the blackberry bush. Scandalous it might have been, but she had been wishing for weeks that he would repeat the performance.

She laid the brush down and carefully rewound her hair. She knew she looked forward to meeting him wherever they went, and she derived much pleasure from his company, despite his high-handed ways, which still on occasion infuriated her. The disconcerting habit he had of reading her mind merely added spice to their encounters, and she thoroughly enjoyed their highly irregular conversations. When he was not with her, alternately mocking or provoking her, with that certain amused expression in his hazel eyes, she felt sadly flat and found little to please her. The inescapable conclusion was that he had captured her heart. That admitted, what exactly was she to do about it?

Rising to cross the room, she lay on her bed, idly playing with the tassels of the bedcurtain cord. While she was now sure of her feelings, what had she learnt of his? He certainly seemed genuinely attracted to her. But he was of an age when he would be expected to marry. Maybe he had simply, in his customary high-handed way, decided that she would do. Surely, if that was the case, and his interest in her was illusory, she would be able to tell? But he was a master at this game and she was a novice. In the normal way of things, it seemed certain that he would, at some point, offer for her hand. And, by the same agreed code of behaviour, she would accept him. The trouble was, she loved him. Did he love her?

She pondered that question for half an hour. Despite his ability to guess most of her thoughts, she felt sure that she had not yet betrayed the depth of her interest in him. It seemed prudent to shield her heart until he gave her some indication of his regard.

However, the present stage of innocuous dalliance could not last; this afternoon’s events proved that. Perhaps, during one of their numerous interludes, she could find a way of encouraging him to declare himself? The idea of encouraging such a man as Hazelmere brought a grin of amusement to her face. That, at least, should not prove too difficult. Feeling, for no particular reason, more confident, she placed her head on her pillow and, worn out by her cogitations, slept until Trimmer came to dress her for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

IF SHE HAD looked out of her window instead of into her mirror Dorothea would have seen Hazelmere, Fanshawe and Ferdie entering Hazelmere House. They left their mounts in the mews behind the mansion and walked back to the front door, deep in discussion of horseflesh. Hazelmere opened the door with his key and crossed the threshold, only to come to an immediate halt. Ferdie, following, cannoned into him and, peering around his shoulders, remarked in wonder, ‘Good lord!’

Hazelmere brought his quizzing glass to bear on the piles of bandboxes and trunks strewn about his hall. Seeing his butler attempting to approach through the welter of luggage, he enquired in a deceptively sweet voice, ‘Mytton, what exactly is all this?’

Mytton, knowing that tone, promptly replied, ‘Her ladyship has arrived, m’lord.’

‘Which ladyship?’ pursued Hazelmere, assailed by a sudden and revolting thought.

‘Why, the Dowager, m’lord!’ replied Mytton, at a loss to understand the strange question.

‘Oh, of course!’ said Hazelmere, relieved as enlightenment dawned. ‘For one horrible moment I thought Maria and Susan had come back.’

This explanation made all clear to the assembled company. Hazelmere’s antipathy towards his elder sisters was common knowledge. This stemmed from an attempt made some years previously by those rigid ladies to manage his matrimonial affairs for him. Their inevitable and ignoble defeat had culminated in their being persona non grata in his various establishments. As they were both married to men well able to provide for them, Hazelmere saw no reason for them to be cluttering up his houses with their meddling, strait-laced ways.

Absorbed in his own affairs, he had entirely forgotten that his mother, Anthea Henry, the Dowager Marchioness of Hazelmere, always came to town for a few weeks of the Season, and invariably attended the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Again surveying the scene, he asked, ‘How is her ladyship, Mytton?’

‘She has retired to rest, m’lord, but said she would join you for dinner.’

Hazelmere nodded absently and led the way in between the various trunks and boxes, down the corridor and through the double doors into the beautifully appointed library. Ferdie followed, with Fanshawe bringing up the rear. Closing the doors behind them, Fanshawe turned with a grin. ‘They all seem to move with mountains of luggage, don’t they? Can’t think your mama will need the half of it, but mine’s exactly the same.’

Hazelmere ruefully agreed. Realising that to dine alone with his sharp-eyed parent might not be all that soothing to his temper, already under strain, he decided to call in reinforcements. ‘Tony, you’ll come to dinner? And you too, Ferdie?’

Fanshawe nodded his acceptance, but Ferdie replied, ‘Pleased to, but don’t forget I’m to escort the Merion party to the ball, so I’ll have to leave at seven.’

‘Well, if you’re leaving at seven we’ll have to leave earlier,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Don’t you dare leave Merion House until the carriage is away from this door!’

Hazelmere crossed to the bell pull and, when Mytton appeared, gave his orders. ‘And my respects to her ladyship, but we dine at five and are to leave for the ball at seven. See that the carriage is waiting no later than seven.’

Mytton retreated to convey this unwelcome news to the culinary wizard downstairs. Hazelmere poured glasses of wine and, having handed these around, sank into one of the wing chairs gathered around the marble fireplace. Fanshawe had taken the chair opposite, and Ferdie was elegantly disposed on the chaise. Now that they were comfortably settled, a companionable silence descended. This was broken by Fanshawe. ‘What on earth made you come back from that ride so quickly?’

Without looking up from his contemplation of the unlit fire, Hazelmere replied, ‘Temptation.’

‘What?’

With a sigh he explained. ‘Remember we agreed we’d have to play by the rules?’ Fanshawe nodded. ‘Well, if we’d stayed any longer in that ride the rules would have flown with the wind. So we came back.’

Fanshawe nodded sympathetically. ‘All this is turning out a dashed sight more complicated than I’d imagined.’

That brought Hazelmere’s gaze to his face, but it was Ferdie, all at sea, who spoke. ‘But why is it all so complicated? Would’ve thought it was all pretty much plain sailing, myself, especially for you two. Simply roll up and ask the girls’ guardian, the horrible Herbert, for their hands. Simple! No problem at all.’

Seeing the expression of amused tolerance this speech elicited, Ferdie realised that he had missed some vital point and waited patiently to be set right. Hazelmere, eyes fixed on the delicate wine glass held in one white hand, eventually explained, ‘The difficulty, Ferdie, lies in divining the true state of the Misses Darents’ affections. To whit, I can’t tell if Miss Darent is merely playing the game or whether her heart is at all engaged by your humble servant.’

Ferdie regarded him with absolute disbelief, utterly bereft of words. Finally regaining the use of his tongue, he exclaimed, ‘No! Hang it all, Marc! Can’t be true. You, of all people. Must be able to tell.’

‘How?’

Ferdie opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. He turned to Fanshawe. ‘You too?’

Fanshawe, head sunk on his chest, merely nodded.

After a pause while he digested this astonishing intelligence, Ferdie said, ‘But they both seem to enjoy your company.’

‘Oh, we know that,’ agreed Hazelmere dismissively. ‘But beyond that, I, for one, can’t tell.’

‘True,’ Fanshawe confirmed. ‘Only need to look into those eyes to see they like having us around. Like to talk to us, dance with us. Well, why wouldn’t they, all things considered? Fact of the matter, Ferdie, m’lad, is it’s a very long hop from that to love.’

The dilemma they were in was now clear to Ferdie. He was considering the possibility of helping them out, when he suddenly found himself the object of the Marquis’s hazel gaze.

‘Ferdie,’ said Hazelmere softly, ‘if you so much as breathe a word of this conversation outside this room—’

‘We’ll both make your life entirely unbearable,’ finished Fanshawe. This was a standard threat between the three, and Ferdie made haste to assure them that such an idea had never entered his head. He faltered slightly under Hazelmere’s sceptical gaze.

A dismal silence settled over them, until Fanshawe glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and stirred. ‘I’d best be off to change. Coming, Ferdie?’

All three rose. After seeing them out, Hazelmere went upstairs to find Murgatroyd already awaiting him. As Tony had said, it had become a lot more complicated than anticipated.

OVER THE LIGHT meal they sat down to before the Richmond House ball, Dorothea, prompted by Hazelmere’s comments in the Park, drew out Lady Merion on the relationship between the Marquis, Lord Fanshawe and Ferdie Acheson-Smythe.

Lady Merion, thinking this a sensible question in the circumstances, was happy to describe the situation as fully as she could. ‘Well, the principal seats of the Hazelmere and Eglemont peerages, held by the Henry and Fanshawe families respectively, lie in Surrey and adjoin each other. The families have always been close allies and friends. Hazelmere and Fanshawe were born only a few weeks apart; Hazelmere is the elder. Both have two older sisters and Hazelmere has a younger sister, too, but neither has any brothers. Consequently it was only natural that the boys grew up together. They went to Eton and Oxford together and have been on the town for … oh, over ten years now. The bond between them is very strong—stronger than if they had in fact been brothers, I suspect.’

‘What about Ferdie?’ asked Cecily.

‘Ferdie is the son of Hazelmere’s mother’s sister, and so a first cousin to Hazelmere. He is about five years younger than Marc, but he was sent to spend most of his childhood summers at Hazelmere. I don’t quite understand why, for in temperament they seem very dissimilar, and there’s the age difference too, but Ferdie and Hazelmere and Tony Fanshawe are very firm friends indeed. They always help each other out and used to cover up for each other when they were younger and got into scrapes. Ferdie is very sincerely attached to the Marquis and Lord Fanshawe, and they always seem very protective and tolerant of him.’

By this time they had finished their meal and Lady Merion, glancing at the clock, shooed them off to put the finishing touches to their toilettes, saying, ‘You know Ferdie will not be late and he hates to be kept waiting!’

LADY MERION was quite correct in telling her granddaughters that the bond between Ferdie and their lordships ran deep. It dated from Ferdie’s first visit to Hazelmere, when, on his first morning there, the shy eleven-year-old had seen his magnificent sixteen-year-old cousin and his friend leave the stableyard for an early-morning ride. He had been in his bedchamber at the time, and had hurriedly dressed and gone down to the stables, thinking to get a horse and catch up with them. Instead, he had fallen victim to two young stable-lads, who, for a joke, had set him on a half-broken Arab stallion. The horse, very fresh, had broken away, Ferdie clinging for dear life to its back. Luckily it had headed in the direction taken by the older boys. In the ensuing chase, Marc and Tony Fanshawe had worked with Ferdie to save both him and the stallion. Sheer good luck and a deal of courage from them all had pulled it off. From that day onwards the three were, as far as their disparate ages and interests allowed, inseparable. Whenever other children had tried to bully Ferdie, they had very quickly learned they had to answer to either Tony or the even more formidable Marc.

Habits formed in childhood ran deep, and when Ferdie had got into trouble in the petticoat line at Oxford, it was to Marc, rather than to his own scholarly and eccentric father, that he had turned. And Marc had very efficiently sorted the problem out. On his coming on the town, those who belonged to the better of the gentlemen’s clubs had quickly realised that if Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was threatened then Lord Fanshawe and the Marquis of Hazelmere had a habit of materialising behind him. When Ferdie got involved in controversy over another gentleman’s efforts at fuzzing the cards and was challenged to a duel, illegal though that practice then was, it was Hazelmere who stepped in and ruthlessly put a stop to it.

In return, it must be said, their lordships had found that Ferdie possessed a rare talent: he was so very trustworthy that women tended to pour all their secrets into his ear. Thus Ferdie had proved more than useful to them over the past five years. However, as Hazelmere had truthfully told Dorothea, it was quite impossible for Ferdie to view either himself or Tony Fanshawe askance.

THE DOWAGER MARCHIONESS of Hazelmere descended the stairs of Hazelmere House, thinking how pleasant it would be to have a new Lady Hazelmere to make use of its beautifully proportioned salons. She had come up from Surrey, as was her custom, but this year she had much higher expectations of the Season.

At just over fifty, she was still a striking woman, tall and willowy, her abundant chestnut hair still retaining much of its glory, and the years had not robbed her face of its piquancy. She had contracted a bronchial complaint some years before and, as this was exacerbated by the fumes of the city, she usually spent only a week or so in London. Her expectations had been fuelled by the extraordinary intelligence conveyed to her by her London correspondents. As well as the carefully worded missive from Hermione Merion, detailing the history of her son’s involvement with Dorothea Darent, she had received no less than six letters from other close friends, all comprehensively describing Hazelmere’s infatuation with Miss Darent. Of these, the most informative had been the most recent, from the Countess of Eglemont. Tony’s parents had returned to London a week earlier and Amelia Fanshawe had dutifully reported how things stood between both her son and Cecily Darent and Hazelmere and Miss Darent. More than anyone else, she would trust Amelia to correctly interpret Marc’s behaviour. And what Amelia had written had been intriguing. Consequently she had been amused rather than surprised to find that her usually cool son had moved dinner forward so he could arrive at the ball ahead of his inamorata.

Entering the drawing-room, she was taken aback to find Tony Fanshawe and Ferdie in attendance. As her elegant son strolled across the room to plant an affectionate kiss on her cheek her eyes openly quizzed him. He was as immaculate as ever, in a perfectly cut black coat that looked as if it had been moulded to his broad shoulders, skin-tight knee-breeches encasing his powerful thighs. Diamonds winked amid the snowy folds of his cravat.

‘Welcome to town, Mama! As always, you look quite ravishing.’

His eyes returned her regard with a bland and innocent air, which deceived her not at all. While Tony and Ferdie made their bows Mytton entered to announce dinner.

Throughout the meal Hazelmere, ably seconded by her nephew and Tony Fanshawe, kept her entertained, describing all that had occurred thus far in the Season, with two notable omissions. Amused by their strategy, she was even more entertained than they intended.

After the servants withdrew she seized the initiative. She fixed both her son and Fanshawe with a look that from long experience they knew meant that she intended to get to the bottom of whatever had excited her attention. ‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ she said, breaking into yet another of Ferdie’s anecdotes, ‘but what I really want to know is why none of you has yet seen fit to mention Hermione Merion’s granddaughters. From everything I hear, you have all been somewhat preoccupied with them, have you not?’

She found herself looking into her son’s hazel eyes as he gently explained, ‘But, Mama, you already know all about them, and more, from all the letters you’ve been sent. We didn’t want to bore you.’

With the ground cut so masterfully from under her feet, she could think of nothing to say. Instead she raised her glass in mock salute. ‘I trust they will be present tonight?’

‘Most assuredly. Ferdie is to escort them there.’

‘Then you must both promise to introduce them to me and I’ll promise to be silent on the subject all the way there.’

‘And back?’ asked Fanshawe, used to the Hazelmere conversations.

She laughed. ‘All right. And back.’

‘Under those conditions, I promise,’ answered Hazelmere with a grin.

‘And I,’ echoed Fanshawe.

‘Good heavens!’ ejaculated Ferdie, surprising them all. ‘I’ll have to dash or I’ll be late. Never do to keep them waiting!’

Amid laughter, he departed for the other side of Cavendish Square, urging them to make haste if they wanted to get to Richmond first.

ARRIVING ON THE doorstep of Merion House as the Merion carriage rounded the corner, Ferdie had the forethought to ask Mellow not to announce it until the Hazelmere carriage, already standing outside Hazelmere House and clearly visible across the square, had departed. Mellow, accepting the golden douceur Ferdie slipped him, understood perfectly.

Inside the drawing-room, Ferdie caught his breath at the visions of loveliness that met his eyes. Even he had started to wonder for how much longer the Darent sisters could dazzle in elegant gowns that were quite unique.

Dorothea, standing by the marble mantel, was a stunning picture in ivory satin, overlaid with lace around the neckline and in a broad sweep down one side of the skirt. The pearls at her throat shone warmly in the firelight, and her hair appeared burnished by the flames. The simplicity of the gown was breathtaking. Thinking of the effect this creation would have on Hazelmere in his present mood, Ferdie almost felt sorry for the Marquis.

Cecily was adorned in pure white, with trimming of aquamarine ribbon set with tiny seed-pearls criss-crossed over the bodice and looped around her skirt. Again the effect was unique and quite lovely.

Lady Merion, satisfied with the effect her granddaughters’ gowns had had on Ferdie, spoke up, telling him that they were now ready to depart.

Ferdie gulped and asked innocently, ‘Oh, has Mellow announced the carriage?’

‘No, Ferdie, he hasn’t,’ said Dorothea, suddenly suspicious.

‘I don’t know what’s keeping them, then,’ muttered her ladyship. ‘We called for the carriage long ago.’

‘Er—yes.’ Ferdie decided that Lady Merion was the safest of the three to address. ‘Just came from dinner at Hazelmere House. Lady Hazelmere was there, ma’am, and sent her regards. Said she’d see you at the ball.’

At this juncture, with Ferdie fervently searching for some topic to distract his three ladies, Mellow entered and solved the problem by announcing the carriage.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AFTER AN UNEVENTFUL DRIVE, the Merion carriage joined the long queue of coaches lining up to disgorge their fair burdens on the torch-lit steps of Richmond House. There had been little conversation on the journey, and Ferdie had had time to ponder what lay between the Darent sisters and his friends.

He recalled the look in Dorothea’s eye that afternoon when he had hurried to catch up with them as they left the Park. He had been unable to interpret it at the time, imagining that the four of them had been together the whole time. But now, from what Marc and Tony themselves had said, it was clear that had not been the case. Ferdie’s mind boggled when he tried to imagine what exactly had happened between Dorothea and Marc. And this while the Misses Darent were, after a fashion, in his care! If such a thing ever got out, his carefully nurtured reputation as a trustworthy ladies’ companion would be ruined!

The carriage drew up and he helped his ladies to alight. Soon they were following the glittering line of arrivals up the grand staircase. At the top, they were greeted by the Duchess, and moved on into the ballroom as their names were proclaimed in stentorian accents by two massive footmen flanking the door.

Dorothea had only taken a few steps when she found Hazelmere at her elbow. Smiling up at him, she saw that his eyes were not laughing, but glinting at her in a way that made her heart stand still. All the other symptoms she now associated with his presence—breathlessness, confusion and a certain anticipation—immediately came to the fore. Then he smiled and the intense look dissolved into his usual warmly amused expression, dispelling her unease. His lips lightly brushed her gloved fingertips before he drew her hand through his arm.

‘Come with me, Miss Darent; there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

‘Oh? Who, pray tell?’

‘Me.’

She chuckled. She was drawn out of the mainstream of the arriving guests, a tactic that confused the small army of gentlemen waiting patiently to greet her further along the ballroom. Hazelmere led her towards a corner, into the camouflage of earlier arrivals. He moved automatically through the crowd, not seeing them, not hearing them. His mind was awhirl with a heady sensation he had never experienced before. Whatever it was, it was exciting and uncomfortable at the same time, and its cause was the unutterably lovely creature walking so calmly beside him. The sight of her, encased in ivory, had taken his breath away. Then she had smiled at him with such open affection that he had had to fight an impulse to kiss her in the middle of the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom.

The temptation to continue their ambling stroll into the adjoining rooms was strong. He knew Richmond House fairly well. He was sure he could find a deserted ante-room where Miss Darent and he could analyse his strange response to her presence in more depth. He sighed inwardly. Unfortunately such intimate discussions were not listed among the acceptable ways of wooing young ladies during the Season.

Reluctantly pausing, he looked down at her again, drinking in the flawless symmetry of her face, drowning in her emerald eyes. He saw them widen, first in amused enquiry and then, as he remained silent, in increasing bewilderment. ‘I’ll have you know, Miss Darent, that I’m rapidly running out of ideas of how to whisk you away before your devoted admirers surround you.’

Smiling in response, Dorothea hoped that he couldn’t hear the thudding of her heart. She was no longer sure of her ability to keep him from guessing her feelings—as he stood before her, magnificent as ever, the spell he cast was too potent. He had developed a certain way of looking at her, which made her feel deliciously warm and tingly and led her unruly thoughts into fields they had no business straying into. Well-brought-up young ladies weren’t supposed to know of such things, let alone weave fantasies about them. Thinking that she could quite happily bask in that hazel gaze for the rest of forever, she forced herself to try for their usual conversational mode. ‘Well, you seem to have succeeded to admiration this evening. I feel utterly deserted!’

‘Do you, indeed?’ he murmured, adding in a provocative undertone, ‘Would that you were, my dear.’

In spite of her intentions, she was finding it harder and harder to meet his eyes with her customary cool unconcern.

Hazelmere finally looked down to examine her dance card. ‘I don’t suppose I should tell you that Lord Markham is presently making a cake of himself, searching through the place for you? No! Don’t look around or he might see you. And the only reason Alvanley, Peterborough and Walsingham ain’t doing the same is that they’re watching Robert do it for them. Miss Darent, I notice there’s a waltz immediately preceding supper, which is a very sensible innovation. I must remember to compliment the Duchess on her good sense. Will you do me the honour, my dear Miss Darent, of waltzing with me and then allowing me to take you into supper?’

Dorothea had managed to gain a firmer hold on her composure during this speech and was able to serenely reply, ‘That will be delightful, Lord Hazelmere.’

One black brow rose. ‘Will it?’

But she refused to be drawn with such an unanswerable question and simply smiled sweetly back. Hazelmere laughed and raised one finger to her cheek. ‘Promise me you’ll never put a rein on your tongue, my dear. Life would become so dull if you did.’

The caress and the even more provocative tones brought a familiar flash to her large green eyes.

‘Ah! Miss Darent! Lord Hazelmere. Your servant, sir.’ Sir Barnaby Ruscombe materialised at Hazelmere’s elbow. Hazelmere suavely inclined his head, and Dorothea drummed up her best social smile for London’s most notorious rattle. Sir Barnaby, beaming as if delighted by these mild acknowledgements, waved his hand towards the figure on his arm, a sharp-featured woman of indeterminate years, dressed entirely in a quite hideous shade of puce, clashing outrageously with her improbable auburn locks. ‘Permit me to introduce you. Miss Darent, Lord Hazelmere. Mrs Dimchurch.’

The exchange of curtsies and bows was purely perfunctory. ‘But I’m sure Miss Darent remembers me from the assemblies at Newbury,’ gushed Mrs Dimchurch. Hazelmere felt Dorothea stiffen. ‘So sad about your dear mama! Lady Cynthia and I always enjoyed a comfortable cose while we watched over our daughters.’ Her sharp eyes were fixed on the Marquis. ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear Lady Cynthia had made your acquaintance, my lord. She never mentioned it. Strange, don’t you think?’

As an attempt to throw Hazelmere, it was so crude that Dorothea only just managed to retain her composure.

His lordship, used to stiffer competition, made short work of it. Regarding the offending Mrs Dimchurch with a coldly gentle smile, he softly said, ‘I very much doubt, my dear ma’am, that Lady Darent was the type of lady who would presume, on the basis of a single chance introduction, to claim acquaintance with anyone. Don’t you agree?’

Mrs Dimchurch turned brick-red, rendering her toilette even more hideous.

Without waiting for a reply, Hazelmere nodded to Sir Barnaby and, bestowing a devilish smile on the unfortunate Mrs Dimchurch, drew Dorothea’s hand once more through his arm and strolled back towards the milling crowds in the centre of the large room.

Once out of earshot of the importunate couple, Hazelmere glanced down. ‘My dear Miss Darent, how many such mushrooms have you had to endure?’ He sounded distinctly guilty.

She chuckled, then answered airily, ‘Oh, hardly any since the first week.’ She looked up, confidently expecting him to laugh with her and was surprised to see the hazel eyes reflecting real concern. Before she could do more than register the fact they were spotted by her prospective partners.

The rooms were filled to overflowing and more people were arriving. Finding any lady in the crush was extremely difficult. Having totally lost Miss Darent, one of the crowd looking for her had asked if anyone had seen Hazelmere, as, knowing his lordship, Miss Darent was probably with him. This had led to a search for the Marquis who, because of his height, was a great deal easier to spot than Dorothea. With various comments, mostly in an uncomplimentary vein, being thrown at his head, Hazelmere good-humouredly surrendered Dorothea to her swains and was swallowed up in the crowds.

Dorothea was amazed that anyone could find anyone else in the throng of people filling the ballroom and spreading into the adjoining salons. She had no idea where her grandmother or Cecily were, but with so many acquaintances among the ton she was not in the least put out. Somehow her partners seemed to find her for their respective dances, when the ballroom would miraculously clear as the music began. As each dance finished, the floor would fill again with a shifting sea of gorgeously clad ladies, the gentlemen in their more sober clothes providing stark contrast. The evening passed in a whirl of conversation and dancing, and she had no time to ponder the subtle change she had detected in the Marquis.

The only cloud on her horizon was the persistent Mr Buchanan. He seemed to dog her erratic footsteps, continually appearing as if by some malignant magic wherever she chose to pause. Finally she appealed to Ferdie for advice. ‘How on earth can I get rid of him?’ she wailed as they trailed and dipped through a cotillion.

Although highly sympathetic, having already endured too much of Mr Buchanan’s company and lacking Hazelmere’s acid capacity to silence at will, Ferdie could find no magic formula to rid his protégée of this unexpected encumbrance. ‘Hate to say it, but he’s the sort who never takes the hint. You’ll just have to be patient until he slopes off.’ Then he was seized with inspiration. ‘Why not ask Hazelmere to have a word with him?’

‘Lord Hazelmere would probably laugh himself into stitches at the idea of Mr Buchanan pursuing me! He’d be more likely to encourage him!’ returned Dorothea. They were separated by the movement of the dance, so she failed to see the effect her answer had on Ferdie. Retrieving his dropped jaw, he shook his head. Personally, he could not imagine Hazelmere encouraging anyone to pursue Dorothea, much less the importunate Mr Buchanan, who, unless he missed his guess, was a fortune-hunter of the most inept variety. Clearly a word in his cousin’s ear would not go amiss.

No longer feeling the need to dance with other young ladies as a cover for his pursuit of Dorothea, Hazelmere spent much of the evening talking to friends, acquaintances and a not inconsiderable number of his relatives. He was not pleased when, turning in response to a tap on his arm, he looked down into the severe countenance of his eldest sister, Lady Maria Setford. Knowing that she would have heard of his interest in Dorothea, he persistently misunderstood every quizzing remark she made on that subject. Exasperated, she finally recommended he look out for his other older sister, Lady Susan Wilmot, who, she informed him, was also somewhere in the rooms and desirous of speech with him.

Her brother merely looked at her with an expression that very luckily she was incapable of interpreting, before excusing himself on the score of having seen their mother, with whom he required a few words.

He did, in fact, pass by Lady Hazelmere, deep in conversation with Sally Jersey, and paused to whisper, ‘Mama, I know you’ve always sworn you were faithful to my father, but how on earth do you account for Maria and Susan?’

Lady Jersey, overhearing, burst into her twittering laugh. Lady Hazelmere made a face at him before asking, ‘You don’t mean they’ve started sermonising already?’

‘I’m sure they would like to, only they haven’t decided whether it’s worthwhile yet,’ returned her undutiful son, winking at her as he moved on.

Like Ferdie, Hazelmere had spent the journey to Richmond House sunk in thought. A despondent mood had overtaken him earlier in the day, when he had had to deny himself the pleasure of kissing Dorothea in the glade in the Park and had realised that would be his lot for some time to come. Since he was naturally autocratic and, as Dorothea had surmised, used to getting his own way in most things, the need to keep his passions on a very tight rein did not appeal in the least. He had already decided that he could not ask her to marry him until much later in the Season. This was not because he thought he needed more time to win her, nor that he feared to put his luck to the test. Rather it was because he, unlike Dorothea, was well versed in the ways of the ton. He could not be entirely sure of her answer, so he had to consider the possibility that she would refuse him. As their courtship had been carried out in full view of all the gossips and scandalmongers, such an outcome at the height of the Season would place them both in an intolerable situation. In addition, Lady Merion, Fanshawe and Cecily, and Ferdie too would be made to feel highly uncomfortable.

His mood had lightened when he learned that Fanshawe was in a similar position. A much more easygoing individual than himself, Tony would not find the enforced restrictions quite as hard to bear. Cecily, too, was as yet too young to do other than enjoy every moment as it came. Dorothea was another matter. While she never in any way encouraged him, she nevertheless accepted with complete self-assurance every attention he bestowed upon her. He shrewdly guessed that, being older, more mature and definitely more independent than the general run of débutantes, she was more ready and more able to savour the delights of sophisticated lovemaking, to which he was only too willing to introduce her. Her passionate nature, which he wryly suspected she did not yet realise she possessed, was not going to help matters. It was at this point in his mental ramblings that his sense of humour had come to his rescue. How very ironic it all was!

He had quit their carriage in a much lighter mood than he had entered it, and the last shreds of despondency had been wafted away when he had seen Dorothea enter the ballroom.

Moving through the salons, he saw Lady Merion ensconced in a corner, chatting amiably with Lady Bressington. He stopped to audaciously compliment them both on their dashing new toilettes and stayed to exchange the usual pleasantries.

Suddenly becoming aware they had been approached by some others, he turned to view the newcomers, surprising a look of annoyance on Lady Merion’s face as he did so. The cause of this was immediately clear: the couple who approached were none other than Herbert and Marjorie, Lord and Lady Darent.

Hazelmere had been introduced to Herbert Darent years ago when that sober young man had first come on the town. Two years younger than the Marquis, Herbert was also a full head shorter and, in his ill-fitting coat, cut a poor figure in comparison.

After two minutes’ conversation Hazelmere fully appreciated Lady Merion’s decision to take the Darent girls under her wing. The idea that two such pearls could have made their début under the auspices of the present Lord and Lady Darent was too awful to contemplate. What a mess they would have made of it. To his experienced eye, Marjorie Darent lacked any degree of style or charm, and her austere observations on modern social customs, delivered for the benefit of the company without any invitation whatever, simply appalled him.

Lady Merion was so thunderstruck that she was literally speechless. When Herbert tried to engage Hazelmere in a discussion of rural commodities she was even more incensed. However, as she listened to Herbert, who had little real idea of what he was discussing, lecturing Hazelmere, who, as one of the major landowners in the country, had a more than academic interest in such matters, her sense of humour got the better of her. She rapidly hid her face behind her fan.

Looking up, her eyes met Hazelmere’s, full of heartfelt sympathy as he adroitly extricated both himself and Lady Bressington, on the pretext of taking her ladyship to find her errant daughter.

As she moved off on his arm Augusta Bressington heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Marc. If you hadn’t rescued me I would have been stuck. Poor Hermione! What a dreadful couple!’

‘Definitely not one of the hits of the Season,’ he agreed.

‘And to think Herbert comes from the same stable as those two lovely girls,’ she continued, quite forgetting his interest. As this came to mind, she blushed, but, glancing up at him, found he was laughing.

‘Oh, no! I feel sure Herbert’s mother must have played his father false, don’t you?’

Lady Bressington gasped and then burst out laughing too. Drawing her hand from his arm, she bade him take himself off, adding that she now saw why all the girls fell to mooning over him.

Hearing the strains of the Roger de Clovely drifting from the ballroom and knowing it to be the dance before the supper waltz, Hazelmere accepted his dismissal with easy grace and moved back to the ballroom to find Dorothea. He had little difficulty in picking her out, whirling down the dance with Peterborough. Pausing for a moment to catch the tune and work out where they were likely to finish, he stationed himself near the end of the ballroom. As the dance concluded, Peterborough whirled Dorothea to a halt a few paces away. He strolled towards them. ‘How obliging of you, Gerry, to bring Miss Darent to me.’

Peterborough whirled around, an entirely unacceptable oath on his lips. ‘Hazelmere!’ he groaned. ‘I might have known!’ As the Marquis possessed himself of Dorothea’s hand he continued, ‘I suppose you have the supper waltz?’

‘Precisely,’ said Hazelmere, his amused glance clearly baiting his friend.

Lord Peterborough turned to Dorothea and in a serious tone, belied by the expression on his face, said, ‘I shouldn’t have anything to do with Hazelmere if I were you, Miss Darent. Don’t know if anyone’s told you, but he’s far too dangerous for young ladies to deal with. Much better to let me take you away.’

Dorothea laughed at this graceless speech. But Hazelmere’s voice again drew Peterborough’s attention. ‘Oh, Miss Darent knows just how dangerous I am, Gerry.’ At this outrageous statement Dorothea’s eyes blazed. Looking up, she found the hazel eyes quizzing her as he continued smoothly, ‘But she has agreed to overlook my dangerous tendencies. Haven’t you, Miss Darent?’

Aware that to answer this provocative question in any way at all would be highly improper, Dorothea threw him a fulminating glance.

Smiling, he turned back to Peterborough and said, quite simply, ‘Goodbye, Gerry.’

‘Oh, I’m off, never fear. Take care, Miss Darent!’ he added insouciantly as, sketching a bow to her, he disappeared into the crowd.

Turning to Dorothea, Hazelmere saw she had opened her fan. ‘You’re flushed, Miss Darent. Now I wonder if that’s due to these overheated rooms, the Roger de Clovely, Peterborough’s remarks or mine?’

Smiling up at him, she calmly answered, ‘Why, a combination of all four, I should think.’

‘Then, instead of waiting for the next dance, why don’t we repair to the terrace, where I see quite a few others have already gone to enjoy the cool of the evening?’

Looking in the direction he indicated, Dorothea saw that the long windows at the end of the ballroom giving out on to the terrace had been thrown open. A number of couples were strolling in the moonlight. She had definite misgivings of the wisdom of venturing into such a fairy-tale scene at Hazelmere’s side, but she was certainly feeling overly warm and the cool night air beckoned invitingly.

Hazelmere, correctly guessing her thoughts, made her decision for her by taking her arm. Together they strolled through the windows. Dorothea exclaimed at the sight of the formal gardens touched with moonlight. A few adventuresome couples had descended to the parterre below, where they appeared as pixie-like characters in the soft light. Without breaking the spell, Hazelmere strolled by her side to the far end of the terrace. He had a very good memory. There was an orangery built along the side of the house below the ballroom which could only be reached from the terrace. Knowing the Duchess of Richmond was a considerate hostess, he felt the orangery would be open. Coming to the end of the terrace and turning, he found that his confidence in the Duchess had not been misplaced.

‘There’s an orangery down these steps, which, if memory serves, gives on to the fountain court. Shall we investigate?’

The question was merely a formality. Dorothea was literally enthralled by the silvery beauty about her and, without thought, went down the steps by his side.

Inside the orangery, deserted save for themselves, they found the doors giving on to the fountain court thrown wide. Hearing the music of the fountains, Dorothea drew her hand from his arm and, looking very like a fairy queen, drifted to the open door to look out on the magical scene. The three fountains in the court were playing and the moonlight glistened and sparkled on each drop of water thrown up in the still night air to fall back with a silvery tinkle into the large marble bowls. She stood in the doorway, rapt in the beauty of the scene.

Silently Hazelmere shut the doors from the terrace and, coming up behind her, gently drew her back to lean against him. Feeling his hands about her waist, she allowed her head to rest against his shoulder. For some moments they were as still as the statues in the fountains. Then, prompted by her own particular devil, Dorothea turned her head to smile up at him. There was, after all, one certain way to precipitate matters.

His response was all she could have wished. Turning her slightly, Hazelmere swiftly bent his head to drop the gentlest of delicate kisses on her lips. As he raised his head her eyes opened wide. For one long moment they remained perfectly still, the hazel and green gazes fusing in the moonlight. Then, slowly, he turned her fully and deliberately drew her into his arms. She lifted her face and his lips found hers in a kiss that possessed her senses with gentle certainty. With infinite care he started her sensual education, his caresses deepening by imperceptible degrees so that her senses were never overwhelmed, but taught, step by steady step, to savour the exquisite delight he created. His control was absolute and Dorothea, enfolded in his care, for the first time in her life, willingly let go of the reins.

She lost all track of time, gently led down paths where joy, as exquisite as dew on a buttercup, lay waiting to greet her. The sensual landscape conjured forth by his touch was a new frontier in which each discovery brought its own thrill. When, finally, he drew her back to reality she was dazed and breathless and exquisitely happy.

Then they were waltzing in the moonlit orangery to the music wafting through the open windows of the ballroom above. In no mood to protest, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment. Hazelmere, looking down at her lovely face, serene and untroubled in the starlight, did likewise.

As the last chord sounded and they glided to a halt he firmly drew her arm through his and made for the door and the steps back to the terrace.

‘Do we have to leave?’ she asked, hanging back. ‘It’s so very lovely here.’

‘Yes,’ he replied uncompromisingly. If they stayed in this isolated spot a moment longer he knew very well what would happen. Which would all be very pleasant, except he had no idea what would happen next. After that little interlude he was no longer sure how far he could trust himself with her, and he had a shrewd suspicion that, innocent though she was, she was no more enamoured of the rules restricting their conduct than he was. It was bad enough that he had to exercise restraint for the both of them, as he was magnanimously doing at present, but if she started pulling in the opposite direction the temptation to capitulate might become too great. He groaned inwardly and closed his eyes to rid his mind of the intoxicating possibilities the thought conjured up. Opening them again, he tightened his grip on her arm and inexorably drew her back up the steps to the terrace. ‘If we are missing at supper, your grandmama will have all her worst fears concerning me confirmed and will in all probability forbid me to speak to you!’

As she imagined the likelihood of his paying any attention to Lady Merion’s strictures, a small, happy smile curved Dorothea’s lips, and she allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom.

Almost immediately they came face to face with Edward Buchanan. ‘Miss Darent, you’re flushed! Perhaps I might take you for a walk in the gardens? I’m sure Lord Hazelmere will excuse you.’ The accusatory look he cast Hazelmere nearly did for Dorothea.

Hazelmere, who knew very well the cause of the delicate flush still apparent on her alabaster skin, smiled in a devilish way that brought his reputation forcibly to Edward Buchanan’s mind, and said, ‘On the contrary! Lord Hazelmere is about to escort Miss Darent to supper. If you will excuse us?’

Receiving a curt nod, Edward Buchanan found his quarry had somehow side-stepped him and escaped. The first uneasy glimmer that Miss Darent might fall prey to the wicked blandishments of tonnish society awoke in his unimaginative mind.

Out of earshot, Dorothea asked, ‘Am I really flushed?’ She felt delightful; not uncomfortable at all.

She could not interpret the slow grin that spread across the Marquis’s face. ‘Delightfully so,’ was all the answer she got.

After much stopping to talk to acquaintances on the way, they finally gained the supper-room. Fanshawe and Cecily had saved them seats at a corner table well provided with an array of delicacies. As Hazelmere helped Dorothea to her chair Fanshawe, after one glance at her, caught his friend’s eye, his look clearly stating that he had every idea of what they had been up to. Hazelmere grinned back.

Relieved to see him no longer in the hips, Fanshawe turned back to assure an excited and insistent Cecily that he would take her to see the fountain court.

When they rose from the table Fanshawe said to Hazelmere, ‘Don’t forget your promise to your mother! I’ve kept my side of it. I couldn’t bear it if she was to quiz us all the way back to Cavendish Square.’

‘Ye gods! I’d forgotten.’ Hazelmere turned his most charming smile on Dorothea. ‘Miss Darent, my mother is here somewhere in this mêlée and has made me promise to introduce you. Will you allow me to take you to her?’

She raised her fine brows, but consented to be led on a search for the Marchioness. As she moved through the crowd on Hazelmere’s arm she could not resist saying, ‘I’m tempted to ask why Lord Fanshawe is so anxious you keep your promise.’

Laughing down at her, he replied, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. The answer would do nothing for your composure.’ The caress in his eyes made her feel decidedly odd.

He finally located his mother, seated on a chaise in a corner of one of the salons, busily chatting to an acquaintance. On seeing them approach, this lady tactfully withdrew and Hazelmere made the promised introduction.

Lady Hazelmere had been prepared by her friends’ letters to find Dorothea Darent a particularly pretty girl. The stunning goddess her son introduced was considerably more attractive than she had anticipated. She smiled delightedly at this vision in ivory satin.

Motioning Dorothea to sit beside her, the Dowager made very large eyes at her son, signifying how impressed she was by his taste. Hazelmere, correctly interpreting the glance, returned it with a smile clearly saying, ‘Well, what did you expect?’ Receiving in reply an unmistakable sign that she wished to be left alone with Miss Darent, he had little choice but to obey. Making his adieus to Dorothea, he bethought himself of another matter and departed to find Lady Merion.

Relieved of his distracting presence, Lady Hazelmere found that she was being regarded by an enormous pair of green eyes. With an ease born of long experience, she instituted a conversation on totally unexceptionable matters, carefully steering clear of any mention of her son. She quickly discovered that the child before her had poise and confidence, combined with a refreshing frankness. It was not difficult to understand her son’s desire for the lovely Miss Darent. That he meant marriage she had no doubt, else he would never have consented to introduce her. As their conversation progressed she discovered that humour and a ready wit could be added to Miss Darent’s charms and was well satisfied with his choice.

By the time Lord Alvanley came to claim Dorothea for the last dance of the evening Lady Hazelmere was wondering how much longer her son would wait. As Dorothea moved away on Alvanley’s arm she wondered whether his conquest of the elegant young woman would be as smooth as he would certainly expect. In a flash of very unmaternal feeling she hoped that, for Dorothea’s sake, it would not be quite that easy. Hazelmere was far too used to getting his own way—a set-down would make him much more human.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEXT AFTERNOON found the Marquis perusing various documents dealing with estate business which his mother had brought from Hazelmere. Over the years he had developed the habit of paying flying visits to his numerous estates while stationed in London for the Season, fitting these between his social engagements. This year, however, he had neglected business while pursuing Miss Darent. Never a lax landlord, he knew he could not put off visiting Hazelmere.

Glancing up at the clock on the mantel, he saw it lacked a quarter to three o’clock. The weather was fine, with a light breeze tossing the cherry blossoms from the trees in the Square. He rang for Mytton and gave orders for his curricle with the greys to be brought to the door immediately. He then went upstairs to throw a series of orders at Murgatroyd’s head. Ten minutes later, immaculate as ever in top-boots and a coat of Bath superfine, he descended the steps of Hazelmere House. Climbing to the box-seat of his curricle, he nodded a dismissal to Jim Hitchin, adding, ‘Be ready to leave for Hazelmere when I return.’

He tooled the curricle around to the other side of the square and pulled up outside Merion House. Tossing the reins to an urchin, he strode up the steps to the door. He was admitted by Mellow. ‘Is her ladyship in, Mellow?’

‘I regret to say, her ladyship is presently unavailable, my lord.’

Hazelmere frowned. ‘In that case, perhaps you’ll enquire whether Miss Darent can spare me a few minutes?’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

Mellow showed him into the drawing-room and left to find Miss Darent. Climbing the stairs, he wondered if he should risk awakening his employer. After weighing the matter, he rejected the idea. His lordship had his horses with him and would not like to keep them standing. Finding Miss Darent alone in the upstairs drawing-room, he conveyed his lordship’s message.

Dorothea, their visit to the Richmond House orchangery in mind, was unsure of the propriety of seeing Hazelmere alone. But Cecily had gone out driving with Lord Fanshawe, and Lady Merion had still not emerged from her bedchamber. So she descended to the drawing-room but cautiously left the door open when she entered.

Hazelmere, on whom such little subtleties were not lost, smiled warmly as he took her hand, kissed it and, as was fast becoming his habit, did not release it.

‘Miss Darent, will you come for a drive in the Park with me?’

Ferdie had told her that Hazelmere, for the most chauvinistic of reasons, rarely took ladies driving in the Park. She was therefore perfectly conscious of the honour being done her. Deciding that she could not possibly forgo such an invitation, she replied with alacrity, ‘Why, yes, if you’ll give me time to find my pelisse.’

Releasing her hand, Hazelmere, long inured to feminine ideas of time, felt constrained to add, ‘Ten minutes, no more!’

Dorothea laughed over her shoulder as she disappeared from the room. She surprised him by returning in less than ten minutes and, as they left the house, revealed something of her knowledge of him by exclaiming, ‘Good heavens! You have your greys!’

Retrieving the reins and suitably rewarding the attendant urchin, Hazelmere climbed to the driving seat. As he leant down to help her up to sit beside him he answered, ‘As you say, Miss Darent, my greys. And what do you know of my greys?’

This shaft fell wide, however, as she could reply with perfect composure, ‘Ferdie told me you rarely drive your greys in the Park.’

Ferdie had told her rather more than this. Hazelmere’s greys were considered to be the fastest and best matched pair in the country. His lordship, if Ferdie was to be believed, had been offered vast sums for them but, as he had bred and reared them on the Henry estates, he would not part with them for any price.

‘Ah, Ferdie,’ mused Hazelmere, suddenly seeing that Ferdie’s line in inside intelligence could become a two-way street.

Conversation was necessarily suspended as he gave all his attention to negotiating the crowded streets, with the high-couraged and restless greys taking exception to numerous sights and sounds along the way. Dorothea could only admire his skill in successfully gaining the gates of the Park. Once inside, the curricle tooled along at a decent pace and Hazelmere turned his attention to her.

Much to his relief, she wore no hat, so that her face, surrounded by dark curls, was completely visible. As he watched she turned her head to smile up at him, brows lifting in mute question.

Carefully considering it in the dispassionate light of morning, Dorothea had reluctantly dismissed their interlude in the orangery as inconclusive. She had instigated it in the hope that his response would give her some clue to his feelings. But, while the result had been deliciously exciting, it had taught her little. That Hazelmere was well qualified to introduce her to forbidden delights had never been in doubt. While she wished with all her heart that he would say something, anything, to explain himself to her, she was depressingly certain that he would not choose the Park, with his greys in hand, as the place to do so. But presumably he had brought her here to tell her something.

‘Miss Darent, I find I must leave London for a few days. Estate business demands my attendance at Hazelmere.’

‘I see.’ Dorothea was not overly put out by this revelation. If she had thought about it she would have assumed that he must need to visit his estates fairly regularly. Then she remembered her coming-out ball. The sky seemed to darken. The face she turned to him was decidedly pensive as she wondered how to phrase her question.

Hazelmere, watching her thoughts pass across her face, solved her dilemma for her. ‘I’ll be returning on Tuesday evening, so I’ll see you next on Wednesday night.’

As he watched the sunshine return to her face he felt he should need no further proof of her feelings for him. Her actions and responses in the orangery had been so very revealing. He was tempted to ask her then and there to marry him, but his real dislike of trying to converse with a lady while holding a highly dangerous pair of horses made him repress the impulse. There would be plenty of time later, in more appropriate surroundings. God! he thought, shaken. Imagine proposing in the middle of the Park!

They continued around the Park, stopping to exchange greetings with a number of acquaintances. Hazelmere, not wanting to keep his horses standing, kept these interludes to a minimum. As they completed their circuit he headed the greys for the gates. ‘The weather is turning, Miss Darent, so I hope you’ll not mind if I return you to Cavendish Square forthwith?’

‘Not at all,’ she replied, ‘I know how honoured I’ve been to be driven behind your greys.’

Looking up, she found herself basking in that warm hazel gaze. ‘Quite right, my child,’ he murmured. ‘And do remember to behave yourself while I’m away.’

Incensed by the proprietorial tone, she turned to utter some withering remark, but, quizzically regarded by those strangely glinting eyes, remembered just how often he had extricated her from difficult situations. She was saved from having to reply by their emergence into the traffic, his attention once more claimed by his horses. By the time they reached Cavendish Square she had convinced herself of the wisdom of ignoring his last remark.

Pulling up outside Merion House, Hazelmere jumped from the curricle and lifted her down. He escorted her up the steps and, as Mellow opened the door, raised her hand to his lips, saying with a smile, ‘Aurevoir, Miss Darent. Until Wednesday.’

SUNDAY AND MONDAY saw the Darent sisters attend a number of smaller functions in the lead-up to their own coming-out ball. While Cecily flirted outrageously with her young suitors, most as innocent as herself, Dorothea wisely refrained from giving any of the callow youths worshipping at her feet the slightest encouragement. However, no amount of icy hauteur seemed to deter Edward Buchanan. Unfortunately even Lady Merion was of the opinion that time was the only cure for that particular pest.

So, to her deep irritation, Dorothea found herself too often for comfort in Mr Buchanan’s company. His conversational style drove her to distraction, while his continual and gradually more pressing attempts at gallantry awoke a quite different response. Her sanity was saved by the attentions of Lords Peterborough, Alvanley, Desborough and company, who, much to her delight, seemed almost as accomplished as Hazelmere in the subtle art of deflating pretensions.

LADY MERION sat staring bemusedly at the list in her hand. Was this really the best of all possible arrangements? She had been engaged in the arduous task of deciding the seating at her dinner table for Wednesday night since first thing on this dismal Tuesday morning. The house was a shambles, with caterers and florists coming in to set up their trestles and stands ready for the presentation of their wares the next night. The servants were everywhere—cleaning and polishing every bit of brass, silver and copper in the house, lovingly shining every lustre of every chandelier. Tomorrow night was the highlight of the Season as far as they were concerned and not one of Lady Merion’s glittering guests was going to find the least little thing wrong.

Glancing at the ormolu clock on her mantel, she saw that it was nearly time for luncheon. In a last effort to detect any flaw in her design, she returned her attention to her list. Finally satisfied, she laid it aside and went downstairs to the morning-room, where all their meals this week had been served while the dining-room and drawing-room were redecorated. With the aid of that expert in all things fashionable, Mr Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, she had decided that her main rooms would look well in a clear pale blue, touched with white and silver, so much more striking than the common white and gold. This colour scheme was repeated throughout the main areas of the house and continued into the ballroom. The flowers for the ballroom were to be blue and white hyacinths, white wood anemones and trailing white jasmine.

The pale blue, white and silver theme would provide the perfect backdrop for her granddaughters’ ball-dresses. The culmination of a prodigious effort, they were considered by Celestine among the best pieces her genius had ever created. Dorothea’s dress had been both difficult and immensely satisfying. Celestine herself had scoured the warehouses to find precisely the right weight of silk in a green that perfectly matched Dorothea’s eyes. The dress was shocking in its simplicity. Cut so low as to be ineligible for a younger débutante, the neckline was essentially parallel with the tiny puff sleeves, kept off the shoulder, leaving the shoulders quite bare. The bodice was shockingly snug. From the raised waistline the skirts smoothly flared over the hips, then fell heavily to the floor.

Cecily’s dress, though far less stunning, was still a perfection of simplicity. Of a clear and pristine aquamarine silk, the creation, with rounded neckline and raised waist, trimmed with seed-pearls, set off her youthful figure to best advantage.

In spite of the lowering skies, the sisters had ridden in the Park as usual that morning and had been occupied since with their mail. Joining their grandmother at the luncheon table, they continued to chatter in their artless way, telling her whom they had seen and who had sent greetings. Gazing at their happy faces, she felt a pang of dismay. Soon, too soon, these young things would be gone and her house would return to its previous existence. She was not looking forward to such a quiet future at all.

LADY MERION had decreed that there would be no riding on the day of their ball. Both young ladies were to remain in bed until ten o’clock, when they could join her in the morning-room for breakfast and open the coming-out presents sent by their numerous wellwishers. They could walk around the park in the square if they wished, but after luncheon were to rest until it was time to dress. She had a horror of Cecily becoming feverish from excitement or, worse, of Dorothea succumbing to a migraine.

On hearing this plan for her day, Dorothea declared that she was more likely to become comatose from boredom. However, grateful to her grandmama for all her efforts on their part, she agreed to abide by her strictures.

By the time the sisters appeared at the breakfast table it was covered with bouquets and boxes and trifles of every imaginable type. Trimmer, Betsy and Witchett were called in to assist, and both girls, disclaiming any interest in food, settled down to sort through the welter of presents.

Entering upon this scene, Lady Merion stopped, thunderstruck. ‘Good lord! I don’t think I’ve seen anything to equal it!’ She added two boxes to the piles, one in front of each of her granddaughters. ‘There, my loves! I don’t think any grandmama has had two granddaughters who’ve given her so much pleasure.’

Both girls impulsively rose and hugged and kissed her before opening her presents. To Cecily went a tiny pearl brooch made to adorn the neckline of her ballgown. Dorothea, opening the red leather case she found under the wrapping, gasped as her eyes fell on the single strand of perfect emeralds within. ‘Oh! Grandmama! They’re beautiful!’

After these gifts were tried on and duly admired Lady Merion urged them to continue opening their presents while she joined in the game of exclaiming and laughing over who had sent what.

While the presents today showed a greater degree of extravagance than the more common tributes, both girls had received their share of bouquets and poems and suchlike throughout the Season. However, while she frequently received bouquets from Lord Alvanley and the other members of Hazelmere’s set, all of whom had, each in their own way, worshipped at her feet, from the Marquis himself Dorothea had not received so much as a primrose. She did not know that Hazelmere, expert in such matters and knowing the opposition’s ways too well, had omitted to send her such tributes as a deliberate tactic. Consequently, when she came to a small package amid the jumble and, unwrapping it, found a box from Astley’s she did not connect it with him.

It was not common to send débutantes jewellery. Intrigued, she pushed aside the surrounding wrappings and cleared an area so that she could examine this gift more closely. ‘I wonder who sent this,’ she murmured to herself.

Lady Merion heard her and came to her side. ‘How very odd! Open it, my dear, and let’s see. There’s sure to be a card inside.’

However, on her opening the box no card was found. Inside lay the most exquisitely delicate brooch, composed of emeralds and rubies in gold, in the shape of a blackberry. A slow smile appeared on Dorothea’s face. What audacity!

Lady Merion, seeing the smile, was at a loss. It was Cecily who, looking up from her own concerns, saw the brooch in her sister’s fingers and immediately made the connection. ‘Oh! Is that from Lord Hazelmere?’ Raising her brown eyes to Dorothea’s blushing countenance, Cecily giggled.

Lady Merion grasped the straw. But what on earth did blackberries have to do with Hazelmere? However, knowing that gentleman, she guessed the gift was far from innocent. She baldly stated, ‘Dorothea, I forbid you to wear that tonight!’

‘Oh, no! Don’t do that, Grandmama! See, this tag from Mr Astley says he has taken the liberty of designing the brooch so it can be used as a pendant off the emerald string. How very thoughtful.’

Examining the brooch and then the string of emeralds, Dorothea discovered the secret of joining them and regarded the composite piece critically. It was perfectly balanced and looked both expensive and utterly unique.

‘Dorothea, I don’t know what that brooch signifies, and I’m not sure I want to know,’ declared Lady Merion in her most authoritarian tones. ‘But, whatever Hazelmere means by it, you can’t seriously intend to wear it tonight. Just think how conspicuous it will be! How on earth would you face him while wearing it?’

‘Why, with my customary composure, I should hope,’ returned her wilful granddaughter. ‘I really couldn’t refuse the challenge, Grandmama. You know I couldn’t.’

Reflecting that she knew nothing of the sort, Lady Merion was visited by a strong suspicion that Hazelmere was leading Dorothea into deep waters. But, in the circumstances, there was little she could, in reality, do.

THE ONLY DEVIATION from Lady Merion’s rigid schedule was caused by Edward Buchanan. Without warning, he appeared on the doorstep and refused point-blank to accept Mellow’s frigid denial of the ladies of the house. By dint of mentioning Herbert Darent, he prevailed on Mellow to admit him to the morning-room while that worthy conveyed a message to his mistress.

Lady Merion came downstairs, huffily indignant, and sailed into the morning-room. Five minutes later, looking slightly stunned, she emerged and went looking for her elder granddaughter.

Ten minutes later Dorothea, paler than usual, descended the stairs. She paused for a moment, eyeing the morning-room door with revulsion. Then, drawing a deep breath, she entered.

It was worse than she had imagined. Lady Merion had mentioned the bouquet of daisies—daisies!—already wilting. What she had not found words to describe was the incredible smug conceit of the man holding them.

‘Ah! Miss Darent!’ Abruptly words seemed to fail Mr Buchanan. Then, unfortunately, his tongue regained its major habit and he spoke. ‘I suspect, my dear, that you know very well why I’m here.’ His archness made Dorothea feel decidedly unwell. Luckily he was standing on the other side of a small round table and she had every intention of keeping it between them.

He seemed to find nothing remarkable in her silence and continued with unabated cheerfulness. ‘Yes, my dear! All right and tight, I’m here to beg the honour of your hand! I doubt you expected a declaration quite so soon, before your coming-out even. Not many young ladies can claim to be settled so successfully before being presented, what?’

She could stand it no longer. ‘Mr Buchanan. I thank you for your offer but I’m afraid I cannot consent to marry you.’

‘Oh, no difficulty there, my dear. Edward Buchanan knows how these things are done. Lord Herbert has already given his consent. All we need now is for you to say the word and we can announce it tonight at your ball.’

Hazelmere, rather more perceptive than Mr Buchanan, could have told him that that was precisely the wrong thing to say to a lady as independent as Dorothea Darent. Colours flying, she made no effort to conceal the loathing she felt. ‘Mr Buchanan. You appear to be labouring under a misapprehension. Herbert Darent may be my guardian but he has no power to coerce me into marriage. I will not accept your proposal. I have no wish to be married to you. I trust I make myself plain? And now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re very busy. Mellow will show you out.’

She swept out of the door, head high, pausing to instruct Mellow to see to their unwelcome visitor before continuing, thankfully and triumphantly, upstairs.

LATER THAT EVENING, just before her dinner guests were due to arrive, Lady Merion stood in her hallway and watched her granddaughters descending the stairs. Her bosom swelled with pride and a well-earned sense of satisfaction. They were superb!

Cecily, leading, was a vision of childlike innocence, a twinkle in her big brown eyes belying any attempt at gravity. But Dorothea! Breathtakingly lovely, she came elegantly down the stairs, her innate poise allowing her to carry the stunning gown to maximum effect. She was a sight that would stop any male heart. Especially Hazelmere’s! thought her ladyship with a touch of vengeance as her eyes alighted on the blackberry pendant. Dorothea had been right to wear it, she grudgingly admitted, for the pendant set off the whole to perfection, lying glinting green and red against her granddaughter’s alabaster skin.

Within minutes Mellow announced Ferdie, who had promised to come early to lend them his support. Entering the drawing-room, he stopped stock-still and simply stared.

‘Oh, I say!’ was all the elegant Mr Acheson-Smythe could manage. At this evidence of appreciation all three ladies went into whoops of laughter, and a far less formal atmosphere greeted the remaining guests, who began to arrive promptly thereafter.

The drawing-room was soon abuzz with conversation. Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy complimented both girls with obvious sincerity. As Dorothea moved away to talk to Miss Bressington, Sally Jersey turned to Lady Merion. ‘M’dear, I just can’t wait to see Hazelmere’s face when he comes through the door and sets eyes on that vision.’

‘Sally, don’t say things like that! I’m dreading that either he or Dorothea or both will forget where they are and do something quite scandalous tonight!’

‘I hardly think, for once, anyone would blame him if he did!’

At exactly that moment Mellow announced the Marquis of Hazelmere and the Dowager Marchioness. While no one was ill-bred enough to stare, Hazelmere was well aware that all eyes, save one set of emerald green, were trained on him. He resisted the temptation to look for Dorothea and instead, with his usual urbane air, led his mother to pay their respects to Lady Merion.

Lady Hazelmere, not under any such compulsion, sought out Dorothea and in an undertone designed for him alone, said, ‘My dear, you are lost! That girl is the most stunning sight I have ever seen!’

Hazelmere, hazel eyes laughing, replied, ‘Thank you, Mama. I rather supposed that to be the case, seeing how closely all these tabbies are watching me.’

Lady Hazelmere chuckled and turned to compliment Lady Merion on her charges. Relinquishing his mother to the group of old friends around their hostess, Hazelmere skilfully drifted into the crowd.

The Hazelmere party was closely followed by the Eglemonts. Under cover of the bustle this created, with most attention being distracted by the sight of Lord Fanshawe greeting Cecily Darent, Hazelmere approached Dorothea where she stood talking to his younger sister, Lady Alison Gisborne. This vivacious blonde, having no doubt who her brother’s inamorata was, had introduced herself to Dorothea. Seeing him, she smiled broadly and announced, ‘Hello, Marc! Yes, I’m just going to see Mama, who I know is dying to say something to me!’ She laughed up at him and departed.

‘How well my younger sister understands me,’ he murmured, raising Dorothea’s hand to his lips as usual. He was thankful for the few minutes he had had to grow accustomed to the vision she presented.

Risking a glance up at him, Dorothea found his hazel eyes glinting, and as he smiled at her she felt that the rest of the room could disappear for all she cared. Smiling back, she said, ‘I must thank you for your gift, Lord Hazelmere.’

‘Ah, yes. I hoped it would act as a token of pleasant memories,’ he replied, raising a long finger to touch the pendant and only just resisting the temptation to caress the skin on which it lay.

She had expected some outrageous remark. ‘Yes, I always found Moreton Park woods particularly restful.’ Her serenity was so complete that, if he hadn’t known better, he could have thought she had forgotten her first meeting with him entirely.

Laughingly acknowledging the adept return, he took her breath away by murmuring provocatively, ‘You have grown so very expert at fencing with me, my dear, that I fear I’ll have to resort to … more direct methods.’

The emerald eyes flew to his, but just what she would have said in response they never knew, for at that moment Marjorie Darent approached them.

While the rest of the company had the good manners not to interrupt the conversation between Miss Darent and Lord Hazelmere, Lady Darent felt no such restriction. Seeing Dorothea being monopolised by a man she considered one step removed from a rake, she saw her duty clearly. Recently arrived, she had not yet spoken to Dorothea and, being shortsighted, it was not until she was within a few feet that the full effect of Dorothea’s gown struck her.

Favouring the Marquis with what she believed was a gracious smile, she spoke to Dorothea immediately. ‘My dear! Don’t you think a shawl would be more becoming over that gown?’

Hazelmere felt Dorothea stiffen and almost imperceptibly they drew closer together. ‘I think not, Cousin,’ replied Dorothea, holding her temper with a superhuman effort. ‘I’m hardly cold. And besides,’ she continued hurriedly, seeing that her cousin had missed the very large hint and was about to explain herself more fully, ‘I would hardly embarrass Grandmama by adopting so provincial a style of dress.’

Lady Darent stiffened.

Only just preventing himself from applauding, Hazelmere intervened. ‘Miss Darent, I believe my mother is trying to attract our attention. If Lady Darent will excuse us?’ With a nod to that outraged lady, he firmly removed Dorothea from her orbit.

As they moved away he glanced down at the beauty by his side. ‘Good girl! If you hadn’t said that I’m afraid I had something much worse in mind. Remind me that, despite the other … skills I’ve yet to teach you, I don’t need to teach you how to insult someone.’

A gurgle of laughter, quickly suppressed, greeted this sally, and Dorothea turned her sparkling eyes to his face. The Marquis’s mother, towards whom they were headed, viewed this exchange with a peculiar smile. She had never thought to see her son so obviously in love.

The conversation continued to hum and the heat in the drawing-room rose, until Mellow, resplendent in new long-tailed coat, announced dinner. Hazelmere, as the most senior of the peers present, would normally have led in Lady Merion, but Herbert Darent found that he was to perform this office, leaving the Marquis to attend Miss Darent. Cecily was squired by Lord Fanshawe, and the others obligingly took care of themselves.

The dinner was a resounding success and not a single incident occurred to mar Lady Merion’s pleasure. Conversation flowed on all sides, even Marjorie finding in the half-deaf admiral by her side someone with whom she shared some common ground. As all had expected, Hazelmere and Dorothea seemed oblivious to all others, as were Cecily and Fanshawe opposite. Due to Lady Merion’s strategic planning, no one was the least put out by this, except Lord and Lady Darent. Luckily those disapproving figures were too far removed to exert any dampening influence on the sparkling scene in the middle of the table.

With the removal of the last course, the ladies rose and departed for the drawing-room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. At a dinner preceding a ball the ritual separation was usually kept to a minimum. But Lady Merion was taking no chances. She had enlisted the aid of the Earl of Eglemont to ensure that Herbert did not prose on in his accustomed way and drive everyone else to distraction.

For this service Lord Eglemont was an inspired choice. He knew that none of the younger gentlemen present would have the least inclination to remain kicking his heels over the port. And who could blame them? In his view, a dinner and ball was the time for some fun, and even he would rather be back in the drawing-room, watching what devilment Marc and Tony, and even Lord Harcourt and Ferdie, could concoct, than listening to that pompous windbag Herbert Darent.

Herbert, therefore, found the discussion he instituted on the latest ideas of rotation farming taken out of his hands and wound up by Lord Eglemont, who then further usurped his role and led the gentlemen back to the drawing-room.

Lady Merion heaved a sigh of relief when she saw them return. The room was pleasantly a-hum with conversation generated by the groups of young and old scattered through it. Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe, re-entering the room to find the Misses Darent chatting avidly with groups of friends, wisely made no attempt to disengage them, but made themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

Hazelmere strolled over to his mother. ‘Ah, Mama! I’d meant to ask earlier. Do you know if my esteemed elder sisters will be gracing the ball tonight?’

Lady Hazelmere’s strait-laced elder daughters were every bit as great a burden to her as they were to her son. ‘I fervently hope not, my dear!’ She turned and, leaning across Sally Jersey, addressed Lady Merion. ‘Hermione, you didn’t invite Maria and Susan, did you?’

To both mother and son’s dismay, Lady Merion nodded. ‘Yes. And both accepted.’

Lady Hazelmere turned back to her son, pulling a face.

He bent to whisper in her ear. ‘In that case, it would be wise if you dropped a word of warning in my loving sisters’ ears, regarding the wisdom of giving myself and Miss Darent a suitably wide berth tonight.’

Lady Hazelmere looked at him in surprise. He smiled down at her in his usual maddening way before moving off into the room. She spent some minutes trying to solve the riddle, finally deciding that he must mean to do something that would incense her elder daughters. What it could be she had no idea but, as she turned to Sally Jersey sitting beside her, she found she was not alone in suspecting her son of being up to something.

‘Anthea, what on earth is that boy of yours up to? He and Tony Fanshawe are behaving very coolly.’

‘I’ve really no idea, Sally. You should know mothers are always the last to be told anything. But I must say,’ she went on, ‘I do think you’re right. They’re certainly planning something.’

As the time for the ball approached Lady Merion moved her dinner guests up to the ballroom. The florists and decorators had excelled themselves, but the exclamations and congratulations of the ladies were soon drowned by the arrival of the ball guests. The chatter and talk as acquaintances met swept like a wave across the room as all the ton rolled up to Lady Merion’s ball.

Dorothea and Cecily were stationed at the head of the stairs with their grandmother to receive the guests. For the next half-hour they were completely absorbed in greeting and being presented to the ton at large. As the surge of arrivals started to ease and then reduced to a trickle the ballroom was close to overflowing, and all the glittering throng of the élite of London society were present. The room looked magnificent, and Lady Merion felt she had achieved the very pinnacle of success. Catching Mellow’s eye, she gave the signal to start the ball. As he moved majestically down the room the guests parted to clear an area for the first waltz.

Traditionally the first section of the first waltz was danced only by the young lady in whose honour the ball was held. Tonight Dorothea would go first down the room, followed by Cecily, before the rest of the guests joined in. If strictest protocol was followed Dorothea would be partnered by Herbert and Cecily by Lord Wigmore, Lady Merion’s cousin. However, when approached by her ladyship, Lord Wigmore had readily relinquished this task, chuckling when he heard who was to take his place. Herbert was simply informed that, as he did not waltz, a suitable replacement had been found. He was put out but did not have the gumption to cause a fuss. His grandmother wisely refrained from telling him who was to lead his ward out.

She had also, under orders, not told her granddaughters who their partners were for this all-important first dance. This had placed no strain on her inventiveness, as neither girl had thought to ask, both imagining that Herbert and Lord Wigmore were inescapable fixtures. So, with inward trepidation, Lady Merion, standing between the two girls at the top of the shallow steps leading down to her ballroom and, seeing the musicians preparing to strike the first chords, said, ‘Off you go, my loves! Your partners are arranged and will meet you at the bottom of the steps. And my very best wishes for a most wonderful ball for you both!’

The sisters moved down the stairs, Dorothea slightly in advance, carrying herself with that self-confident air that drew all eyes. Inwardly she was dreading this dance. She knew Herbert could not waltz to save himself. The next few minutes could be hideously embarrassing. Then her already huge and glittering eyes widened even further as, stepping on to the ballroom floor, she saw the Marquis of Hazelmere coming towards her, magnificent and smiling as ever.

He bowed to her and she automatically curtsied gracefully. He raised her and she went into his arms with her usual total abandon, her face radiant and her eyes sparkling with laughter. As they turned with the dance she cast a quick glance across to find Cecily had been met by Fanshawe. She sighed with relief, and said in heartfelt accents, ‘Oh! You have no idea how thankful I am that it’s you!’

Hazelmere smiled as they slowly went down the room. ‘Neither your grandmother nor I felt horrible Herbert was a suitable partner for you, nor that the not nearly so horrible but staid Lord Wigmore was quite right for Cecily.’

Alive to the silence around them, Dorothea, laughter in the big green eyes she did not dare take from his face, asked, ‘Are we making a scandalous spectacle of ourselves?’

Hazelmere, still smiling, murmured, ‘I rather suspect we are. But I doubt if it’s for the reason you suspect.’

She looked her question.

For a moment the hazel eyes glinted. He elected to answer only half of the query. ‘While my dancing the first waltz with you, and Tony with Cecily, is not precisely correct, it’s nevertheless acceptable in the circumstances of your having no near male relatives other than Herbert, who everyone knows can’t dance.’

‘So they may disapprove but they can’t condemn?’

‘Exactly so.’

They had reached the end of the ballroom and Hazelmere expertly executed a difficult turn, sending them back through the other couples now on the floor.

‘Incidentally,’ he continued, ‘this is also the one occasion when I can with impunity waltz twice with you. This dance is special and not listed on the programme and therefore doesn’t count. So, my dear Miss Darent, may I have the double pleasure of the supper waltz and of escorting you to supper?’

Thinking that that would ensure a most enjoyable evening, she laughingly agreed. As the last notes drifted down the room they glided to a halt and he led her back to Lady Merion’s side. Reluctantly relinquishing her, he kissed her hand and, with a peculiar smile that made her unruly heart somersault, disappeared into the gathering crowd of well-wishers.

LADY HAZELMERE’S reaction to that first waltz was much the same as that of many in the watching crowd. When Hazelmere took Dorothea into his arms the entire company held its breath, usually the prelude to an outburst of censorious whispering. However, all the censorious minds simultaneously realised that there was nothing particularly scandalous after all. A minute’s reflection convinced the leading ladies that Lady Merion had pulled off a major coup. The gentlemen, almost to a man, found the incident highly entertaining.

What particularly tickled Lady Hazelmere’s quirkish sense of humour was the outrage engendered in a large number of the more staid female breasts by the way her son and the lovely Dorothea danced. The ton had thought they were accustomed to the sight of Miss Darent in Lord Hazelmere’s arms. But they had only seen them dancing in a crowd of other couples, not alone on a deserted ballroom floor. Tonight the first shock had come when Dorothea went so readily into his arms. But the way they moved together had really set the cat among the pigeons! So graceful, so completely attuned to each other that the intimacy which obviously existed between them was displayed for all to see. That performance had bordered on the indecent. Even more wonderful, thought the knowing Lady Hazelmere, was that not one word could be said of the matter. Not one single movement, not one flicker of an eyelash, had been in any way improper. The most censorious of the tabbies would not dare breathe a word for fear of being, quite justly, accused of having a mind of somewhat questionable taste. It was highly unlikely that her wicked son had not known how it would be. Equally certain that the lovely Dorothea was quite innocent in the matter. Well, no, perhaps not innocent, amended her ladyship, but Dorothea could certainly not have known how revealing that dance would be. No gently nurtured female could possibly have gone through with it.

At least I now know why Marc wanted me to warn off Maria and Susan, she thought. And, thinking just how scandalised her elder daughters were bound to be, she laughed and went to carry out his commission.

FOR BOTH Darent sisters their coming-out ball was the most enjoyable night of the Season. They were fêted and saluted at every turn. Dorothea danced with every one of Hazelmere’s close friends, with whom she now enjoyed an easy acquaintance. She also danced with Herbert, but in a quadrille, which he performed adequately if not gracefully. It was more than halfway through the evening before she found herself once more in the Marquis’s arms, going down the floor in the supper waltz.

Guessing that she must have been making constant conversation, he did not press her to talk, merely murmuring, ‘Tired, my lovely Dorothea?’

For a moment his use of her name did not register. Then she looked up and found all inclination to question his right to use it evaporating. Meeting his eyes, she felt that deliciously warm feeling spread over her. So she assented to the question with a smile, her long lashes dropping to veil her large green eyes from his gaze in a manner he recognised only too well.

Smiling, he wondered if he dared tell her how she looked when she did that, or what the action commonly conveyed, but decided that after such an explanation she would in all likelihood not speak to him for a week.

Suppertime was hilarious. As Dorothea and Cecily were the twin foci of attention, they could not sit together. Instead, Dorothea and Hazelmere were surrounded by a reckless throng of his close friends. While he sat beside her, interpolating remarks only when the conversation threatened to get too deep for her ears, they entertained her with numerous anecdotes, many reflecting on Hazelmere himself. They knew he was perfectly capable of putting a stop to it any time he wished, so when he made no move to dampen their spirits their hilarity knew few bounds. In this way the half-hour devoted to supper whizzed past until Dorothea was claimed by Lord Desborough for the first of the last three dances of the evening.

At the end of the measure she was hailed by a small group of her grandmother’s acquaintances, older ladies whom she had not yet had time to talk to. Laughingly dismissing Desborough, she went to spend a few minutes in their company. Eventually excusing herself, Dorothea passed slowly through the crowd, stopping to chat here and there, dispensing just the right degree of notice at each halt. Turning from one such encounter, she was addressed by Miss Buntton, a blonde ice-maiden two years her junior. ‘My dear Miss Darent,’ said Miss Buntton in her normal frigid accents. ‘Your gown is really so superb! Truly esoteric! But I fear my mama would never permit me to wear such a gown. She always says it does no good to stand out in a crowd.’

Dorothea, long inured to Miss Buntton’s waspish jealousies, thought she really made it too easy. ‘I’m sure, my dear Miss Buntton, that you run no risk of displeasing your mama.’ With a smile of gentle malice, she was about to move on when another, older woman, whose name she could not recall, standing on the other side of the blonde beauty, intervened.

‘Miss Darent! I’ve been hoping to meet you. I’m Lady Susan Wilmot, Hazelmere’s sister.’

Dorothea touched the hand graciously held out to her and murmured something suitable. But Lady Susan was already speaking. ‘Yes, my dear. As I was just telling Miss Buntton, I was so pleased to see Hazelmere doing his duty by you tonight with that first waltz. He’s so lax in certain responsibilities, but, given that Lady Merion must have asked him, as a favour, to replace Herbert, I was pleasantly surprised to see him behave so acceptably. Perhaps it’s a sign that he’s contemplating settling down. Of course, the lady he marries must have all the qualities—as she’ll have to rule at Hazelmere. And naturally she can only come from the finest of family. Wealth, of course, is necessary; Hazelmere after all is one of the wealthiest himself.’ Her ladyship smiled, gimlet-eyes, on Dorothea. ‘I dare say I’m not giving away any secrets in saying that all the family have high hopes of our dear Miss Buntton here.’

‘Oh?’ Unable to escape the net of her ladyship’s eloquence and feeling oddly depressed, Dorothea could not resist a glance at our Miss Buntton. Good lord! The girl was actually simpering!

At that moment a hand touched her arm. ‘Dorothea! Here you are! Come and meet my brother-in-law. I’ve promised to introduce you.’ Lady Alison Gisborne’s eyes met her older sister’s across the little group. Lady Susan coloured.

Missing the byplay, Dorothea, with relief, nodded to Lady Susan and Miss Buntton and gratefully departed to meet Andrew Gisborne.

AS THE CLOSING strains of the last waltz drifted across the ballroom, and tired couples turned to find their parties, Dorothea found herself at the side of the ballroom on Lord Alvanley’s arm. His lordship was scanning the room, obviously looking for someone. ‘Ah, there he is!’ Looking down at Dorothea, he explained, ‘Marc asked me to return you to him after the dance.’

As they slowly made their way across the wide room, pausing to bid goodbye to departing guests, Dorothea saw Lady Alison pause by her brother, dragging on his arm to get his attention. For a moment Hazelmere listened as she spoke, clearly relating some message. Then she swiftly drew his head down to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek and, with a cheerful wave, hurried to join her husband by the stairs.

By this time they had come up to the Marquis, who was conversing with an opulent beauty introduced earlier to Dorothea as Helen, Lady Walford. The four remained chatting for a few minutes as the company in the ballroom thinned. Then Lord Alvanley suavely offered Lady Walford his arm and, after taking their leave of Dorothea, they left.

Hazelmere, seeing the appreciative grin on her face, said, ‘Yes, Alvanley and I are very good friends.’ Her smile deepened. After a pause he continued, ‘My dear Dorothea, are you planning to ride in the Park tomorrow?’

This succeeded in capturing her attention from a group of guests nodding their goodbyes. ‘Why, yes, I think so,’ she replied.

‘In that case, Ferdie and I, and probably Tony as well, will call for you at ten. Don’t be late!’ He kissed her hand and, recognising the portent of the flash in her green eyes, drew it through his arm; before she had time to tell him what she thought of his organisation of her morning, he strolled with her up the steps to her grandmother.

Lady Merion was exhausted. The evening had been an unqualified success, although in her opinion it would have proved less enervating if Dorothea and Hazelmere had been less accomplished dancers. However, she was not going to cavil at such a minor point and was in total charity with the world. Seeing them come up out of the deserted ballroom, she beamed. ‘My dears! Such a success it’s been!’

‘And all due to you, Grandmama!’ replied Dorothea, impulsively hugging the old lady.

‘Now be off with you, child!’ said her ladyship gruffly. ‘Cecily has already retired. I’m sure Lord Hazelmere will excuse you.’

Hazelmere lifted her hand from his sleeve and, elegantly dropping a kiss on her wrist, said, ‘Goodnight, Dorothea. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

With another glance of green fire she was gone.

Lady Merion watched this exchange and, once her granddaughter was out of earshot, said, ‘You do play close to the wind.’

‘Only with your granddaughter,’ came the outrageous reply. As she gasped he continued, ‘Am I correct in thinking the horrible Herbert that gorgeous creature’s guardian?’

Knowing she was being distracted from her main grievance, she was forced to reply, ‘Yes, unfortunately.’

‘No matter.’ He shrugged, turning to take his leave.

But she had no intention of letting him escape so easily. Fixing him with a look that forcibly reminded him of his mother, she asked, ‘When are you going to ask for her hand?’

‘In my own good time,’ he returned, unperturbed by this direct inquisition.

‘So you intend to offer for her?’

At that he smiled. ‘Do you doubt it?’

‘After that first waltz, no one present could doubt it!’ she retorted acerbically.

‘Which is precisely as I intended.’ With a smile of unruffled calm he bowed elegantly before descending the stairs.

Lady Merion watched his retreating back. For some reason she felt that, in spite of his cool handling of the affair, which she could not but applaud for the eminent good sense it showed, his success so far had been unnaturally easy. In her experience, headstrong young women like Dorothea were unlikely to appreciate his calm management of the affair. No, my lord, she thought, there’s trouble ahead somewhere.

CHAPTER NINE

THE RIDING PARTY the next morning was a relaxed affair. From Cavendish Square came the Darent sisters, Hazelmere, Fanshawe, Ferdie and Mr Dermont. At the gates of the Park they were joined by Lord Harcourt and Miss Bressington. There were few others about at that hour, despite the clemency of the weather. Before long the three couples had parted, to amble down the glades and rides, totally absorbed with each other, while Ferdie and Mr Dermont were deep in discussion over the latest type of suiting.

As was often the case when she was alone in Hazelmere’s company, Dorothea’s composure was more apparent than real. She was having increasing difficulty maintaining the cool unconcern she felt was her only defence against those all-seeing hazel eyes. His presence physically disturbed her to the point where her mind no longer functioned with its customary clarity. Amid others, at balls and parties, where convention laid its restraining hand on his actions, she could retain sufficient command of her wits to deflect his subtle attacks. But when they were alone, with nothing to prevent him from leading her thoughts along avenues she knew to be as dangerous as they were exciting, she no longer felt confident of keeping him from guessing how deeply he affected her. In fact, she was no longer sure that she was hiding anything from him at all. She had no idea what he had made of her behaviour in the Duchess of Richmond’s orangery. On the other hand, his imperious manners had abated not one whit. And he had yet to speak, even obliquely, of love.

As they rode side by side deep within the Park, far out of sight of the rest of their party, she was conscious of steadily increasing confusion. It was fraying her temper, particularly when the reprehensible creature beside her seemed not to know the meaning of uncertainty. His attitude was always one of complete assurance. She had a peculiar feeling of being inexorably caught up in something she did not comprehend, some trap baited with an irresistible lure, impossible to escape. And he was at the centre of it, drawing her ever closer.

Hazelmere took the opportunity to tell her he would again be away until some time in the next week. His brief trip to Hazelmere had revealed more examples of his neglect than his conscience would countenance. Having done all he could to impress upon the ton how definite his intentions towards her were, and what her response to his proposal was likely to be, he was determined to rectify the problems on his estates without delay. Other than the lady riding beside him, there was little to keep him in London; the débutante balls were not generally high on his list of enjoyable functions.

While she accepted the news of his projected absence prosaically enough, Dorothea was surprised by his final comments. ‘In my absence, if you should need help in any way, you can trust Ferdie or Tony, or Alvanley, Peterborough or any of the others of our set, for that matter. We always help each other and they would unhesitatingly stand in my stead were there any need.’

She turned her wide-eyed gaze upon him, but was unable to see anything in his manner, other than a rueful twinkle in his eyes, to give her a clue as to what exactly he meant.

The twinkle was occasioned by the realisation that he had told her rather more than he had intended. He was slipping again. If she paused to consider she might wonder why his powerful friends should extend their protection to Miss Darent. That they would definitely do so to the future Marchioness of Hazelmere was a thought that might occur. He was sure she had no idea how publicly accepted their relationship had become and suspected that the realisation would be greeted, at least initially, with dismay, if not anger. It formed no part of his plans to force her hand thus early in the Season.

He then spent the best part of a pleasurable hour trying just how far into the realms of the improper he could lead her. He found it was rather further than his own rapidly diminishing control made safe. So, with a skill born of extensive practice, he adroitly disengaged, leaving her confused but with no idea of where they had been headed.

They were the last to rejoin the group, and the look on Hazelmere’s face reminded Ferdie that he had a bone to pick with his lordship, and Tony too, come to think of it! In otherwise perfect harmony, the group made its way out of the Park and back to Cavendish Square, where Julia Bressington was to spend the day.

A SELECT masquerade ball was to be held the following Thursday at the Bressingtons’. The Season’s débutantes had been clamouring for a masquerade. Such events, commonplace some years previously, had fallen into disrepute because of the licentiousness they provoked and the difficulty in policing acceptable standards of conduct. However, wilting under the continued entreaties, a group of mothers had put their heads together and devised a compromise. While the ball was to be a masquerade, there were strict rules. Entry was by invitation only and everyone had to wear plain black dominoes over evening dress. Masks would be provided at the door, so the hostesses would know each face before any were permitted to enter.

Dorothea was disappointed when she realised that Hazelmere would not be back in time for the masquerade ball. She considered not going herself but, as chaperons were not permitted in the ballroom and Lady Merion was therefore taking a well-earned rest, Cecily did not like to go alone. To add to this, Lady Merion made various obscure comments about not wearing her heart on her sleeve or pining away just because a certain nobleman was absent from town. Not being obtuse, Dorothea took the point, and with good grace accompanied Cecily to the ball.

Entering the hall of Bressington House, they handed in their invitations and, approved by the hostesses, joined the queue leading to a table where the Misses Bressington were distributing masks. The sight of Dorothea affected Julia Bressington strangely. She tittered and then, looking highly conspiratorial, surreptitiously handed over a note.

Dorothea, waiting in line, opened the missive. It contained only one sentence: ‘Meet me on the terrace at midnight.’ She felt sure there was only one person who would dare send her such a peremptory command. So Hazelmere was coming to the ball after all. Presumably he would be late and so would have less time to find her in the crush.

Her mask was tied tightly across her face by a giggling Julia, holding the hood of her domino in place and completely covering her hair. Despite this disguise, no sooner had she and Cecily stepped over the threshold than each was claimed by suspiciously tall, domino-clad figures.

Feeling a familiar arm about her waist and looking up into a pair of laughing hazel eyes, Dorothea instantly relaxed, laughing back.

‘You’re already here!’

‘Already? How did you know I was coming at all?’ he asked, thoroughly surprised.

‘But you left me that note.’ As she said the words a dreadful premonition seized her.

‘What note? No. Wait.’ He drew her into a window embrasure. ‘Show me,’ he commanded, holding out his hand.

Dorothea had put the note in the inside pocket of her domino. She drew it out and handed it to him.

Hazelmere read the single line of script, the lines about his mouth hardening. The idea of Dorothea attending the masquerade to fall victim to some gentleman as experienced as himself had been sufficient to drive him to conclude his business a day early. But what the hell was this note about?

Seeing Dorothea pale under her mask, he slipped his arm about her waist. Tucking the note into his pocket, he led her towards the centre of the room. ‘Remind me, my love, to show you my signature some time. Then, if I ever send you a letter, you’ll know it’s from me.’

Deciding she was not going to be distracted by the ineligible epithet, which she knew had been included expressly for the purpose, she asked directly, ‘But who is it from, if not you?’

Hazelmere considered telling her some fanciful tale, anything to make her forget the incident, but one glance at her determined face warned him that that particular ruse was unlikely to succeed. He eventually answered, ‘I know no more than you, my dear.’

A waltz started up and Dorothea found herself circling the floor in his arms. By the time the dance concluded he had succeeded in convincing her to put aside her thoughts on the mysterious note and give her undivided attention to him. She learned that the principal attraction of a masquerade ball was that a lady could spend the entire evening in the arms of one gentleman without causing a furor. For his part, Hazelmere had no intention of letting her go. Luckily, as most of the couples in the ballroom were similarly invariant and Dorothea found nothing amiss with this arrangement, his possessiveness passed unnoticed.

After their second dance he drew her into a shadowed alcove. There, with Dorothea standing, unconsciously, within the comforting circle of his arm, they swapped their news.

‘And Lord Peterborough has been so attentive,’ sighed Dorothea, eyes dancing.

‘Oh?’ said Hazelmere, a frown in his eyes.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured in confirmation, adding innocently, ‘He told me to tell you so.’

The laugh this elicited made her tingle. His hazel eyes were wreaking havoc with her composure. ‘I must remember to thank Gerry next time I see him. In the meantime, sweet torment, come and dance.’

For the rest of the evening Hazelmere devoted himself to making her forget the existence of the note. He tried every trick he knew to bemuse and amuse her, hoping to divert her thoughts sufficiently to enable him to leave her, unsuspecting, with Fanshawe while he kept her midnight appointment. But while she certainly paid attention to all he said, blushing delightfully at his more provocative suggestions, she clearly possessed a distressingly calm and collected mind. He suspected that she guessed the reason for his behaviour and, short of kissing her in the middle of the ballroom, he could think of nothing that might succeed in distracting her. As midnight approached he gave up the attempt.

The rules for the ball called for a general unmasking at midnight. As the clock over the door approached five minutes to the hour Hazelmere, knowing that Dorothea, too, was keeping track of the time, drew her over to the windows leading on to the terrace.

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ he asked.

‘But of course!’ She assumed that his evident wish to spare her the midnight meeting stemmed from the belief she would be overcome by some missish sentiment. She felt slightly aggrieved that he didn’t know her better.

‘Before I permit you to go out on that terrace I want you to promise you’ll do precisely as I say.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that it was her note and therefore her adventure, not his. And she certainly did not need his permission to go out on the terrace! But there was no time to argue, and the gleam of amusement in his eyes suggested that he had guessed her thoughts anyway. Mastering her annoyance, she agreed. ‘Very well. I promise. What must I do?’

‘Open the door and go out, but don’t shut it behind you. I’ll stay behind in the shadows. Walk on to the terrace but, whatever you do, don’t go more than halfway to the balustrade. And only go a few yards either side of the door. Understand?’

She nodded. Satisfied, Hazelmere held the heavy curtain aside for her to slip past, and followed her into the darkened alcove between the curtain and the window. He opened this and Dorothea moved out on to the moonlit terrace.

Directly in front of her was a flight of stone steps leading down to a gravel path, with the lawns and shrubbery in deepest shadow beyond. Mindful of her instructions, she moved to her left, keeping close to the house. She had only gone a few paces when a voice came to her from somewhere near the steps.

‘Miss Darent! This way!’

At exactly that moment someone inside the ballroom flung back the curtain over the next window along and opened it, but then, as the call for the unmasking was heard, closed it again.

The sound of running footsteps retreating along the gravel path came clearly to both Dorothea and Hazelmere, still in the shadows. Stepping up to her, he whispered, ‘Stay here.’ He went past her and lightly down the steps.

The last echoes of the footsteps were dying in the distance. The rhododendron bushes that bordered the terrace were dense and taller than Hazelmere himself. A most convenient setting for an abduction, he thought grimly. He was too wise to go searching in the darkened garden, leaving Dorothea unattended on the terrace, even though it seemed as though the mysterious leaver of notes had departed. Removing his mask and pushing back the hood of his domino, he returned to the terrace.

‘There’s no sign of anyone now,’ he said. ‘A pity, but no harm done.’

‘But who could it be, to play such a silly joke?’ she asked, tugging at the knots Julia Bressington had made in her mask strings.

‘Here, let me.’ He reached over her and undid the mask, removed it and pushed the hood back from her hair. Then, taking her face in both hands and tilting it up, he kissed her. After a moment his hands left her face to slip beneath her domino and gather her, unresisting, into his arms.

As the kiss deepened, Dorothea, again, lost all sense of time. He did no more than reinforce the lessons he had taught her in the orangery; there was no time for more. His experienced mouth claimed hers, gently persuading, while, under her domino, his hands drifted caressingly over her breasts, her waist and her hips. Then, reluctantly, he released her. Before she could recover he drew her hand through his arm and moved back to the door, saying in his usual manner, ‘We’d best return to the ballroom before our absence becomes too difficult to explain.’

Back in the ballroom before she could gather her wits, Dorothea had no chance to say anything. They were quickly surrounded by friends, all laughing and talking at once. But during what was left of the ball she was conscious of the hazel eyes resting on her often, their expression doing nothing for her peace of mind.

Later, as they left the ballroom together, Hazelmere remembered the note. ‘Incidentally, my love, should you get any further notes inciting you to do anything the least bit improper and which purport to come from me, you might remember I’m much more likely to make such suggestions in person.’

It was impossible to reply to that in any acceptable way. Dorothea wisely left it uncontested.

Leaving Bressington House a short time later, Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe insisted on handing the Darent sisters into their carriage. Belatedly realising that she had allowed Hazelmere to monopolise her for the entire evening, Dorothea threw him a glance that she hoped conveyed her disapproval of his managing ways. She could hardly claim success, as he laughed and murmured in her ear that if she continued to cast such provocative looks at him he would be unable to resist the temptation to kiss her again. In the shadowy carriage drive he suited the action to the words, before helping a thoroughly flustered Dorothea into her grandmother’s coach.

HAZELMERE was more perturbed by the mysterious note and the incident on the terrace than he had let Dorothea guess. Walking back to Cavendish Square in company with Fanshawe, he considered the possible explanations.

Young heiresses had been abducted and held for ransom—that was one possible reason. However, most of the previous targets had been very wealthy. Dorothea, although commonly held to be well dowered, was not immensely rich. So, if it was an abduction attempt, the far more likely intention would be to have a touch at the Hazelmere coffers. It had never occurred to him that by making his interest in her so public he would make her a target for such attacks.

He considered the figure by his side. All was not well with his friend and, presuming from his silence on the matter that the cause was the younger Miss Darent, he did not like to add any extra burden to a brow already overwrought.

The romance between Fanshawe and Cecily was not proceeding as his lordship had hoped. He had discovered his love had a definite mind of her own and having once taken an idea into her head could hold to it buckle and thong in the face of all reason. She had objected to what she termed his proprietorial attitude at the masquerade, leaving him feeling decidedly rejected. While she had relented later, allowing him to escort her to their carriage, she had remained coldly aloof.

The two friends continued on their way, sunk in abstracted silence. They parted at the corner of Cavendish Square to retire to their respective chambers, troubled, for quite different reasons, over what the future held.

CHAPTER TEN

THE FRIDAY, SATURDAY AND SUNDAY following the masquerade saw Hazelmere dancing attendance on Dorothea in a way that, had anyone still been watching, would have made them wonder at the power of love. Lady Merion was moved to make a number of rude comments to him when no one else was by, regarding the inadvisability of over-indulgence. Hazelmere listened politely and let the shafts fly by. He was thankful that his mother had returned to Hazelmere on Friday morning, archly refusing her dutiful son’s offer of escort, saying she knew how many other things he had on his mind.

Keeping a watchful eye on Dorothea at the balls and parties in the evenings presented no great problem. He could with confidence leave her in the company of a great many friends, both his and her own. But from the time she returned from riding in the Park to the time she left Merion House for whichever of the evening’s entertainments she was to attend, her day was a mystery to him.

On Friday he solved this by inviting her to drive with him in the Park in the afternoon. He almost committed the blunder of asking her to come out with him again on Saturday but, catching a glimpse of her face, realised that she was already becoming suspicious. She was quite capable of linking his sudden attentiveness with the incident at the masquerade. He returned to Hazelmere House and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to devise a means of keeping watch over her without being overly conspicuous.

The only other person he would have consulted was Fanshawe, but he was still having troubles of his own. He had to have better information on Dorothea’s movements, but for some while the means of acquiring such intelligence did not present itself. It was only when a footman quietly entered to light the fire that the penny dropped.

Summoning his butler, he asked, ‘Mytton, is there any connection between my household and that of Merion House?’

Mytton, not sure what had occasioned this odd query, saw no reason to equivocate. ‘Young Charles, the footman, m’lord, is walking out with Miss Darent’s new maid.’

‘Is he, indeed?’ mused Hazelmere softly. He glanced up at his terribly correct and equally shrewd henchman. ‘Mytton, you may tell Charles that I wish him to find out for me, if he can, what Miss Darent’s plans are for the morrow. He may take whatever time he needs. But I must have the information before tomorrow. Do you think he could accomplish such a task?’

‘Young Charles, if I may say so, m’lord, is a most capable young man,’ responded Mytton gravely.

‘Very good,’ replied Hazelmere, repressing a grin.

On returning home in the early hours of Saturday morning, he found that Charles had been every bit as capable as Mytton believed. Armed with Dorothea’s plans for the next two days, he was able to confine his appearances to her usual morning rides in the Park, to a ball on Saturday night and to the party she attended on Sunday evening. At the party, he found himself again under suspicion.

‘Just what are you about now?’ Dorothea enquired as they glided around the room in the only waltz of the evening.

‘I’d rather thought it was the waltz,’ returned Hazelmere, all innocence. ‘I’m generally held to be reasonably good at it.’

Dorothea regarded him much as she would an errant child. ‘And I suppose it has always been your habit to attend such eminently boring parties as this?’

‘Ah, but you forget, my love! My heart is at your feet. Didn’t you know?’

While the words were what she longed to hear, the tone left Dorothea in no doubt of how she should treat them. She laughed. ‘Oh, no! You cannot distract me so easily. You’ll have to think up a far more plausible excuse for your presence here, of all places.’

‘Is my being here so distasteful to you?’ he asked, feigning seriousness.

Seeing the lurking twinkle at the back of the hazel eyes, she had no compunction in answering, ‘Why, no! I believe I would welcome even Lord Peterborough in such company as this!’

He laughed. ‘Very neat, my dear. But why, if this party is so boring, are you gracing it with your lovely presence?’

‘I’ve no idea why Grandmama insisted on coming,’ she admitted. ‘Even she is not enjoying it, because Herbert and Marjorie are here. Thank heavens they leave for Darent Hall tomorrow. And Cecily! She’s been going around as if the sky has fallen.’ Fixing him with a direct look, she continued, ‘Incidentally, if you have any interest in that matter, you could tell Lord Fanshawe to stop encouraging her to think herself up to all the rigs, because she’s not. He has, and now she’s annoyed because he won’t let her do precisely as she wants. If he’ll only tell her quite plainly he won’t have it, she’ll stop. She always responds to firm handling.’

‘Unlike her elder sister?’ murmured Hazelmere provocatively.

‘Precisely!’ answered Dorothea.

HAZELMERE had the opportunity to deliver her message to Fanshawe the next day. Thanks to Charles’s continuing efforts on his behalf, he learned that Dorothea and Cecily were to attend a select picnic at the home of Lady Oswey, escorted by that pink of the ton, Ferdie Acheson-Smythe. Feeling he could safely leave Dorothea’s welfare in Ferdie’s capable hands for the day, he collected Fanshawe and they departed to watch a prize-fight on Clapham Common. As the sisters were going to the theatre that evening in company with Lord and Lady Eglemont, Hazelmere felt no need to attend this function either. It was the early hours of the next morning when their lordships, thoroughly pleased with their day away from the rigours of the Season and somewhat the worse for wear, returned to Cavendish Square and their beds.

FERDIE AND DOROTHEA departed Merion House on the Monday morning, expecting to pass a pleasant day at the Osweys’ house by the Thames at Twickenham. Cecily was querulous and moody, labouring under the twin goads of feeling, on the one hand, that she had treated Lord Fanshawe unfairly and, on the other, of not wishing him to order her life for her.

Observing her elder sister, she wondered why Dorothea, much more independently minded than herself, acquiesced so readily to the Marquis’s suggestions. Noting the absent-minded smile that hovered on her lips as she gazed unseeingly out of the carriage window, she concluded that her sister was obviously in love with Hazelmere. She, in contrast, had clearly mistaken her heart. For surely if she was in love with Fanshawe she would be perfectly happy to allow his judgement to prevail? But he had been horridly strict and old-fashioned about her impromptu acquaintance with some of the more dashing blades present at the masquerade. The sneaking suspicion that he had been right in telling her that acquaintance with those particular gentlemen would not be to her advantage did not improve her humour. In an altogether dismal mood, she alighted from the chaise at Oswey Hall.

However, the glorious sunshine, blue skies and gentle breeze—perfect conditions for a picnic by the stream in the bluebell wood—raised even Cecily’s spirits. Soon she was one of a group of chattering damsels busily comparing stories of encounters with the more eligible bachelors of the ton. Rather too old for such girlish pastimes, Dorothea settled by one of the Oswey cousins, come up to town from her home in west Hampshire to spend the Season with her relatives. Reticent and shy, Miss Delamere was grateful to the beautiful Miss Darent, who seemed happy to talk with her of country pastimes. Dorothea, who had not thought of the Grange for weeks, was quite content to make conversation on the topics that in years past had been her primary concern.

No chaperons were present other than the indolent Lady Margaret Oswey. Settled on a pile of cushions in the clearing where the picnic was held, she had no wish to bestir herself. Consequently only those gentlemen who could be trusted to keep the line even while out of her sight had been invited. Ferdie was one of this select group. Lords Hazelmere, Fanshawe and friends were, of course, absent.

After the repast Ferdie escorted two of the younger misses to see the fairy dell, so named because of the mixture of bluebells, crocuses and tulips which grew there. The dell was in the woods they had passed on their way to the stream, and was reached by a path which branched from the main one some little way back towards the house. Having exclaimed to their hearts’ content over the colourful carpet lining the dell, the two young things reluctantly allowed him to lead them back towards the rest of the company. Emerging on to the main track, one young lady on each of his arms, they were approached by a footman in search of Miss Darent.

‘She’s with her ladyship by the stream, I think,’ said Ferdie. Perceiving the letter on the tray the footman was holding, he asked, ‘Is that for Miss Darent?’

Assured it was and had just been delivered by a groom, Ferdie, in benign mood, said, ‘Oh, I’ll take it to her if you like. Very good friend of Miss Darent.’

As the footman had seen Ferdie arrive with the Darent sisters, he saw no reason not to leave the missive in his hands.

Ferdie needed both arms to escort the young ladies back to the stream, so he deposited the letter in the inner pocket of his coat. On reaching the clearing, he relinquished his young charges but found that Dorothea had gone for a ramble with Miss Delamere. Ferdie spent the rest of the afternoon in a tête-à-tête with Cecily. As she had reached the stage of needing someone’s shoulder to cry on, he did not have an easy time of it. However, by the end of a lengthy discussion in which featured all the real and imaginary shortcomings of an unnamed peer with whom he was well acquainted, he felt he had made some headway in getting her to think of things from his lordship’s point of view, rather than only her own.

Although he had enjoyed his day, Ferdie heaved a sigh of relief as the Merion carriage drew away from Oswey Hall late in the afternoon. After his difficult time with Cecily he completely forgot the letter for Dorothea.

The next day this missive resurfaced. Dorothea and Cecily had sent a message that they would not be riding that morning. Ferdie assumed Cecily had had a difficult time the evening before. As Lord Eglemont was convinced she would shortly be his daughter-in-law, Ferdie’s imagination did not have to work overtime to understand that their visit to the theatre might have proved an ordeal.

He was consequently breakfasting in languid style when his valet, Higgins, appeared at his elbow. ‘I found this in your coat pocket, sir.’

As it was common for him to forget letters and notes and leave them in his clothing, Ferdie thought nothing of this and opened the unaddressed letter. Reading the lines within, he frowned. He turned the single sheet over and then back and read it once more. Propping it against the salt cellar, he stared at the letter as he finished his coffee. Then he refolded it and called his valet. ‘Higgins, in which of my coats did you find this?’

‘In the blue superfine you wore at Lady Oswey’s picnic yesterday, sir.’

‘Ah. Thought that might be it.’

Ferdie dressed rapidly and set out for Hazelmere House, fervently hoping that his cousin had not already departed for a morning about town. Luck favoured him. The Marquis was descending the steps of Hazelmere House in company with Fanshawe as he entered Cavendish Square. Out of breath, he waved at them. Staggering at seeing the impeccable Mr Acheson-Smythe in anything resembling a hurry, they halted and waited for him.

‘Ferdie!’ exclaimed Hazelmere. ‘What the devil’s got into you?’

‘Never seen you move so fast in my life!’ said Fanshawe.

‘Need a word with you, Marc. Now!’ Ferdie gasped.

Hazelmere saw that his cousin was looking unaccustomedly serious. ‘Let’s go back into the house.’

They re-entered Hazelmere House and headed for the library. Hazelmere sat behind the desk. Fanshawe perched on a corner of it and both looked expectantly at Ferdie, who had dropped into a chair facing them. Still struggling to catch his breath, he drew out the letter and threw it on the desk in front of his cousin. ‘Read that.’

Hazelmere, suddenly equally serious, complied. Then he looked at Ferdie, his face impassive. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Was supposed to be delivered to Dorothea at Lady Oswey’s picnic. Met the footman on the way and offered to take it to her. Put it in my pocket and forgot it. Higgins found it this morning and, not knowing what it was, I opened it. Thought you’d like to see it.’ ‘So Dorothea never got it?’ Ferdie shook his head.

Fanshawe was totally in the dark. ‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’ he pleaded.

Without comment Hazelmere handed him the letter. The message it contained read:

My dear Miss Darent,

I cannot imagine that the company at Lady Oswey’s picnic is quite as scintillating as that to which you have become accustomed. So, why not meet me at the white wicket gate at the end of the path through the woods? I’ll have my greys and we can go for a drive around the lanes with no one the wiser. Don’t keep me waiting; you know I hate to keep my horses standing. I’ll expect you at two. Hazelmere.

Like Ferdie, Fanshawe had no difficulty recognising Hazelmere’s writing and signature and knew the letter in his hand was a hoax. Eyeing his friend with an unusually grim look, he asked simply, ‘Who?’

‘I wish I knew,’ replied Hazelmere. ‘It’s the second.’

‘What?’ The exclamation burst from Fanshawe and Ferdie in unison.

Laying the letter Ferdie had brought in front of him, Hazelmere opened a drawer and took out the note Dorothea had received at the Bressingtons’ masquerade. Once they were side by side, it was clear that the same hand had written both. Fanshawe and Ferdie came around the desk to study them over his shoulders.

‘When was the first one sent?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘The masquerade. That attempt would have succeeded to admiration except I returned to London a day earlier than expected. It was handed to Dorothea in the hall at Bressington House. She was surprised to find me already there. She’d believed the note. Hardly surprising, as it’s exactly the sort of thing I might be expected to do.’

‘You should have told me. We might have baited a trap!’ exclaimed Fanshawe.

‘We did spring the trap,’ Hazelmere answered with a fleeting grin. ‘Dorothea went out on to the terrace at midnight and I was in the shadows behind her. A voice, which neither of us recognised, called her towards the steps down on to the path. But then some others in the ballroom opened another door on to the terrace and whoever it was took fright. I wasn’t about to give chase and leave Dorothea alone on the terrace.’

‘And you saw nobody?’ asked Ferdie. Hazelmere shook his head, going back to studying the second letter.

‘Very likely she’d have gone to that gate if Ferdie’d remembered to give her the note,’ said Fanshawe.

‘No. She won’t be caught by that ruse again,’ said Hazelmere. ‘But what puzzles me most is who the writer of these missives could be.’

‘Got to be someone acquainted with you,’ put in Ferdie.

‘Yes,’ agreed Hazelmere. ‘That’s what is particularly worrisome. I’d thought it was one of those abduction plots at first.’

‘Shouldn’t have thought the Darent girls were sufficiently rich to attract that sort of attention,’ said Fanshawe.

‘They aren’t. I am,’ replied the Marquis.

‘Oh. Hadn’t thought of that.’

All three men continued to study the letters, hoping that some clue to their writer’s identity could be wrung from them. Fanshawe broke the silence to ask Ferdie, ‘Why do you say whoever it is must know Marc?’

‘Writing’s not his, but the style is. Just the sort of thing he would say,’ replied the knowledgeable Ferdie.

‘Can’t know you all that well. You never drive young ladies around, let alone behind your greys,’ his lordship pointed out.

‘With one notable exception,’ corrected Hazelmere. ‘To whit, Miss Darent.’

‘Oh,’ said Fanshawe, finally convinced.

‘Precisely,’ continued Hazelmere. ‘It’s someone who at least knows me well enough to write a letter in a style that could pass for mine. Someone who also knows I have driven Miss Darent behind the greys, who knows I’m very particular about keeping my horses standing and who knew I was out of town and not expected to attend the Bressington masquerade.’

‘Therefore,’ concluded Ferdie, ‘one of us. Of the ton, I mean. At least as an accomplice.’

‘That would appear the inescapable conclusion,’ agreed Hazelmere. He continued to stare at the letters.

‘What’re we going to do?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Can’t call in Bow Street,’ said Ferdie, decisively. ‘Very heavy-footed. Create all sorts of rumpus. Lady Merion wouldn’t like it; Dorothea wouldn’t like it.’

‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ put in Hazelmere.

‘Quite so,’ agreed Ferdie, glad to have this point settled.

‘As far as I can see, the only thing we can do is keep a very careful watch over Dorothea,’ said Hazelmere. ‘She won’t be taken in with any messages, but, as we don’t know who’s behind this, we’ll have to ensure no one who could possibly be involved is given any chance to approach her alone.’

‘Just us three?’ Fanshawe enquired.

Hazelmere considered the question, the hazel gaze abstracted. ‘For the moment,’ he eventually replied. ‘We can call in reinforcements if necessary.’

‘What are they doing now?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Resting,’ replied Ferdie. Seeing their surprise, he explained. ‘Went to the theatre last night with your parents, dear boy. Result—Cecily’s exhausted.’

‘Ah,’ said Hazelmere with an understanding grin. Fanshawe frowned.

‘Going riding with them this afternoon,’ continued Ferdie, ‘then the Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House this evening. That’s easy—we’ll all be there.’

‘Well, Ferdie, m’lad,’ said Fanshawe as he rose to leave, ‘you’ll just have to keep us informed of where Miss Darent means to be and then make sure at least one of us is there. Shouldn’t be too hard. They can’t be gallivanting all over town still, can they?’

Ferdie reflected that their lordships, normally engrossed in their own pursuits, had very little idea of just how crowded a young lady’s calendar could be. He sincerely hoped they would not have to keep up their surveillance for long.

Moments later, as he descended the steps in their company, arriving on the pavement ahead of them, he gave voice to an idea that had been rolling around in his head for some time. ‘Actually, as far as I can see, the easiest way to solve all these problems is for you two to hurry up and marry the chits! Then Marc could spend his entire day with Dorothea, if necessary, and Cecily wouldn’t be moping around, and I could go back to living a quiet life again.’

Seeing that their receipt of this advice was not favourable, he hurriedly waved at them. ‘No? I’m off! See you tonight at the ball.’

THE DIPLOMATIC BALL at Carlton House was so named because all the diplomatic corps and delegations stationed in London attended. Sponsored by the Prince Regent, attendance by all those invited was virtually obligatory. These included all the year’s débutantes, the majority of the peers present in London and the élite of society. It amused the Prince to think that for one night in the Season they all danced attendance on him. While the cream of the ton considered this function supremely boring, the necessity of being present when the Prince arrived ensured that all summoned came early.

Knowing his Prince, Hazelmere realised that, while it was hardly likely that Dorothea would be kidnapped from the ball, both she and Cecily could face a threat from a different source. After discussing the possibilities, he and Fanshawe called at Merion House when they knew the sisters were riding with Ferdie. They found Lady Merion at home and, having outlined the perceived problem, it was agreed that both of them would accompany the Merion party to Carlton House, using the large Hazelmere town carriage.

Ferdie was taken aback at finding them in attendance when he called at Merion House that evening. A quick word from Hazelmere brought comprehension to his eyes. ‘Good heavens! Never thought of that!’

‘Never thought of what, Ferdie?’ asked Dorothea. She had witnessed the exchange and, her curiosity aroused, had come to see if she could surprise from him some explanation for the appearance of their lordships.

Ferdie could never think quickly in such situations. He could find no glib words to answer her. Dorothea knew that if she waited long enough he was bound to say something helpful. She had reckoned without Hazelmere, who calmly stepped in with a blatant lie. ‘Ferdie, I believe Lady Merion has been trying to catch your eye these minutes past.’

‘What? Oh, yes! Got to see your grandmama.’ With this explanatory aside to Dorothea, he crossed the room to her ladyship’s side with the alacrity of a rabbit escaping a snare.

Dorothea looked at Hazelmere in disgust. ‘Spoil-sport,’ she said.

‘It’s hardly fair to try to trip Ferdie up. He’s definitely not in your class. You can attempt to get the story out of me if you like.’

‘As you obviously have no intention of telling me, it would be wasted effort, I fear,’ she replied, adding, ‘In such matters, I am, after all, definitely not in your class.’

‘True,’ returned Hazelmere, taking the wind out of her sails. The emerald glance he received in reply spoke volumes.

With Ferdie come, there was nothing more to delay their departure and soon they were settled in the carriage and on their way. The Hazelmere town coach was a luxurious affair and easily sat the six of them, despite the voluminous ballgowns peculiar to this affair. To some extent, the Diplomatic Ball had temporarily replaced the more formal presentations of previous years. Due to the problems besetting the royal family, these had been suspended. But the tradition of all-white, waisted, full-skirted ballgowns for the débutantes, worn with white ostrich plumes in their hair, had transferred to the Prince Regent’s Diplomatic Ball.

The all-white ensemble made Cecily look ethereal. Dorothea, with her dark hair and green eyes contrasting with the white, looked divine. As usual, Celestine had taken full advantage of Dorothea’s age and figure and the bodice was cut low, while the waistline had been subtly altered to emphasise her tiny waist and the swell of her hips. On entering the Merion House drawing-room, Hazelmere, setting eyes on her, knew he was justified in anticipating trouble at Carlton House.

It took no more than ten minutes to drive the short distance to the Prince Regent’s London residence, but, owing to the crowds, it was nearly an hour before they reached the head of the stairs and heard their names announced as they entered the ballroom. As His Highness was convinced that he had a particular susceptibility to colds and chills, the rooms were already overheated. Dorothea was glad she had not brought a shawl. Hazelmere, glancing down at her as she walked by his side, uncharacteristically wished she had.

With Fanshawe escorting Cecily and Lady Merion on Ferdie’s arm, they strolled down the ballroom, stopping to chat to acquaintances and friends. They had agreed that the safest place for the Misses Darent to make their curtsy to the Prince Regent was where the élite of the ton usually congregated. Lady Jersey and the other patronesses of Almack’s would be there, as would most of their lordships’ close acquaintances. In such august company, the chances of His Highness issuing one of his unwelcome commands was considerably reduced.

They had reached this position and were busy greeting their friends when a general stir running through the crowd announced the entrance of the Prince Regent. As the now portly Prince, accompanied by two of his confidants, strolled down the ballroom the assembled ranks of gentlemen bowed and the ladies sank into the deepest of curtsies. This movement passed like a wave down the long room, arrested every now and again as His Highness paused to exchange a word with one of the favoured or, more frequently, to ogle a beautiful woman. Viewing this behaviour as her Prince approached, Dorothea thought it hardly appropriate for one of his years and position. In this, the majority of those around her agreed.

As the wave of curtsying ladies reached her, and the débutante to her left sank down, Dorothea did likewise, bowing her head as she had been taught. She was supposed to maintain this pose until His Highness had passed. While she waited, frozen into immobility, she realised that his feet, the only part of him within her range of vision, gaudily clad in bright red ballroom pumps with huge gold buckles, had stopped a short distance away. Risking an upward glance through her lashes, she discovered the Prince’s protuberant pale blue eyes fixed on her. He smiled archly and came to take her hand and raise her to her feet.

As the others around her abandoned their obsequious stances she was aware of Hazelmere close behind her in the crush, a little way to her right, his hand now resting lightly at her waist. Mrs Drummond-Burrell moved slightly on her left. This movement, almost imperceptible though it was, distracted the Prince, who then became aware of those around her. She watched as the distinctly lecherous look faded, and then disappeared altogether, as His Highness’s gaze met Hazelmere’s over her right shoulder.

The Prince inwardly cursed. He had been informed that the most attractive débutante this year was Miss Darent, but that to suggest she might like to entertain him in private would be unwise, as she was considered by the ton to be virtually affianced to the Marquis of Hazelmere. While there were some among the peers he could ignore, Hazelmere was not one of them. But, seeing the luscious dark-haired beauty curtsying to him, he had entirely forgotten the warning until recalled to his surroundings by the censorious eyes of Mrs Drummond-Burrell and then Hazelmere’s cool gaze. So, instead of what he had been going to say, he smiled in quite a different way, almost charmingly, and said, ‘You are really very beautiful, my dear.’ With a nod, he released her hand and, still smiling, moved on.

Dorothea sensed the almost palpable relief around her. As the Prince continued along the ballroom and the ranks of his subjects broke up she turned to Hazelmere and, not knowing how to phrase the question, raised her enquiring eyes to his.

‘Yes, that was it,’ he assented, smiling as he drew her hand through his arm. ‘You did very well, my love.’

Ignoring provocation she knew to be deliberate, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me he could be so … well, like that?’

‘Because one can never tell if he will be.’

‘Is that why I was with you and not with Grandmama?’

‘His Highness is occasionally misguided enough to make … suggestions, which in your case would be totally inappropriate.’

‘I see. And he would not do so while you were about but might well have done if I had been with Grandmama only?’

Hazelmere, who would have much preferred she had not realised that, merely nodded. He knew it would not be long before she deduced the reason that his presence had protected her from the Prince’s importunities. After one glance at her pensive face he headed for the area of the huge ballroom given over to dancing.

At Carlton House the social rules that applied everywhere else did not hold sway. The principal ladies of the ton deplored the licence permitted under the Prince Regent’s influence. Previously Hazelmere had found these lax standards very useful. Now he was concerned that Dorothea was not unknowingly led into difficulties through her innocence of just what was possible at Carlton House.

Reaching the dance-floor and hearing the musicians strike up, without a word he drew her into his arms and into the waltz. There were no dance cards at Carlton House and the waltz was the only dance permitted. She had not spoken again. Hazelmere, wishing that Carlton House had a deserted orangery, felt how stiff and distant she was as they glided down the floor. But as they progressed, in spite of herself, she relaxed into his familiar arms. He saw that they had attracted the attention of a number of gentlemen not normally present at any of the ton gatherings and determined to return her to Lady Merion immediately the dance ended. Looking down at her calm face, he realised with a jolt that he had no idea what she was thinking. She was normally so completely frank with him that it had not occurred to him that she could withdraw so entirely. Uncertain what to do for once in his life, he remained silent.

As the dance ended he raised her hand to his lips, bringing a familiar green spark to her enormous eyes. Smiling down at her, he drew her hand through his arm and led her to find Lady Merion. Relinquishing her to her grandmother with real regret, he was relieved to see Alvanley claim her for the next dance. To be overly attentive would only exacerbate her mood, so he resigned himself to not dancing with her again and drifted off in search of his friends.

Dorothea was in a state of utter confusion, which having to make a pretence of polite conversation did nothing to help. As the weeks of the Season had passed she had come to accept that she and Hazelmere would, in time, perhaps later in the Season, come to an understanding—a mutually agreed understanding. But now it appeared she was to have no say in the matter at all! Everyone already knew she would marry Hazelmere. Even the Prince Regent knew!

The sensation of being an entirely helpless puppet with Hazelmere pulling the strings fuelled her anger. While she had been falling desperately in love with him, worrying over whether or not he loved her, he had somehow convinced the world that she was his. How dared he take her so much for granted?

She fumed inwardly, her temper simmering, denied the natural outlet of confronting him in person. She spent three waltzes entirely consumed with plotting what she would say to him on the morrow. He would be made to realise that she was no milk-and-water miss to be manipulated to suit his convenience!

Dancing with one after another of his friends, all of whom, she now realised, treated her as they would a friend’s wife, did nothing to improve her temper. None of her partners guessed her true state; her composure was complete, her serenity convincing. It was, therefore, with an air of dangerous resklessness that she viewed the debonair Frenchman bowing before her and begging the pleasure of the next waltz. She had just been returned to her grandmama by Lord Desborough, who had moved away into the still considerable crowd.

With Lady Merion’s consent she allowed the Comte de Vanée to lead her on to the floor. He had, so he informed her, only recently arrived from Paris. As he expertly guided her through the other dancers the Comte kept up a flow of general conversation, to which Dorothea paid little heed. Until she heard him mention Hazelmere’s name.

Without hesitation she broke into his discourse. ‘I’m so sorry, Comte, I’m afraid I didn’t catch what you just said.’

‘Ah, mademoiselle, I was only saying it is so like the Marquis to secure the most beautiful women as his mistresses—the lovely Lady Walford, for instance, whom you can see over there, talking with his lordship.’

Dorothea glanced where he indicated and glimpsed Hazelmere deep in conversation with Lady Walford, his dark head bent close to her fair one, listening intently. Even to her inexperienced eye, the pose argued a degree of familiarity. Feeling her heart literally descend to her slippers, she required every ounce of her well-practised poise to meet the Comte’s eyes with her habitual calm. But that young man had felt her stiffen when she had seen Hazelmere and Lady Walford and was more than satisfied with his success. Too wise to belabour the point, he continued in his light-hearted recitation of ton affairs.

Unknown to the Comte, his words plunged Dorothea even deeper into misery than he could have hoped. If she was confused before, she was now utterly wretched. The sole vision in her tormented mind was of Hazelmere in intimate converse with Lady Walford. All the rest seemed to sink beneath a miasma of pain.

On the previous Sunday, before her departure for Darent Hall, Marjorie Darent had sought a private interview with Dorothea, in order, as she saw it, to do her duty. ‘As Herbert is your guardian and I am his wife,’ she had carefully begun, ‘I feel it is my duty to tell you it’s common knowledge that Lord Hazelmere is trifling with your affections. I’ve been told he has acted in exactly this manner with many other susceptible young ladies. I regret to say, your resistance to his charm is most likely the attraction that draws him to your side. Neither Herbert nor I would wish to criticise your grandmama, but we are deeply pained to see you in the toils of such a man.’

Dorothea had listened with a patience born of her certainty that none of it was true. Marjorie had no idea how Hazelmere behaved towards her. And there was no chance that Lady Merion would blindly permit his attentions were these other than honourable.

Marjorie had gone on to enumerate his lordship’s many failings—gambling, racing, addiction to boxing and other low forms of sport, finally coming to the point of her visit. ‘It is my distressing duty to speak plainly to you, my dear. Lady Merion likely feels such subjects should not sully the ears of innocent maids, but, in the circumstances, it is right you should know. Forewarned, after all, is forearmed!’

Dorothea’s lively imagination had run riot at this juncture. She was agog to learn what secret life Marjorie had invented for his lordship. The explanation, when it had come, was so mundane that she had almost giggled.

‘My dear, the man is a rake! A very highly born rake, I’ll agree. But a rake none the less! Why, the stories I’ve heard of his mistresses, many of them as well born as you or I, and all of them the most ravishing creatures. As you are yourself, my dear.’

The insinuation that Marjorie had managed to infuse into this last statement had nearly overset Dorothea. The idea of Hazelmere offering her a carte blanche was so ridiculous that she had had to take a deep breath to stop herself from laughing aloud and ruining her pose of polite attention. As it was, Marjorie had taken the indrawn breath to signify shock at his lordship’s perfidy.

Her cousin had concluded by stating that neither Herbert nor she would countenance any further communication with the Marquis. Dorothea had managed to keep her temper by reminding herself it was her grandmother, not Marjorie, who had charge of her in London.

After Marjorie had left Dorothea had put her warnings entirely from her mind as the ludicrous imaginings she had been sure they were. But now that it seemed as if one, at least, of her cousin’s facts was not wrong she was forced to question whether she really knew Hazelmere at all.

She had assumed there had been many women in his past—he could hardly have attained his undoubted experience of her sex without practice. But she had imagined these women were of the demi-monde and, furthermore, definitely in his past and not cluttering up his present life. Lady Walford, however, belonged to the ton, and she was obviously part of Hazelmere’s present.

Dorothea heard not a single word of the rest of the Comte’s conversation. Just before the dance ended she noticed Cecily dancing with Fanshawe. From her sparkling eyes, Dorothea concluded that they had made up their differences. Fanshawe, catching a glimpse of her through the throng, looked surprised, but they were immediately separated by the movement of the dance, so Dorothea failed to see what had excited his attention. At the end of the dance the Comte punctiliously delivered her to her grandmother and immediately took his leave of them, disappearing into the crowds. His departure was rapid because he, too, had seen Fanshawe’s surprised look and, unlike Dorothea, knew the cause.

As the Comte could have predicted, it was not many minutes before Hazelmere materialised at her elbow. Immediately noticing her drawn face, he forebore to ask what the matter was, instead suggesting to Lady Merion that they could with impunity leave the ball, as the Prince had retired. Her ladyship, disliking the tone of the entertainment, readily agreed. As Fanshawe and Cecily reappeared at that moment, it only remained to find Ferdie before they could leave. This was easily accomplished, and the party departed Carlton House.

Seated opposite Dorothea in the carriage, Hazelmere desperately sought for a clue to what had so agitated her. Tony had told him that she had danced with one of the French diplomatic staff, a man of questionable standing. But it seemed unlikely that anything he could have said would have so overset her. He sensed that under her outward calm she was close to tears, but he had no idea why. Knowing he would get no chance to ask her directly, and so could not comfort her, only added to his frustration.

The carriage drew up outside Merion House and the ladies were escorted within. Ferdie left on foot and, sending the carriage on, Hazelmere and Fanshawe walked across the square. For more than half the distance Fanshawe kept up a rapturous monologue on the delights of love. He had made good use of Dorothea’s advice, borrowing some of Hazelmere’s arrogance to lend it weight, and it had been most successful.

Realising that Hazelmere was not responding and catching sight of his friend’s serious face, Fanshawe exclaimed, ‘Don’t tell me you two have fallen out?’

Hazelmere grinned at the tone. ‘To be perfectly truthful, I don’t know whether we have or not.’

‘Great heavens! You’re worse than us!’

‘Unfortunately true.’

‘Well,’ continued Fanshawe, ‘why don’t you just use Dorothea’s advice on herself?’

‘I have been reliably informed that firm handling will not work with the elder Miss Darent,’ replied Hazelmere with the ghost of a smile.

‘Which means very likely it will,’ rejoined Fanshawe, still in exuberant vein.

‘As a matter of fact, you speak more truly than you know,’ returned Hazelmere as they parted on the steps of Hazelmere House.

NOT AS OBSERVANT as Hazelmere, neither Lady Merion nor Cecily noticed the strained look in Dorothea’s eyes. Her ladyship retired to bed with a headache, and Cecily was so bubbling over with her own happiness that for once her sister’s pallor escaped her sharp eyes. To Dorothea’s relief, she was able to retire to her bed without having to answer any difficult questions.

She lay staring at the window for what felt like hours. Her heart would not accept what her mind knew to be fact. While Hazelmere had been dancing attendance on her, making her lose her heart with his easy address and gentle caresses and those wicked hazel eyes, he had been simultaneously enjoying a far more illicit relationship with the beautiful Lady Walford. And what was more, she thought, wallowing in misery, that meant he was not in love with her at all.

It had taken her a long time to sort it out, but now, at last, she had it clear: Hazelmere had to marry, so he had decided she would do. Not the icily uncomfortable Miss Buntton, but a naïve country miss, not at home in the ton, someone who would be a sweet, conformable, entirely acceptable and totally manipulable wife, providing him with heirs and presiding over his household while he continued as he always had, enjoying the more exotic delights provided by the likes of Lady Walford. And, most likely, her apparent indifference was the lure that had drawn his eye. She was a challenge and a convenient conquest, all rolled into one.

For the first time since she had come to London she thought longingly of the Grange, where life had been so much simpler. No having to deal with imperious peers with beautiful mistresses who made one fall in love with them for entirely selfish reasons. It was close to dawn before she finally drifted into troubled sleep.

ON ENTERING HIS HOUSE, Hazelmere went into the library and, pouring himself a large brandy, settled down to stare into the dying fire.

When he had decided to wait until later in the Season before asking for Dorothea’s hand he had not envisaged the current tangle of their affairs. He still had no clue what had gone wrong tonight and had no right to ask for an explanation. And, while previously she might have given him one, tonight she had realised how public he had made their relationship. She had not been pleased. God only knew what she would say if she learned that an announcement of their marriage was considered imminent! He grinned as he imagined her fury. Still, he could not regret his manipulation. After his behaviour in Moreton Park woods and at that blasted inn she would never have believed he was meek and malleable. If he had let her have her head in the matter of choosing her own husband she would undoubtedly have landed herself with some boring slowtop, too dimwitted to exercise any control over her. And she certainly needed someone to control her, to watch over her, to care for and cherish her—he shuddered to think what trouble she would have landed herself in had he not been there, time and again, to rescue her. Half the time she had not even recognised danger when she saw it. Such as in him.

That still surprised him. She certainly recognised the danger in Peterborough and Walsingham. But never, from that first moment in Moreton Park woods when he’d held her and kissed her as she’d never been kissed before, had she shown the slightest consciousness of danger in his company. Another one of her odd quirks, but one for which he was profoundly thankful.

He suspected that her dislike of his authoritarian ways stemmed from her habit of getting her own way in most things and of being able to manipulate people like Cecily, Lady Merion and Ferdie into doing much as she wished. Her refusal to attempt to wring from him the explanation for his presence at Merion House earlier in the evening suggested that she recognised the futility in cajoling or trying to manipulate him. Which was just as well. He had no intention of ever allowing her to do so. Still, he thought, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, he had no objection to her trying.

With a sigh he doggedly drew his mind back to his present problems. She had withdrawn from him and while, in normal circumstances, he would not have doubted his ability to bring her around, there were too many unexplained incidents occurring for him to feel easy. He glanced towards his desk, where the two mysterious notes lay in a drawer. There was someone else playing this hand and as yet he did not know who it was.

There was only one possible course of action. His steward on his Leicestershire estate was begging for his attendance. In travelling there, he would pass through Northamptonshire, not far from Darent Hall. Rapidly reviewing his engagements, he remembered a luncheon on the morrow. Very well, he would leave later in the day for Leicestershire and call in on horrible Herbert on the way back. Then, he supposed, he really should tell his mother, which meant an evening spent at Hazelmere. Seven days in all. He would be back in London by Tuesday next.

He did not like to leave her, but as he had no idea if any further attempt on her would be made, it would be wiser to solve the potential problem by marrying her as soon as possible. Abducting the Marchioness of Hazelmere would be a far more difficult task than abducting Miss Darent. In fact, he would make sure it was entirely impossible. He tossed off the last of the brandy and went to bed.

Comfortably settled between his silken sheets, he listened to Murgatroyd’s footsteps die away down the hall. Their interlude in the Richmond House orangery had left no room for doubt of her feelings for him. And in her subsequent actions she had, albeit unwittingly, confirmed his hopes. She loved him. Beneath his frustration, that knowledge ran like a heady pulse, a constant source of joy and wonder. And from it had been born the patience to see the game through, to let her have her Season of independence before he claimed her. Aside from any other consideration, he had enjoyed her spirited resistance, her attempts, becoming less and less successful with time, to conceal her response to him. He sighed. For good or ill, her time had run out. Tuesday next would see the end of the game. And the start of so much more.

He stretched, conscious of the tenseness lying just beneath the surface. He should never have kissed her. Now every time he saw her he was shaken by an urgent desire to do it again. And every time he gave way to the impulse he was increasingly aware of an even more urgent desire to take her to bed. The warmth of her hair, her smooth skin, the sweetness of her lips and, more than anything else, those tantalising green eyes had all become so strongly evocative that, for the first time in his considerable experience, his desire was no longer subject to his control. Aside from anything else, marrying her soon would end the torture. He slid himself into a more comfortable position and, thinking of emerald eyes, lost touch with reality.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

NEXT MORNING Lady Merion remained in bed, unwell after the stuffy atmosphere of Carlton House. Dorothea, unrefreshed by her troubled sleep, went to enquire after her health. Her ladyship immediately noticed the dark rings under her granddaughter’s large eyes and insisted she remain in bed for the rest of the morning. Sure that if she rode in the Park this morning she would meet Hazelmere, and feeling that normal conversation with him was as yet beyond her, Dorothea agreed.

Cecily was undisturbed by the change in plans, as she had arranged to go driving with Fanshawe that afternoon. She wrote to Ferdie to cancel their morning engagement and, at Dorothea’s suggestion, asked him to escort her sister for a ride that afternoon.

When the afternoon came Ferdie and Dorothea duly set off for the Park. Ferdie, not generally observant, noticed that Dorothea was not her normal self. Thinking to distract her, he rattled on about the Carlton House ball and the Prince Regent’s set, and anything else that came into his head. Understanding his benign impulse, Dorothea tried to put on a happier face and to ignore the fact that he, too, seemed to consider her virtually betrothed to Hazelmere.

They had entered the Park and were ambling along the grass verge of the carriageway when, glancing ahead, she suddenly stopped. Breathlessly she cut into Ferdie’s description of Lady Hanover’s new wig. ‘Ferdie, I want to gallop over to those trees. I think there are freesias growing there.’

Precipitately she set the bay mare cantering towards a stand of oak to their left. Ferdie, taken by surprise, turned his own horse to follow. As he did so his gaze alighted on an approaching carriage. It was Hazelmere’s curricle, the Marquis driving his greys with Helen Walford beside him. The brief glimpse of his cousin’s face before his horse moved off was quite sufficient to tell Ferdie that Hazelmere had seen Dorothea’s sudden departure. The appalling fact that Dorothea had knowingly cut his cousin in the middle of the Park dawned on a horrified Ferdie.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded as he came up with her by the trees. ‘That was Hazelmere!’

‘Yes, I know, Ferdie,’ replied Dorothea, contrite as she realised that he was really distressed.

‘Well, I’ll be hanged if I know what you’re up to,’ he continued, ‘but I can tell you that cutting people like Hazelmere in the middle of the Park is not the thing at all!’

‘Yes, Ferdie. I’d like to go home now, please.’

‘I should dashed well think so!’ he exclaimed, knowing that Hazelmere would shortly be following them.

On the way back to Cavendish Square Ferdie tried to impress upon Dorothea the magnitude of her sin. Not knowing what had caused her to behave in such an extraordinary way, he felt that if he could induce her to behave with something like contrition when she shortly faced his cousin she might stand a better chance of surviving the ordeal. Ferdie knew, as few others did, that, while Hazelmere appeared to have the easiest of tempers, this was a fiction. The Marquis of Hazelmere had a very definite temper; he just did not lose it often.

Ferdie did not know that Dorothea was already acquainted with Hazelmere’s temper. Seeing him driving his greys with the lovely Lady Walford by his side, she simply could not bear to stay and politely exchange pleasantries with them. Although she knew she had behaved badly and Hazelmere had every right to be angry, she, too, was decidedly aggrieved and was almost looking forward to an interview with his lordship. Luckily Ferdie had no idea of her thoughts—that anyone could look forward to an interview with Hazelmere in a rage was far too bizarre a concept for him to have understood.

Reaching Merion House, Ferdie escorted her indoors, past the interested Mellow and into the drawing-room. There he got a glimmer of the underlying story. Dorothea, pacing about the room like a caged tigress, seemed to the distracted Ferdie to be more incensed than contrite.

‘How dare he approach me while driving that woman?’ she finally burst out.

Ferdie stared. ‘What’s wrong with driving Helen Walford?’ he asked, fearing that her reason must be slipping.

‘But surely you know? She’s his mistress!’

‘What?’ Ferdie positively goggled. ‘No! You’ve got that wrong! Very sure she’s not Marc’s mistress.’

Remembering his connection with Hazelmere, Dorothea paid no attention to him, convinced that he would take his cousin’s side in any argument.

An imperious knock fell on the street door. Ferdie, glancing out of the window, saw Hazelmere’s curricle standing outside.

SEEING DOROTHEA pointedly move away from the carriageway, Hazelmere was thunderstruck. What the devil was she about, behaving like that to him? Too well attuned to his whereabouts to allow his entirely understandable rage to be evident, it was nevertheless some minutes before he could trust his voice to ask Helen Walford, ‘My dear Helen, do you mind if I return you to your friends? I’m departing for Leicestershire shortly and I believe I’ve some unfinished business to attend to.’

Lady Walford was well acquainted with Hazelmere’s temper, as she had often, in her childhood, been the cause of it. Looking into the hazel eyes, normally warm and amused, and finding them as cold and cloudy as agate, she merely smiled her agreement. She hoped Miss Darent had more backbone than the normal run of débutantes, for she was undoubtedly in for a most uncomfortable interview. The fact that Hazelmere was head over heels in love with her would not, as might be supposed, help her at all. Like all the Henrys, he possessed an unexpected puritanical streak which would lead him to demand of his wife-to-be a far higher standard of conduct than he might tolerate in less favoured ladies. Consequently she feared that his Dorothea was in for a particularly torrid time.

Having set Lady Walford down amid her friends, Hazelmere drove immediately to Merion House. Arriving there, without a word he threw the reins of his curricle to a bright-faced urchin and strode up the steps to the door.

Admitted to the house by an intrigued Mellow, he merely asked, in a deceptively gentle voice, ‘Where is Miss Darent, Mellow?’

‘In the drawing-room, my lord.’

‘Thank you. You need not announce me.’

He strolled across the hall and opened the drawing-room door. Setting eyes on Ferdie, he smiled in a way that made Ferdie decide to do whatever he wished. Holding the door open, Hazelmere said, ‘I believe you were leaving, Ferdie.’

There was no doubt about the command, but Ferdie, recognising the hardness in the hazel eyes, was having second thoughts about the wisdom of leaving these two together. But as he glanced at Dorothea his decision was unexpectedly taken out of his hands. ‘Goodbye, Ferdie,’ she said.

So Ferdie went. He discarded the idea of telling his cousin that Dorothea seemed to think Helen Walford was his mistress. In his opinion, if anyone was going to talk to Hazelmere about his mistresses it had better be Dorothea herself. Hearing the drawing-room door shut with a click behind him, he decided it might be wise to inform Lady Merion of the reason for, and the likely outcome of, the interview being presently conducted in her drawing-room.

Returning to the hall some five minutes later, having explained the situation as fully as he could to Lady Merion upstairs, he found the drawing-room door still shut. Viewing this with misgiving, he departed for his lodgings.

AFTER SHUTTING the door behind Ferdie, Hazelmere moved into the room. ‘Very wise of you, my dear. There’s no need for Ferdie to get caught up in this.’

He paused to strip off his driving gloves and cast them on a side-table. One glance at Dorothea, standing beside one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, her hand clutching its back, informed him that she was every bit as angry as he was. He had no idea why, but the knowledge served to make him rein in his temper sufficiently to ask, in a relatively calm voice, ‘Do you think you could possibly explain to me why you cut me in the Park?’

Despite the calmness, the undertones succeeded in igniting her smouldering temper. ‘How dare you approach me while driving that woman?’

Looking into her furious green eyes, Hazelmere felt, like Ferdie before him, that he had lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Helen?’ he asked, mystified.

‘Your mistress!’ she replied scathingly.

‘My what?’ The words came like a whiplash, and Dorothea winced. Even angrier than before, Hazelmere moved to within a few feet of her, everything about him radiating barely leashed fury. Eyes narrowed, he asked, his voice deceptively soft, ‘Who told you Helen Walford was my mistress?’

‘I don’t think that need concern you—’

‘You mistake,’ he broke in. ‘It concerns me because Helen Walford has never been, is not and never will be my mistress. So who, my credulous Miss Darent, told you she was?’

Looking into the stormy hazel eyes, Dorothea knew she was hearing the truth. ‘The Comte de Vanée,’ she finally replied.

‘A man of little importance,’ he said dismissively. ‘It may interest you to know that I have known Helen Walford since she was three. However,’ he continued, moving forward so that he was standing directly beside her, forcing her to turn from the chair that up until then had been between them, ‘that aside, you have still not explained why, regardless of what you might have thought, you presumed to censure me in such a public manner.’

Although his voice was low and even, Dorothea could not miss the suppressed anger. She knew she had been in the wrong, but his next words banished any notion of apologising.

‘I’ve told you provincial manners will not do in London,’ he continued. But there he stopped, for she rounded on him with such naked rage in her eyes that he was taken aback.

‘How dare you speak to me of manners? Explain yours, if you can! I know you’ve been dancing attendance on me purely to see if you could make me fall in love with you, just because I didn’t succumb to your legendary charm. Oh, Cousin Marjorie explained it all, so—’

That was as far as she got. Hazelmere paled as her words struck him. But as he caught the gist of her argument the already frayed rein he had kept on his passions snapped. In one swift, practised movement he swept her into his arms and his lips came down on hers in a kiss almost brutal in its intensity. Panicked, she struggled, but, as before, his fingers entwined in her hair, holding her head still, while the arm around her tightened, locking her in his embrace. And then, in the space of time between one heartbeat and the next, the tenor of the kiss changed to one of unbelievable sweetness. Her interest caught, her lips parted in response to his subtle command and she found herself floating in a sea of sensation. Dazed, she felt desire flooding through her, growing stronger with every second, rapidly building to a force she, in her inexperience, had no hope of restraining. She realised that she was responding in the most shameless way to his ardent kisses. She no longer cared. The only thought in her disjointed mind was the hope that he wouldn’t stop.

His lips left hers to brush kisses on her upturned face, on her forehead, her eyelids, her chin and her delectable white throat. Recapturing her reddened lips, he gently explored the sweet softness within. She moaned, the sound an audible caress, her arms slipping around his neck, her fingers twisting in his dark hair as she held him to her. Inwardly smiling, he allowed the kiss to deepen, fanning the racing flames of her desire until they coalesced into a conflagration that threatened to consume them both. Then, reaching to the depths of a passionate nature that in every way matched his own, he demanded, and received, a surrender so complete and unequivocal that he knew beyond doubt she would be his, body and soul, whenever he so desired. Entirely satisfied, he drew her closer, moulding her body to his, allowing her to feel the extent of his desire for her.

Dorothea was nearly mindless. Some tiny part of her consciousness was detached enough to be shocked and horrified, dismayed as his experienced hands roamed over her, his practised caresses sending ripples of desire from the top of her head to her toes. The rest of her was in no mood to listen. She supposed he would have to stop some time—but oh, she would enjoy this while it lasted! Still, surely not even Hazelmere would seduce her in her grandmother’s drawing-room? Would he?

The tremor that ran through her jolted him to his senses. He would have to leave her, and soon, if he was to leave her at all. And, as they were in Merion House and not one of his establishments, leave her he must. If he looked into her eyes he would not be able to go. And at the moment he was in no mood to talk to her. He needed time away from her to sort out what had happened—right now he wasn’t sure of anything other than his physical need for her. And that required no words to describe. He knew they had passed the point of easy withdrawal; there was no gentle way to stop now. So, abruptly bringing the kiss to an end, he released her and, disentangling her hands from his hair, put her from him almost roughly, before, turning brusquely, he walked straight to the door, picking up his gloves on the way, and, opening the door, left the room.

In the hall he encountered Mellow. As his face had assumed its normal mien and his hair was cut in a style that disguised Dorothea’s rumpling, Mellow assumed that there had been no major fireworks. He hurried to open the door for his lordship.

Leaving the house, Hazelmere headed across the square to his own mansion. While an observer unfamiliar with him would have detected nothing amiss, he was experiencing a degree of mental turmoil that effectively prevented him from thinking clearly. Anger, frustration, hurt pride and a peculiar sense of elation were only some of the emotions running riot in his mind. He would have to leave, get out of London, before his fevered brain would cool sufficiently to accurately assess just where they now stood. Entering Hazelmere House and seeing Mytton come forward from behind the green baize door, he paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ve decided to leave for Leicestershire immediately. I expect to return on Tuesday next. Send Murgatroyd up to me and tell Jim to put the bays to and have the curricle at the front door in ten minutes.’

‘Yes, m’lord,’ replied Mytton, who, acquainted with the Marquis since that gentleman’s childhood, returned immediately to the servants’ hall to inform the household of his lordship’s orders, adding that their master was in the devil’s own temper. Without further discussion they all sped to their tasks, Murgatroyd almost running up the stairs.

Standing before the mirror to remove the diamond pin in his cravat, Hazelmere suddenly turned to his valet, hurriedly packing. ‘Murgatroyd, see if you can catch Jim before he leaves the house. Tell him I’ve left the curricle outside Merion House. If he’s already left for the mews you’d better send one of the footmen after him and come back to me.’

After one stunned moment Murgatroyd was out of the door and down the stairs as fast as dignity would allow. Hazelmere ruefully surveyed his own reflection. If his servants had not already realised the cause of his present mood, the fact that he had walked away and left his greys outside Merion House would doubtless clarify the issue.

Murgatroyd reached the servants’ hall just as Jim, attired in the Hazelmere livery, was preparing to leave. Hearing his message, the entire population of the servants’ hall simply stared. Then all those with any legitimate claim to be in the front of the house headed for the street door. Opening it and looking across the square to Merion House, Mytton, Jim, Murgatroyd and Charles gazed in silent awe at the curricle.

‘My gawd! I’d never’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,’ said Jim.

With much shaking of heads, they all resumed their activities, Jim crossing the square to retrieve the precious greys and Murgatroyd hurrying upstairs to inform his lordship that the carriage was being prepared.

In the end, Jim had to walk the bays for five minutes before his master appeared. On his way downstairs Hazelmere recalled the one player in the game who did not know where he was going but should. He went into the library. His eye alighted on a pile of correspondence, delivered that afternoon. He flicked through the envelopes, leaving most unopened. His attention was caught by a plain envelope of poor quality, addressed in a strong hand to ‘Mr M. Henry’. Opening it, he scanned the enclosed pages. When his eyes lifted he remained standing, gazing at nothing, his long fingers beating a thoughtful tattoo on the desk-top. Then, with a frown, he crammed the letter into his coat pocket and sat to compose a suitably informative note to Ferdie. This was not easy. He still could not concentrate properly, particularly when reviewing that interview at Merion House. Finally he wrote a simple set of statements, informing Ferdie that he had to leave for Leicestershire on estate business and would be back in London on Tuesday next, that Tony knew this, that he and Tony had informed their close friends of the attempts on Dorothea over lunch that day and they would assist in keeping an eye on her. He ended with a simple request to Ferdie to look after Dorothea for him.

Signing this epistle, he bethought himself of one last item. Raising his pen, he added a postscript. He would much prefer if Ferdie could manage not to tell Dorothea of their fears for her safety. Smiling ruefully, he fixed his seal to the letter and rang for a footman. He did not have much confidence in Ferdie’s ability to distract Dorothea once she became suspicious, as she undoubtedly would long before he returned. Handing the letter over with instructions that it be delivered to Mr Acheson-Smythe’s lodgings immediately, he strode out of his house to the waiting curricle.

RELEASED FROM that passionate embrace, Dorothea stood by the chair, too stunned to move. Hearing the front door shut, she put her fingers to her bruised lips. Her eyes slowly refocused. Then, drawing a shuddering breath, she went to the door, opened it and, without even noticing Mellow, went up the stairs to her chamber.

Lady Merion, hearing her footsteps, came out of the morning-room. Five minutes after Ferdie had left her she had come downstairs. There was, she had felt, a limit to how long she could leave Dorothea alone with Hazelmere. All had been silent in the drawing-room. Taking a deep breath and waving Mellow away, she had opened the door. Seeing Dorothea locked in Hazelmere’s arms, she had immediately closed it again. With a decidedly pensive expression, she had informed Mellow that she would sit in the morning-room and if anyone should call he was to show them in there. Now, glimpsing the retreating figure at the top of the stairs, she sighed. With a resigned air she rang for tea.

Despite her ignorance of the details of the recently conducted interview, she thought Dorothea would need at least half an hour to cry herself out. Far too wise to try to talk sense to a young lady in the first flush of tears, she calmly reviewed what she knew of the afternoon’s events. None of it made a great deal of sense. She would have to extract sufficient details before she could begin to understand what it was about; she was too old to leap to conclusions.

Finishing her tea, she went purposefully upstairs.

REACHING HER BEDCHAMBER, Dorothea shut the door, threw herself on her bed and gave way to her tears. For the first time in years she wept unrestrainedly, a mixture of relief, bewilderment and pent-up emotions pouring from her, disappointment and a barely recognised frustration lending their bitter flavour to her woe. For ten minutes the storm continued unabated. Finally, through exhaustion, the whirling kaleidoscope that was her mind slowed down and the racking sobs died. She was propped up against her pillows, dabbing ineffectually at her brimming eyes with a sodden handkerchief, when her grandmother knocked and entered.

Seeing her normally calm and collected granddaughter in the shadows of the bed, her large eyes enormous and swimming in unshed tears, Hermione walked over and plumped herself down on the end of the bed. Dorothea gulped and whispered, ‘Oh, Grandmama, what am I to do?’

Recognising her cue, Lady Merion responded briskly. ‘The first thing you’ll do, my dear, is to wash your face and get yourself a fresh handkerchief. Go on, now. You’ll feel a great deal better.’ As Dorothea rose she continued, ‘And after that I think we’ll have a long talk. It’s time you explained to me just what you and Hazelmere have been about.’

At that, Dorothea’s green eyes returned to her grandmother’s face, but she made no comment. While she washed and dried her face, and then ransacked her dressing-table for a clean handkerchief, the capacity for rational thought returned. Her grandmother undoubtedly deserved an explanation. But there were so many questions still unanswered. Pensive, she returned to her seat on the bed.

Lady Merion opened the conversation with a simple request to be told all about it.

Dorothea grimaced, then drew a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Last night, at the ball, the Prince … well, it was obvious he believed … knew, that … there is … a … connection between myself and Lord Hazelmere. I realise, now, that most people know that some sort of … understanding exists between us.’

‘After that first waltz at your come-out, I should think they would!’ snorted Lady Merion.

‘Waltz?’ echoed Dorothea in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

Lady Merion sighed. ‘I didn’t think you knew.’ She eyed her granddaughter shrewdly, then said, ‘Over the past weeks your feelings for Marc Henry have been becoming daily more visible. Oh, I don’t mean you wear your heart on your sleeve! Far from it. But no one, seeing the two of you together, could doubt your interest in him. And, given his attentiveness since the start of the Season, his intentions have been quite clear. Why, after your ball, he told me he would offer for you. In his own good time, he said. Just like him, of course.’

Dorothea listened to her grandmother’s explanation, comprehension dawning. It occurred to her that she could do a great deal worse than to appeal to her experienced grandparent for further clarification. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I wondered whether he was … well, merely looking for a suitable bride. He must marry. I gather his family have been badgering him for years to do so.’ Resolutely she drew a deep breath and brought forth her most secret fear. ‘When he met me in Moreton Park woods I think he got the idea from something I said that I had no expectations of marrying. And when I didn’t behave like all the others I thought maybe he felt I would do.’ She paused, gathering strength to continue. ‘I wondered if he thought that, as I didn’t have any great hopes of marriage, I’d be happy to enter into … I suppose the correct phrase is “a marriage of convenience”, which would leave him free to continue with his mistresses as before.’

Lady Merion’s face went blank. Then she threw back her head and laughed. When she could command her voice she said, ‘Well! I’m glad Hazelmere’s carefully orchestrated wooing has got the result it deserved.’

Bemused, Dorothea looked at her expectantly, but her grandmother waved aside the unspoken question. ‘My dear Dorothea, I came into the drawing-room this afternoon while you and Hazelmere were … somewhat engaged. In my experience, a man contemplating a mariage de convenance does not set out to seduce his prospective bride before proposing.’ A grin of unholy amusement still lit her ladyship’s sharp face. ‘After the way Hazelmere’s been behaving over you, my dear, I should think you must be the last person in the ton to realise he’s in love with you.’

‘Oh.’ Hope and a sneaking suspicion that it was all too good to be true warred in Dorothea’s breast. Hope won, but the suspicion was not entirely vanquished.

Lady Merion broke in on her thoughts. ‘Ferdie mentioned some misunderstanding over Helen Walford.’

‘The Comte de Vanée told me she was Hazelmere’s mistress. He denied it.’

Lady Merion almost groaned aloud. She closed her eyes. Finally opening them, she asked, her tone resigned, ‘You asked him, I suppose?’

‘Well, he wanted to know why I cut him in the Park,’ said Dorothea, rapidly regaining her normal equilibrium. ‘He said he’d known her since she was a child.’

‘So he has. Helen Walford’s father is a distant connection of Lady Hazelmere and, as a child, Helen often spent her summers at Hazelmere. In age she is some years younger than Ferdie. She was something of a tomboy, and she often plagued Marc and Tony, who treated her much as they treated Alison. As I recall, they were always hauling her out of some scrape or other, and with no very good grace, I can tell you!

‘Helen unfortunately made a most unsuitable marriage. Arthur Walford was a rake and a gamester. He killed himself, much to the relief of everyone. No one knows the full story, but Hazelmere was involved. Helen once asked him how her husband died. He told her she didn’t need to know but should content herself with the fact.’

‘That certainly sounds very like him,’ said Dorothea, sniffing. Clearly Hazelmere’s habit of managing things was a long-standing and deeply ingrained characteristic.

‘Anyway, Hazelmere has always treated Helen exactly as he does Alison. I assume he was astonished that you thought she was his mistress?’

Recalling his face at the time, Dorothea nodded. ‘But why did the Comte de Vanée tell me she was?’

‘My dear, I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to the malicious tongues of certain people you meet. There are more than a few who’d like to cause trouble for Hazelmere and will seek to use you to do it.’ Her ladyship paused, eyeing her granddaughter’s elegant profile. ‘Incidentally, I would not, if I were you, ever bring up the subject of Hazelmere’s mistresses. I grant you, he has had a few. Well,’ she amended, realising the inadequacy of this description, ‘more than a few. A positive parade, in fact, and all of them the most gorgeous of creatures! But, my dear, Hazelmere’s mistresses are very definitely not your concern, and if he follows in his father’s footsteps they’ll be confined to his past. It’s highly unlikely, given how much in love with you he is, that you’ll find yourself having to turn a blind eye to such liaisons in the future, unlike so many other ladies.’

Dorothea inclined her head in acknowledgement of this excellent advice.

Lady Merion, watching her, saw tiredness creep over the pale face. She leaned forward and patted Dorothea’s hand reassuringly. ‘My dear, you’re worn out. I’ll have a tray sent up, and you really should have an early night. We’ll have to consider how best to go on but I think we should leave further discussion until tomorrow.’

Dorothea, feeling strangely wrung out and curiously elated at the same time, nodded her acquiescence and kissed her grandmother’s cheek before Lady Merion, suddenly feeling her age, left the room.

When Trimmer brought her dinner tray to her, Dorothea, contrary to her expectations, was feeling quite hungry. Nibbling the delicate chicken, she pondered her state. None of what had happened should have been a shock. But the fact remained that things had changed. Somehow, hand in hand with the Marquis of Hazelmere, she had stepped from the safe shores of fashionable dalliance into a realm where forces stronger than any she had ever known seemed set to steal her very soul. Thinking of how she had felt in his arms that afternoon, she shivered. He would never let her forget how much she wanted him. He had certainly won that bet. Some part of her rational mind suggested, faintly, that she should be incensed over his subtle machinations which would so easily have overridden any objections from her. But the truth was … The truth was that she had no objections. None at all.

Absent-mindedly she picked up the bowl of Witchett’s special tisane. Sipping it, she relaxed in her chair, the warmth of the fire welcome as night fell. Thinking back, she could not recall a single incident where he had seriously professed any devotion. That had been one of the factors that had drawn her to him. Beside all the others and their protestations of undying love, his calm authority had been a welcome relief. Instead, if she had been able to think clearly where he was concerned, she would have seen the true meaning behind that peculiar warmth which shone in his hazel eyes, the care he had continually shown her, even, as she had discovered the morning after, to the extent of hiring a bodyguard to watch the stairs during the night at that inn. It was not hard to believe her grandmother’s view. But oh! What she would give to hear it, clear and unambiguous, from his lips.

She stared into the fire as if in the flames she would find his face. She had no firm idea of what was to follow and, as she yawned again, realised she was too tired to accurately assess the possibilities. They would have to wait until morning.

Trimmer entered and unobtrusively removed the tray. She helped Dorothea change, then silently withdrew.

Lying in the depths of the feather mattress, Dorothea heaved a deep sigh and snuggled down in the bed. Under the subtle influence of Witchett’s tisane, she dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

DOROTHEA AWOKE early the next morning, refreshed but strangely lethargic. She stayed in her room, staring out of her window at the cherry trees in the Park, now in full leaf. At nine o’clock she emerged from her bedchamber and descended to the morning-room. Cecily, she was informed, was spending the morning with the Bensons in Mount Street and had cancelled their morning ride with Ferdie. Relieved of two worries, Dorothea gave silent thanks to be spared the traumas of satisfying her sister’s curiosity. Having drunk a cup of coffee and nibbled a piece of toast, she decided it was still too early to go up to her grandmother. On impulse, she called for Trimmer and went for a walk in the square.

The sun was shining, and a light breeze blew wispy clouds across the sky. Revelling in the fresh air, she walked through to the other side of the park, paused to glance briefly at the silent mansion opposite, then briskly returned to Merion House. By now Lady Merion would have left her bed. Ascending the stairs, she was surprised to see Ferdie on his way down.

Having received his cousin’s note, Ferdie had decided that if Dorothea was not to be told of the danger then it was high time someone informed her ladyship of the threats to her granddaughter. He had also been able to set Lady Merion’s mind at rest regarding the inevitable gossip arising from the incident in the Park. At the party he had attended the previous night he had found this had incurred little attention, and what comment there was had described it as just a lovers’ quarrel.

As luck would have it, Lady Jersey had witnessed the encounter. She had immediately afterwards attended a select tea party at Mrs Drummond-Burrell’s and, of course, had bubbled over with the news of Miss Darent’s odd behaviour and the Marquis’s likely response.

While there had been more than a few disapproving comments, the tone had been set by Mrs Drummond-Burrell herself. A friend of Hazelmere’s, she had been impressed by Dorothea and heartily approved the Marquis’s choice. In response to a disparaging remark that Miss Darent had properly cooked her goose, as Hazelmere would never stand for such behaviour, that most steely of Almack’s patronesses had coolly observed, ‘Dear Sarah, I really don’t think you fully appreciate Miss Darent. How often have any of us seen Hazelmere so much as thrown off balance?’ The ensuing silence had assured her that she had captured the attention of the room. ‘I cannot help thinking,’ she had continued, ‘that any young lady who can shake that gentleman’s calm deserves our congratulations. If she can make the Marquis realise that he cannot control absolutely everything, I for one will applaud her.’ Thus Dorothea’s actions had come to be regarded as a successful attempt to defy his lordship, with the likely result being no more than a tiff.

Pausing to exchange greetings with Dorothea, Ferdie said, ‘I’ll call for you at three.’

‘Oh, Ferdie, I don’t know that I can.’

‘Not a matter of can or can’t, you must,’ answered that knowledgeable gentleman. Realising that she did not understand, he suggested, ‘Go see your grandmama. She’ll explain.’

And with a nod and a wave he descended to the hall and, accepting his hat from Mellow, quit the house. Dorothea surrendered her pelisse to Trimmer and entered her ladyship’s sanctum.

Lady Merion had already had much to think about that morning. The news that Dorothea had been the subject of two abduction attempts had shocked the old lady. But, considering the steps already taken to protect her, she could not think of anything more that could be done. She had rejected Ferdie’s suggestion that Dorothea be warned, informing him that his cousin was already the cause of enough turmoil in Dorothea’s life, without adding this to the account. Hazelmere’s absence was not comforting. On the other hand, it would give Dorothea time to adjust to his idea of her future.

She had been pleasantly surprised and not a little relieved to hear of the lack of speculation over the scene in the Park. She particularly appreciated Ferdie’s offer to ride with Dorothea in the Park that afternoon. ‘Won’t do for her to hide away, you know,’ that young gentleman had sapiently remarked.

When Dorothea entered the room Lady Merion smiled and waved her to the comfortable chaise. ‘You’re looking a great deal better, my dear.’

‘I feel a great deal better, Grandmama,’ replied Dorothea, dutifully kissing her cheek and then gracefully sitting beside her.

Noting her calm and confident manner, Hermione nodded. ‘I think it’s time we had some plain speaking.’ Having made this promising beginning, she paused to marshal her arguments. ‘To begin with, I expect you’ll admit Hazelmere has seriously engaged your affections?’

Smiling at the careful phrasing, Dorothea responded easily, ‘I’ve been in love with Lord Hazelmere for some time.’

‘As I said, he’s already told me he intends offering for you. In his own good time,’ continued her ladyship. ‘But what I want to know is, how will you reply?’

A gurgle of laughter escaped Dorothea. ‘Oh, Grandmama. Do you really think I’ll have any choice?’

Lady Merion snorted. ‘To be perfectly honest, my dear, I doubt it. Hazelmere is well aware of your feelings. And, from what I saw in the drawing-room yesterday, your verbal agreement is merely a formality.’ She watched her calm and cool granddaughter blush rosily. ‘Mind you,’ she went on, ‘it’s a nuisance, having a husband who knows too much, but you can’t have everything. Still, I don’t think it’s a bad bargain—his father was just the same, and Anthea Henry was the happiest married woman in town.’

To Dorothea, it seemed safest to accept this assurance in silence.

Deciding that there was nothing more she could do to aid Hazelmere, Lady Merion continued briskly, ‘Very well. Now we must decide how you should go on. You must not give the gossips any reason to suppose that anything other than the mildest of disagreements has occurred between you.’

Dorothea’s brows rose in a thoroughly haughty manner.

‘Quite!’ nodded Lady Merion. ‘But you’ll be guided by me and Ferdie in this matter. Ferdie is so useful at times like these; he always knows how things will appear and what one must on no account do. You must continue to appear at all your engagements as usual, and you must appear entirely your normal self.’ Looking at her granddaughter, she remarked acidly, ‘That doesn’t seem to be causing you any great difficulty at the moment.’

Turning huge green eyes upon her grandmother, Dorothea smiled in a serenely confident way, which, under the circumstances, Lady Merion found oddly disconcerting. ‘Grandmama, I promise I’ll behave at all times in a befitting manner. But you really cannot expect me to be the same as I was before the Diplomatic Ball.’

Lady Merion, not entirely sure of its portent, accepted the qualified assurance. ‘One last thing. Ferdie told me Hazelmere has gone out of town until Tuesday, to one of his estates. Not,’ she continued in response to the question in Dorothea’s eyes, ‘because of your quarrel. He’d already told his friends he meant to depart by yesterday evening.’

Digesting this news, Dorothea decided that, all in all, a few days to polish her newly discovered public persona without distraction would not go amiss. Besides, she was beginning to feel that there were a few tricks left to be played in the game between herself and the arrogant Marquis. When he next appeared, she intended to be well prepared.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FERDIE AND DOROTHEA arrived at the Park and joined the groups of ladies and gentlemen milling about, exchanging greetings and the latest on-dits. More than a few eyes were directed Dorothea’s way. Chatting in a relaxed and animated fashion with Lord Peterborough, riding beside her on his bay, she had herself well in hand. To all who were interested, she appeared entirely at ease.

Mrs Drummond-Burrell, sitting haughtily in her barouche, waved to them to attend her. As they drew up she complimented Dorothea on her looks and then embarked on a conversation with all three. At no time did she refer to the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere, nor the incident in the Park. Looking into the cool blue eyes, Dorothea smiled warmly, acknowledging the message.

Released from her side, they next fell victim to Lady Jersey. In stark contrast, she tried by every means possible to extract some comment from Dorothea on Hazelmere and what had happened after they had left the Park. Dorothea’s practice in verbal fencing with his lordship left her well equipped to deal with opponents like Sally Jersey. She successfully turned aside all that lady’s probing questions. As she accomplished this with an amused tolerance, very reminiscent of Hazelmere himself, Lady Jersey was more entertained than enraged by her refusal to be outwitted. Finally escaping her clutches, they rode on.

‘Phew!’ exclaimed Ferdie as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Never seen Silence so hell-bent on getting an answer!’

While they encountered a number of ladies similarly intent on learning the details of Dorothea’s last meeting with the Marquis, Lady Jersey’s inquisition was by far the most comprehensive, and Dorothea easily handled these less inveterate busybodies.

On returning to Merion House, having parted from Lord Peterborough at the Park gates, Ferdie confessed to being thoroughly satisfied with Dorothea’s performance. Overhearing this remark, addressed to her grandmother, Dorothea’s eyes twinkled. ‘Why, thank you, Ferdie,’ she said meekly.

Not sure how to take this and finding her confidence slightly alarming, Ferdie assured them that he would call at eight to escort them to the evening’s rout, and made his escape.

During the following days Dorothea found Hazelmere’s friends keeping a protective watch over her and was amused by their endeavours to conceal this. Intrigued, she quizzed Ferdie for the reason and finally, in desperation, he retreated behind his absent cousin. ‘Best ask Hazelmere if you want to know about it.’ Correctly understanding this to mean that his lordship had left instructions that she was not to be told, she refrained from pushing Ferdie further. Finding that the words ‘Hazelmere said so’ acted as a talisman, Ferdie used the phrase increasingly. He fervently hoped his cousin would not be out of London longer than anticipated.

As she had all of Hazelmere’s closest friends dancing attendance on her, Dorothea used the opportunity to lead them into describing their many interests and amusements. In so doing, they often gave her information on Hazelmere, and she slowly built up a more complete picture of his complex personality. For their part, his lordship’s friends found the task of guarding her a pleasure. More than one found himself mesmerised by those large green eyes. Her natural assurance was much more apparent in Hazelmere’s absence and, added to that, she now gave the impression of being fashionably distant, as if waiting for something or someone. However, not one of them found anything in her manner to suggest that she was other than completely content with Hazelmere’s suit. So, roundly cursing his lordship’s infernal luck, even the volatile Peterborough succumbed to her subtle invitation to be friends, and then the entire crew were her devoted slaves.

Fanshawe, viewing proceedings from the distance of his pursuit of Cecily, now close to success, could think of only one reason for Dorothea’s serene manner. But, having heard from Ferdie of their last meeting, and knowing from Cecily’s silence that Hazelmere had not proposed and forgotten to mention it, he was left wondering. From their friends’ behaviour, he guessed Dorothea had succeeded in the not inconsiderable feat of adding them to her circle of doting admirers. Hazelmere would get something of a shock when he found to what use she had put his watchdogs. Luckily he was more likely to be amused at their susceptibilities than annoyed at her success. Life was going to be interesting when the Marquis returned to town.

For Dorothea, the time passed in a dull whirl she would readily have traded for the sight of his lordship’s hazel eyes, preferably smiling at her. She was not entirely looking forward to her next private meeting with him, foreseeing a certain awkwardness in explaining why she had behaved as she had. But she would rather have faced it sooner than later. Unfortunately she could do nothing but wait and, with so many people endeavouring to please her, she felt it would be churlish to complain, even though her enthusiasm for fashionable pursuits had waned.

The only truly dreadful moment occurred at the Melchetts’ ball on Saturday night. She might have guessed, had she thought of him at all, that Edward Buchanan would, like a distempered ghost, return to haunt her. He had heard of the encounter in the Park and had listened with interest to the speculation on the outcome. To his mind, Miss Darent’s options were rapidly diminishing.

He accosted her as she stood by the side of the dance-floor in company with Lord Desborough. Unfortunately the musicians had had a slight accident, and in the unexpected interval the guests were strolling about, conversing in small groups. Desborough had not previously met Edward Buchanan and so accepted at face value his claim to acquaintance with Dorothea. Knowing she would be mortified by Mr Buchanan’s gallantries, Dorothea asked Desborough to fetch her a glass of lemonade, hoping in the interval to dispose of her unwelcome suitor. Her plans backfired, and instead she found herself in a small ante-room with Edward Buchanan again pressing his suit.

‘I have, after all, got your guardian’s blessing. And now there are these rumours about your behaviour with Hazelmere. What I say, my dear, is that none of your fancy beaux will have you now.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her and his ponderous voice gained in weight. ‘Too top-lofty, that lot. You’ve queered your pitch there, right enough. You’d do well to lower your sights, my girl. Hazelmere and his set are out of your reach now. You should consider my proposal, indeed you should!’

Rigid with anger, Dorothea struggled to control her voice. ‘Mr Buchanan! I will tell you for the last time: I do not wish, in any circumstances, to marry you! I trust that is plain enough. I will not change my mind. It was unwise in the extreme for Herbert to have encouraged your suit. I’m sorry, but I must return to the ballroom.’

She moved to sweep past him where he stood, his back to the door. As she did so Desborough, who had been looking all over for her, appeared there. Sheer relief showed on Dorothea’s face. At the same moment Edward Buchanan grabbed her by the shoulders and attempted to kiss her. She struggled frantically, averting her face.

Almost instantly Buchanan was bodily plucked from her and thrown roughly against the wall. In considerable surprise he slid down to sit on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him and an idiotic look on his face. Desborough, adjusting the set of his coat before offering his arm to Dorothea, turned at the last moment to say, ‘Be thankful it was me and not Peterborough, Walsingham, or, God forbid, Hazelmere. Any of those three and you would be nursing rather more bruises and, very likely, a few broken bones as well. I suggest, Mr Buchanan, that you trouble Miss Darent no longer.’ And, with that, he ushered a deeply grateful Dorothea back into the ballroom.

The upshot was that Hazelmere’s friends never, ever, left her unattended again, whether in the ballroom, the Park, or any other gathering of the fashionable.

HAZELMERE’S ENTIRE ATTENTION was devoted to controlling the frisky bays as he threaded through the crowded streets of the capital. Once they had passed the village of Hampstead and started over Finchley Common he dropped his hands and the bays shot forward. With the horses driven well up to their bits, the curricle rocketed past coaches travelling at conventional speeds. Jim Hitchin, hanging on grimly behind, kept his lips firmly shut and prayed that his master’s customary skill did not desert him. As the evening wore on and the shadows started to spread, throwing inky patches across the road, concealing pot-holes and ruts, Jim expected their pace to ease. But no change in speed was detectable as they left Barnet behind and raced onwards up the Great North Road towards the George at Harpenden, where they spent the night on such trips as these.

Jim kept silent, more from fear of distracting the Marquis than from reticence. But, when Hazelmere overtook the north-bound accommodation coach just before St Albans on a tight curve with less than inches to spare, Jim, in considerable fright, swore roundly.

‘What was that, Jim?’ came Hazelmere’s voice.

‘Why, nothing, m’lord,’ replied Jim. Unable to help himself, he added, ‘Just if you was to be wishful to break both our necks I could think of few faster ways to do it.’

Silence. Then Jim heard his master laugh softly. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I know I should not have done that.’ And the curricle slowed until they were bowling along at a safer pace.

Yes, and you’re still up in the boughs, thought Jim. Just as long as you keep this coach on the road, we’ll survive.

It was late afternoon on Thursday when they reached Lauleigh, Hazelmere’s Leicestershire estate between Melton Mowbray and Oakham. His steward, a dour man named Walton, had not erred in demanding his attendance. There was an enormous amount of work to be done and they made a start on it that evening, going over the accounts and planning the activities of the next two days.

Walton, hearing from Jim of the likely change in his lordship’s affairs, made sure that anything requiring his authorisation was dealt with. He was under no illusion that he would be able to summon his master north again that Season. Accustomed, like most of the Marquis’s servitors, to keeping a weather eye out for his temper, in this case Walton guessed it was unlikely to be directed at him, and his flat tones droned in Hazelmere’s ears incessantly over Friday and Saturday.

Hazelmere called a halt on Saturday afternoon and retired to his study, informing Jim that they would leave early the next morning. The events of the past two days, entirely divorced from those of the Season, had succeeded in restoring his calm. By forcing his mind to deal with such mundane affairs, he had managed to shut out the turmoil of emotions he had experienced on leaving Dorothea until now, when he felt infinitely more capable of dealing with them.

While it was warm in the south of the country, in Leicestershire the winds blew cool in the evening and the fire was alight. Pouring himself a drink, he dropped into the comfortable armchair before the hearth, stretching his long legs to the blaze. Cupping the glass in both hands, he gazed into the leaping flames.

Conjuring up the image of a pair of emerald eyes, he wondered what she was doing. Ah, yes. The Melchett ball. Away from the endless round of London during the Season, he was even more conscious of how much he wanted her by his side. That meeting in the drawing-room at Merion House had had about it an air of inevitability. He’d been so angry with her when he’d walked in the door—admittedly more from hurt pride than righteous indignation. And she’d been so surprisingly angry with him! Thankfully, she had promptly told him why. He grinned. All the dictates of how a young lady should behave had been overturned in the space of a few minutes. He could imagine no other female—apart from his mother, perhaps—who would dare let on that she even knew of his mistresses, much less question him on the subject.

As his relationship with Helen Walford was so well known among the ton, it had never occurred to him that a different version could be presented to Dorothea. Very clever of the Comte. He vaguely recalled some difficulty with Monsieur de Vanée over one of the barques of frailty who had at one time resided under his protection. What had been her name? Madeline? Miriam? Mentally he shrugged. The Comte’s lies had undoubtedly been the cause of Dorothea’s distress that night, coming on top of the incident with the Prince. Hardly surprising that she had baulked at meeting Helen and him in the Park.

But why, why had she flung that drivel about her being no more than a challenge at him? Even if Marjorie Darent had impressed it on her, surely she didn’t believe it? He sipped the fine French brandy and felt it slide warmly down his throat. No—she hadn’t believed Marjorie’s tales. The Darents had left London on Monday, so any conversation between Dorothea and Marjorie must have occurred earlier. But Dorothea had behaved normally at that horrendous party on Sunday night. And at the Diplomatic Ball she’d been entirely unconcerned until the Prince’s performance had opened her eyes too far. Even then, she had not been distraught, only, as he had expected, angry with him. It had only been later, after the Comte’s interference, that she had been shattered and almost in tears. Well, his actions in her grandmother’s drawing-room should have settled that. She couldn’t possibly have missed the implication of that kiss.

It had not occurred to him until that day that by loving her he had put into her hands the power to hurt him. Since he was naturally strong and self-reliant, there were few close to him whose opinions mattered enough to affect him—his mother and Alison, Tony and Ferdie and, to a lesser extent, Helen. That was about it. And Dorothea mattered far more than all of them combined. But if such vulnerability was what one had to put up with, then put up with it he would. She had only lashed out at him because she was hurt by his imagined perfidy. He would simply ensure that such misunderstandings did not occur in the future.

So where did that leave them now? Much where they had been before, except that presumably she now knew he loved her. Assuming that events progressed as he intended, there was no reason that they could not be wed in a month or so. Then his frustrations and her uncertainties would be things of the past.

He brought his gaze back from the ceiling whence it had strayed and fixed it once more on the dancing flames. He was happily engaged in salacious imaginings in which Dorothea figured prominently when his housekeeper entered to inform him that dinner was served.

HE REACHED DARENT HALL, close to Corby and not far off his direct route, just before ten o’clock. He threw the reins to Jim, who had run to the horses’ heads, with a command to keep them moving.

Admitted to the hall, he spoke to the butler. ‘I am the Marquis of Hazelmere. I wonder if Lord Darent could spare me a few moments?’

Recognising the quality of this visitor, the butler showed him into the library and went to inform his master. Herbert was engaged in consuming a leisurely breakfast when Millchin announced that the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere required a few words with him. Herbert’s mouth dropped open. After a moment he recovered himself enough to reply, ‘Very well, Millchin, I’ll come at once, of course. Where have you put him?’

Millchin told him and withdrew. Herbert continued to stare at the door. He had little doubt what Hazelmere wanted, but Marjorie had insisted that he was not in earnest and, even if he was, that he could not be considered suitable. In this instance, adherence to his wife’s wishes was entirely impossible. Herbert was already uncomfortable before he entered his library to face Hazelmere, who somehow seemed more at home in the beautiful, heavily panelled room than its owner.

The interview was brief and to the point, conducted as it was by Hazelmere rather than Herbert. Having listened to the Marquis’s request, Herbert felt forced to reveal that he had already given Edward Buchanan permission to address Dorothea.

At mention of Mr Buchanan, Hazelmere’s look became uncomfortably intent. ‘Do you mean to tell me you gave Buchanan permission to address your ward without checking his background?’ The precise diction made Herbert even more nervous.

‘I gather he owns an estate in Dorset,’ he flustered. ‘And, of course, he knows Sir Hugo Clere.’

‘And learned from Sir Hugo that Miss Darent had inherited the Grange, no doubt. For your information, Edward Buchanan owns a tumbledown farmhouse in Dorset. He’s penniless. The reason he’s in London is that, after his most recent attempt to run away with a local heiress, Dorset is too hot for him. I’m surprised, my lord, that you take such little care over your duties as guardian.’

Herbert, brick-red with embarrassment, remained silent.

‘I assume that, as you are acquainted with my family and my standing in society and as my wealth needs no detailing, you have no objection to giving me your permission to address Miss Darent?’

The scathing tones made Herbert wince. ‘Naturally, should you wish to address Dorothea, of course you have my permission,’ he said, squirming, then unwisely added, ‘But what if she’s already accepted Buchanan?’

‘My dear sir, your ward is a great deal more discerning than you are.’ Now that he had obtained Herbert’s approval, the only other information Hazelmere required was the name of the family solicitors who would handle the marriage settlements.

Herbert was strangely diffident on this question. ‘I believe Dorothea uses Whitney and Sons, in Chancery Lane.’

It took the Marquis a moment to assimilate this. Then he asked, eyes narrowed, ‘So Miss Darent’s solicitors are her own, not yours?’

‘My aunt’s crazy idea,’ said Herbert defensively. ‘She had the oddest notions. She decided it was best that both girls controlled their own fortunes.’

‘So,’ pursued Hazelmere, drawing on his gloves, ‘when the Misses Darent marry, control of their fortunes remains in their hands?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Herbert, glancing directly at him. ‘But that wouldn’t worry you, surely? Her estate is nothing compared to yours.’

‘Oh, quite,’ agreed Hazelmere. ‘I was merely wondering whether you gave that information to Buchanan. Did you?’

Herbert looked blank. ‘No. He didn’t ask.’

‘I thought not,’ said Hazelmere, a highly cynical smile curving his lips. Disclaiming any desire to dally with his relations-to-be, he re-entered the hall, to find that he was not destined to escape an encounter with Marjorie Darent. Her ladyship was looking even more severe than usual and directed a look of such magnitude at her husband that Hazelmere almost felt sorry for him.

‘Lord Hazelmere—’ she began.

But Hazelmere was determined that the conversational reins would remain in his hands. ‘Lady Marjorie,’ he countered. ‘I’m sure you’ll forgive my not staying. I’ve concluded the business I had with your husband and it’s most urgent I return to Hazelmere at once. My mother, you realise.’

‘Lady Hazelmere is ill?’ asked Marjorie, struggling to keep abreast of this flow of information.

Hazelmere, unwilling to expose his mother to letters of condolence on her relapse, simply looked grave. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter. I’m sure you understand.’

He bowed elegantly over her hand, nodded to Herbert and escaped.

HE REACHED Hazelmere on Monday afternoon. His mother was resting, so, seeing the glint in his steward’s eye, he gave his attention to the host of minor matters Liddiard had waiting for him. He delayed his appearance in the drawing-room until just before dinner. If they were free of servants his mother would lose no time in asking him why he was home, and he would rather face the inquisition after dinner than before.

As it transpired, he entered the drawing-room immediately in front of Penton, his butler. Lady Hazelmere, recognising the strategy, pulled a face at him as he bent to kiss her cheek. He merely gave the smile he knew infuriated her, telling her as it did that he was perfectly aware of what she wanted to say to him but had no wish to hear it—at least, not yet. Her ladyship reflected that her son was growing to resemble his father more and more.

Over dinner he kept up a steady flow of inconsequential anecdotes, detailing the fashionable happenings since she had left London. Lady Hazelmere, knowing he would say nothing to the point in front of the servants, listened with what interest she could muster. Finally, after the covers were removed and the servants withdrew, she drew a deep breath. ‘And now are you going to tell me why you’re here?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ he replied meekly. ‘Only I do think we might be more comfortable in your parlour.’

Functioning in a similar way to Lady Merion’s upstairs drawing-room, her ladyship’s parlour was a cheerful apartment on the first floor of the large country house. The curtains were already drawn, shutting out the twilight, and a small fire was burning merrily in the grate. Lady Hazelmere sat in her favourite wing chair by the hearth, while her son, after pulling it further from the flames, elegantly disposed his long limbs in its partner opposite.

He then smiled at his impatient parent. Her ladyship, inured by the years to such tactics, asked bluntly, ‘Why have you come to see me?’

‘As you correctly suppose, to tell you I’m about to offer for Dorothea Darent.’

‘Very punctilious, I must say.’

‘You know that I always am. In such matters as these, at least.’

Aware that this was true, she ignored the comment. ‘When is the wedding to be?’

‘As I haven’t asked her, I cannot say. If I have my way, as soon as possible.’

‘I must say, I’ve wondered at your unusual patience.’

He shrugged. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. She’d only just arrived in town, and if she’d refused it would have caused considerable awkwardness for a number of people.’

‘Yes, I can appreciate that. But why the change of heart?’

He looked hard at her. ‘Hasn’t Lady Merion written to you this week?’

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I’d much rather hear it from you.’

Hazelmere sighed and succinctly outlined the events preceding his departure from the capital. He also described the two attempts to abduct Dorothea, learning in the process that his mother already knew of these via a recently informed Lady Merion. When he finished, Lady Hazelmere looked at him, perplexed. ‘But if she’s in danger, why are you gallivanting all over the country?’

‘Because the others are looking after her and it seemed more sensible to marry her as soon as possible and remove her from any danger at all,’ he explained patiently. ‘As I had to go to Lauleigh, I looked in on Herbert Darent on the way back.’

She eventually conceded. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, as usual. I assume Herbert was only too thrilled?’

‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I think that indescribable wife of his has convinced him I’m no better than a rake and shouldn’t be allowed to marry into the family.’

Lady Hazelmere was speechless.

After a moment Hazelmere said, ‘I take it you approve?’

His mother dragged her mind from contemplation of Lady Darent’s manifold shortcomings. ‘Of course! She’s very suitable. In fact,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘she’s eminently suitable, as among her numerous qualities she can include the unique accomplishment of having attracted your interest!’

‘Exactly so,’ he returned, amused. ‘And, as I’ve been at great pains to make our attachment abundantly clear to the ton, I really don’t think the announcement will surprise.’

‘When I think of that waltz at the Merion House ball!’ Anthea Henry closed her eyes, continuing faintly, ‘So very shocking of you, my dear!’

Hazelmere, not deceived, replied, ‘Coming it much too strong, Mama!’

She opened eyes brimming with laughter. ‘But it was! You had all the tabbies with their fur standing on end!’

Both mother and son allowed the conversation to lapse while they relived fond memories. Her ladyship finally stirred. ‘When will you speak to her?’

‘As soon as I can arrange to see her. Wednesday probably. If she’s agreeable we’ll come here for a few days. It would be useful, I imagine, for her to see the house.’

Lady Hazelmere sighed. Hermione’s weekly letter had been perfectly candid. Clearly, despite minor misunderstandings, her arrogant son had, as usual, triumphed, and all would proceed as he decreed. Even the headstrong Dorothea had apparently been tamed. If things continued in this fashion Marc would soon grow to be utterly impossible. She had had such hopes of Dorothea. Still, at least she would now have a daughter-in-law. Even if nothing else, they could swap stories of her impossible son. And, knowing her son, she could look forward, with as much confidence as possible in such matters, to a grandchild within the year. The thought cheered her. So, resigned, all she said was, ‘Yes, that would be wise. We’ll have to arrange to refurbish the apartments next to yours.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HAZELMERE RETURNED TO LONDON, driving a new pair of black horses, leaving the bays in the country to recuperate. The curricle flashed into the mews behind Hazelmere House late in the afternoon. Discussing the performance of the new pair with Jim, he strolled out of the stables as Ferdie rode into the mews, leading two horses.

Thoroughly worn out with his role as chief confidant and protector, Ferdie was delighted to see his cousin. Dismounting and handing over the reins to Jim, he reflected that the source of the horses the Darent sisters rode was one of the better kept secrets in this whole affair. He could imagine what Dorothea would say when she learned that her bay mare had all along belonged to Hazelmere. He hoped they would be married by then and she could discuss the subject with Hazelmere rather than him. He turned to his cousin. ‘Relieved to see you back!’

‘Oh?’ The black brows rose interrogatively.

‘Not that anything’s happened,’ he hastily assured him. ‘But Dorothea knows something’s going on and it’s getting more and more difficult to know what to say.’

‘Poor Ferdie! It sounds as if it’s all been too much for you.’

‘Well, it has!’ returned Ferdie, incensed. ‘Here she’s gone and turned all your friends into her most devoted slaves—oh, yes! Didn’t expect that, did you?’ He had the satisfaction of seeing the hazel eyes widen. Nodding decisively, he continued, ‘Rather think it’s been her holding the reins in your absence, not us!’

Hazelmere, eyes dancing, sighed. ‘I see I was mistaken in thinking it safe to leave you all in charge of Miss Darent. I might have guessed it would turn out the other way. Why on earth you have allowed her to assume the whip hand, I know not. Obviously I’ll have to intervene and save you all.’

‘All very well for you. It’s you she loves, not us! Never seen a lady so capable of making us all jump to her tune. Better take her in hand straight away!’

Hazelmere laughed at this blatant encouragement. ‘Believe me, Ferdie, I intend to—with all possible speed. But not tonight, I think. It’s Alvanley’s dinner for me. I can’t remember if there’s anything else on.’

‘No, nothing of note. I’m to escort Dorothea and Cecily to a quiet little party at Lady Rothwell’s. Just the younger crew, so I’m looking forward to an uneventful evening. Mind, though! Tomorrow she’s all yours!’

‘Oh, quite definitely!’ As they strolled back into Cavendish Square Hazelmere added, ‘In fact, you can assist in your own relief by informing Dorothea that I’ll call on her tomorrow morning.’

Regarding his cousin with misgiving, Ferdie answered, ‘Well, I’ll tell her. But she’ll probably insist on going riding or think up some important engagement on the spot.’

‘In that case,’ Hazelmere said, his voice silky smooth, his lips curving in anticipation, ‘you had better add, in your most persuasive tones, that she would do very much better to meet me next in private rather than public.’

Ferdie, doubting that he could deliver that statement with quite the force Hazelmere could, nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, all right, I suppose that’ll do it.’

‘You can take it from me that it will,’ responded Hazelmere gravely. Laughing at Ferdie’s outraged countenance, he clapped his cousin on the shoulder and went into his own house, leaving Ferdie to wander on to his lodgings.

SOME TWO HOURS LATER Fanshawe was attempting to tie his neckcloth in the latest fashion when the knocker on his door was plied with unusual insistence. With an oath he discarded his latest attempt and testily recommended his man, standing mute with an armload of fresh specimens, to see who on earth it was.

A minute later, just as he was once again engrossed, the door opened.

‘Hartness, who on earth have you sent these to? They’re too floppy to do anything with!’

Came an amused voice in reply, ‘A poor cobbler always blames his lathe.’

He twisted around, ruining any chance he had of correctly tying his next attempt. ‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’

‘As you see,’ replied Hazelmere. ‘I’d said I would be, after all.’

‘Never know where you’ll be or not. Where’d you get to—just Leicestershire?’

‘Lauleigh, Darent Hall and Hazelmere,’ responded the Marquis.

Fanshawe took a moment to work this out. ‘Thought that might be it,’ he said sagaciously. ‘Have you seen Dorothea yet?’

‘No. I thought that after my flying around the country I deserve Alvanley’s dinner. And Ferdie tells me they’re to attend a boring party tonight, so all should be safe until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow. Good! Where’d you say Darent Hall was?’

‘Ah, lies the wind in that quarter?’

‘You’re not the only one who can suddenly decide for reasons unknown to get leg-shackled to a managing female!’ responded his lordship tartly.

Laughing, Hazelmere said, ‘It’s in Northamptonshire, not far from Corby. Easy to find if you ask. Here! For the lord’s sake, let me tie that or Jeremy will be wondering what’s become of us! Stand still!’

He rapidly tied his friend’s cravat, his long fingers creasing the stiff material into the required folds. ‘Right, done. Now let’s get going!’

Fanshawe, admiring the finished product, mused, ‘Not bad.’

Finding his coat thrown at his head, he laughed and, putting it on, joined Hazelmere on the stairs.

Jeremy Alvanley had been in the habit of giving a dinner for his closest friends every year for six years. It had become an event in their calendar, a gentlemen-only gourmet affair with the best of the latest vintages to wash the delicacies down. All their set made every effort to attend, and the occasion usually proved highly entertaining. This year’s dinner was no exception. The conversation flowed as freely as the wine. Much of this consisted of regaling Hazelmere with the problems they had faced in looking after Miss Darent. All of them knew of the scene in the Park, but none of them could begin to imagine what had happened afterwards. However, they were well acquainted with Hazelmere and had therefore been surprised at Dorothea’s subsequent performance. Finding him in his normal benign mood, none of them was quite sure what to think. But, as he was obviously genuinely entertained by the stories of their difficulties, they took every opportunity to impress on him how arduous their labours had been.

Though they did not know it, their stories confirmed for Hazelmere what Ferdie and later Fanshawe had told him: clearly Dorothea had taken charge, realising that, to some extent, they were acting under his direction. That she had succeeded in captivating them was apparent. He was amused to hear that the only sure way they found to escape her subtle questioning had been to invoke his name. That this had succeeded told him that she had known precisely what she was about in her handling of this group of gentlemen whom he would have described as among the most hardened to feminine wiles.

During the evening Desborough paused by his chair to enlighten him regarding Edward Buchanan. The black brows drew together. Then he shrugged. ‘I might have expected him to make some such attempt. Thankfully, you were there.’ With a quick smile Desborough moved on.

After dinner it was their custom to adjourn to White’s for the rest of the evening, or, more correctly, until the small hours of the next morning. By eleven o’clock they were deeply engrossed in play.

FERDIE, DOROTHEA AND CECILY arrived at Lady Rothwell’s punctually at eight, to find carriages waiting to convey them to a surprise party at Vauxhall. Neither Dorothea nor Ferdie was enthusiastic; Cecily was ecstatic. As it was virtually impossible to withdraw politely, Dorothea and the even more reluctant Ferdie were forced to accept the change with suitable grace.

At the pleasure gardens Lady Rothwell had hired a booth facing the dancing area, gaily lit with festoons of coloured lanterns. The younger folk joined in the dancing, while Dorothea and Ferdie stayed in the booth, watching the passing scene. Lady Rothwell sat keeping a shrewd and motherly eye on all her young charges.

Dorothea had heard that Hazelmere was expected to have returned that day. Speculation on their next meeting was consuming more and more of her time. Glancing at her pensive face, Ferdie recalled his cousin’s message. He could hardly deliver it in Lady Rothwell’s hearing. ‘Would you like to view the Fairy Fountain, Miss Darent?’

Dorothea had no wish to view the Fairy Fountain but thought it odd that Ferdie should imagine she would. Then she caught the faintest inclination of his head, and, intrigued, agreed. Lady Rothwell made no demur to their projected stroll and Dorothea left the booth on Ferdie’s arm. Once out of sight and sound of her ladyship, she lost no time. ‘What is it you wish to tell me, Ferdie?’

Thinking she had a bad habit of making it difficult to lead up to things by degrees, Ferdie answered baldly, ‘Met Hazelmere this afternoon. Gave me a message for you.’

‘Oh?’ she replied, bridling.

Not liking the tone of that syllable and fast coming to the conclusion he should have told his high-handed cousin to deliver his own messages, Ferdie was forced to continue. ‘Said to tell you he would call on you tomorrow morning.’

‘I see. What a pity I shall miss him! I do believe I have to visit some friends tomorrow morning.’

‘Told him so.’ Ferdie nodded sagely. Under Dorothea’s bemused gaze, he hurriedly explained, ‘Told him you would very likely be engaged.’

‘And?’

Liking his role less and less, Ferdie took a deep breath and continued manfully, ‘He said to say you would do better to meet him in private rather than in public.’

The undisguised threat left Dorothea speechless. Seeing her kindling eyes, Ferdie decided it was time to return to safer and more populated surroundings than the secluded walk they had entered. ‘Take you back to her ladyship,’ he volunteered.

Seething, Dorothea allowed him to take her arm and they retraced their steps. She was incensed. More than that, she was furious! How dared he send such a command to her? However, as she strolled back to the booth by Ferdie’s side common sense reasserted itself. If her last meeting with Hazelmere was any guide, she would be wise to avoid provoking him further. The thought of refusing his suggested interview only to meet him next in the middle of a ballroom was enough to convince her to accede to his request.

SHORTLY AFTER Dorothea and Ferdie had left, Lady Rothwell was joined by Cecily, thoroughly enjoying herself, accompanied by Lord Rothwell. Noticing Cecily’s high colour, her ladyship sent her son for some ices from the pavilion. Cecily sat down beside her and was in the middle of a delighted description of the sights when they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

At her ladyship’s command, an individual in attire proclaiming the respectable gentleman’s gentleman entered the booth.

‘Lady Rothwell?’

‘Yes?’

‘I have an urgent message for Miss Cecily Darent.’ The man proffered a sealed letter.

At a nod from Lady Rothwell, Cecily took it, broke the seal and spread open the single sheet. Reading it, she paled. Reaching the end, she sat down weakly in the chair, allowing her ladyship to remove the letter from suddenly nerveless fingers.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Lady Rothwell, quickly perusing the missive. ‘My dear, I’m so sorry!’

‘I must go to him,’ said Cecily. ‘Where’s my cloak?’

‘Don’t you think you should wait for Dorothea and Ferdie?’

‘Oh, no! They might be half an hour or more! Surely there can be no impropriety? I must not delay. Oh, please, Lady Rothwell, please say I may go?’

Her ladyship was not proof against Cecily’s huge pansy eyes. But it was with definite misgiving that she watched her disappear down the walk to the carriage gate in the company of Lord Fanshawe’s man.

Ten minutes later Ferdie and Dorothea regained the booth. Lady Rothwell had sent her son away and was trying to rid herself of a strong suspicion that she had erred in allowing Cecily to leave. She looked up with relief.

‘Oh, Ferdie! I’m so glad to see you. And you too, my dear. Cecily received a most disturbing message and has gone off with Lord Fanshawe’s man.’

Neither Ferdie nor Dorothea understood much of this, but, seeing the letter her ladyship was holding out, Ferdie took it.

To Miss Cecily Darent,

I am writing on behalf of Lord Fanshawe, who is currently in my surgery, having sustained serious wounds in a recent accident. His lordship is in a bad way and is asking for you. I am sending this note by the hand of his servant and I hope if he finds you you will allow this individual, who his lordship assures me is trustworthy, to escort you to his lordship’s side. I need hardly add that time is of the essence.

Yours, et cetera,

James Harten, Surgeon.

‘Oh, dear!’ said Dorothea.

‘Gammon!’ said Ferdie.

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Dorothea.

‘This letter,’ he explained. ‘It’s a hoax.’

‘But how do you know?’ wailed Lady Rothwell.

‘Because I know it’s Alvanley’s dinner tonight and then they always go on to White’s. Every year, always the same. So wherever Tony is, Marc’s with him. Bound to be. And Marc would never allow this. You may not know, but I do. Devilishly starchy on some things, Hazelmere.’

Dorothea, knowing this to be the truth, gave voice to her thoughts. ‘But if it is a hoax, to what purpose?’

Ferdie realised they had all made a mistake in forgetting there were two Darent sisters. Dorothea and Lady Rothwell were obviously expecting him to answer. ‘Sorry to have to say this, but I’m afraid she’s been abducted.’

‘I knew there was something wrong,’ wailed her ladyship. ‘Oh, dear! Whatever shall I tell Hermione?’

‘Ferdie, what should we do?’ asked Dorothea, wasting no time in histrionics.

Ferdie, whose brain could, under stress, perform quite creditably, paused for a moment. ‘Who else knew of this letter?’

‘No one,’ answered Lady Rothwell. ‘William was out getting ices at the time and I didn’t like to show it to him.’

‘Good. Dorothea and I will leave and return to Merion House. If any demand or message is sent, that’s where it’ll be. Lady Rothwell, you’ll have to tell everyone Dorothea was feeling unwell and that Cecily and I took her home.’

Her ladyship, reviewing this plan, approved. ‘Yes, very well. And Dorothea, tell Hermione I’ll keep silent about this. I feel responsible for letting Cecily go and I dread to think what your grandmother will think of me, my dear.’

Nodding, Dorothea murmured thanks and reassurances before she and Ferdie left for the carriages.

In spite of the coachman’s best efforts, the journey to Cavendish Square took twenty tense minutes. Admitted to Merion House by a surprised Mellow, they found, as suspected, a recently delivered letter addressed to Dorothea. Lady Merion was attending a card party at Miss Berry’s and would not be home for hours.

Ushering Dorothea into the drawing-room and shutting the door on Mellow, Ferdie nodded to the letter. ‘Best open it. Have to know what they want.’

Dorothea broke the cheap seal and read the contents of the single sheet, Ferdie looking over her shoulder.

My dear Miss Darent,

I have your sister in safe keeping and if you wish to see her again you will do exactly as I say. You should immediately set out in your carriage and travel to the Castle Inn at Tadworth, south of Banstead. Do not bring anyone with you or nothing will come of your visit and your sister’s reputation will assuredly be lost. If you do not arrive before dawn I will be forced to conclude that you have informed the authorities and I will then have to flee the country, taking your sister with me. I am sure I can rely on your good sense. I remain, Your most obedient servant, Edward Buchanan, Esq.

‘Good God! The bounder!’ said Ferdie, disgust etching his fair face. ‘You can’t possibly go to that place.’ After a pause he added, ‘But someone’s going to have to.’

Dorothea’s mind was racing. In a way, it was partly her fault that Cecily had been abducted. If only she had been more careful of her younger sister and not so absorbed with her own affairs. It was Cecily for whom they had come to London to find a husband. Maybe she could have been firmer with Edward Buchanan, though it was difficult to see how. Weighing up the possible courses of action available to her, she answered Ferdie at random. ‘Yes, but who? And how?’

Ferdie had little doubt as to the who and how. ‘Best thing we can do is get hold of Hazelmere. Tony’ll be with him and they’ll know what to do. Sort of thing Marc’s good at.’

Dorothea’s absent gaze abruptly fixed on Ferdie’s face. She had no difficulty understanding his comments. But inwardly she groaned. The memory of how affairs stood between herself and the Marquis, never far from mind, reeled into focus. After the way they had parted the last thing she needed was this. To meet him next with a calm request to extricate her sister, essentially her responsibility, from the clutches of one of her own importunate suitors was a prospect she could not face. ‘No, Ferdie,’ she said with calm decision. ‘There’s no need for Hazelmere or Fanshawe or anyone else to be involved.’

Ferdie simply looked blank. Then stubborn. There ensued a totally unprofitable ten minutes of wrangling. Finally Dorothea suggested a compromise. ‘If you fetch Grandmama, then she can decide what to do.’ Relieved, Ferdie headed for Miss Berry’s.

IT WAS OVER an hour later that Mellow opened the door to his mistress. On reaching the Misses Berry’s trim little house, Ferdie had sent in a message that Dorothea was ill and consequently Lady Merion’s presence was required at Merion House. Instead of resulting in Lady Merion’s coming out, he had been summoned in. Lady Merion had been engaged in a thrilling rubber and had desired to know how desperately ill her granddaughter, last seen in rude health, had become. Under the amused gaze of what had seemed like half the ton, Ferdie had been forced to assure her ladyship that Dorothea’s state was not critical. With a smile her ladyship had settled down to finish her game.

But now, as she surrendered her fur wrap, Lady Merion looked anything but complacent. A worried frown had settled over the sharp blue eyes as she led the way into the drawing-room. Ferdie followed and shut the door.

‘Where’s Dorothea?’ asked Lady Merion.

Ferdie’s face was blank as he scanned the room, almost as if he expected to find Dorothea hiding in a corner. The pale blue eyes stopped when they reached the white square tucked into a corner of the mirror on the mantelpiece.

Lady Merion, following his gaze, walked over and twitched the envelope free. It was addressed to her. She smoothed out the sheet. Then, one hand groping wildly, she sank into a chair. Under her powder she paled, but her voice when she spoke was firm. ‘Drat the girl! She’s gone off to get Cecily herself.’

‘What?’

‘Precisely!’ Lady Merion read the note again. ‘A lot of gibberish about being responsible for the mess.’ She snorted. ‘Says she can handle Buchanan.’

A pause developed, Ferdie, for once, too incensed to break it. Eventually Lady Merion spoke again. ‘I’m not so sure she can handle that man. I think we should summon Hazelmere anyway. Dorothea seems set against it, but in the circumstances he should be told. It’s time she realised that, as she’s virtually affianced to him, she simply can’t go careering off about the countryside like this, let alone keep it hidden from him.’ The sharp blue eyes turned on Ferdie. ‘So how do we get hold of him?’

Ferdie came to life. ‘Tonight it’s easy. You write a note and we’ll send it to him at White’s. One night of the year you can be sure he’s there.’

Lady Merion nodded briskly and, going to the small escritoire, dashed off a note to Hazelmere.

Ferdie, engaged in some hard thinking, looked up as she sealed it. ‘Don’t address it. I’ll do that.’

Lady Merion raised her brows but relinquished her seat without comment. Picking up the pen, Ferdie frowned, then inscribed the front of the note with his cousin’s full title.

Summoning Mellow, Ferdie put the note into his hands and instructed him to ensure its immediate delivery to White’s. No answer was expected. Together with Lady Merion, he settled down to wait.

AS FERDIE had predicted, both Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe were at their accustomed positions in the gaming-room. Hazelmere was holding the bank, and the rest of the table was comprised of their friends, all making every effort to break the bank. They had been playing for a little over an hour and had just got pleasantly settled in.

Hazelmere, dealing the next hand, was surprised to find an attendant at his elbow with a letter on a salver. Completing the deal, he picked up the letter and, glancing at the direction, used the silver-bladed knife to break the seal. He laid the missive on the table and returned his attention to his cards.

He had immediately recognised Ferdie’s handwriting, but could not understand why his cousin should suddenly start to send letters to him under his full title. In fact, he could not understand why Ferdie would send him a letter at this time of night at all. Despite giving only half his mind to the game, he succeeded in concluding the first round and, while the other players were considering their next bids, he opened the letter.

The reason for Ferdie’s departure from normal behaviour was instantly apparent. Rapidly scanning the lines, he managed to control his expression so that those watching could tell nothing from it. The letter ran,

My dear Hazelmere,

Cecily has been abducted by Edward Buchanan. In a note he has demanded Dorothea’s attendance at some inn. After sending Ferdie to get me, Dorothea left for the inn. Ferdie suggests you may be able to help. We are at Merion House.

Yours, et cetera,

Hermione Merion.

Refolding the letter, Hazelmere stared pensively at the cards. Then, placing the letter in his coat pocket, he turned once more to the game. He rapidly brought this to a conclusion, refusing the opportunity to draw Markham further into the bidding. Pushing back his chair, he signalled to an attendant to remove the pile of rouleaus from in front of him. ‘I’m very much afraid, my friends, that you’ll have to continue without me,’ he said smoothly.

‘Trouble?’ asked Peterborough.

‘I trust not. Nevertheless, I’ll have to return to Cavendish Square. Will you take the bank, Gerry?’

While Hazelmere and Peterborough concluded their transaction for transfer of the bank, Fanshawe frowned at the table. He had also recognised Ferdie’s writing. Finally catching Hazelmere’s eye, he raised his brows questioningly. Receiving an almost imperceptible nod in return, he also withdrew from the game. Minutes later the two friends descended the steps of White’s. Once clear of the entrance, Fanshawe asked, ‘What is it? Not your mother?’

Hazelmere shook his head. ‘Wrong side of Cavendish Square.’ Without further comment he handed the letter over. They stopped under a street-lamp for Fanshawe to read it.

‘Good lord! Cecily!’

‘I’m afraid we protected Dorothea too well and so he changed his plans a trifle.’ Seeing Fanshawe still staring at the letter, Hazelmere removed this firmly from his grasp, saying, ‘I suspect we should hurry.’

They covered the distance to Cavendish Square in less than ten minutes. Admitted to Merion House by the thoroughly intrigued Mellow, Hazelmere did not wait to be announced but led the way into the drawing-room.

Lady Merion started up out of her chair. ‘Thank God you’re here!’ Despite her wish to appear calm, the unexpected worry was a taxing burden. She was no longer young.

Hazelmere smiled reassuringly and, after bowing over her hand, settled her once more. Hearing the increasing commotion from the other side of the room as Fanshawe tried to piece together what had happened, he intervened. ‘I think we should start at the beginning.’

His voice cut through the altercation with ease. Fanshawe and Ferdie looked at him, then his lordship abandoned his belligerent stance and Ferdie his defensive one. They seated themselves, Ferdie opposite Lady Merion and Fanshawe on a chair pulled over from the side of the room.

Hazelmere nodded his approval and perched on the arm of the chaise. ‘You start, Ferdie.’

‘Took Dorothea and Cecily to Lady Rothwell’s, as I’d said. We all thought it was to be a quiet little party. Turned out to be a visit to Vauxhall.’

‘Couldn’t you have stopped it?’ interposed Fanshawe.

Ferdie looked at Hazelmere and replied, ‘Knew you wouldn’t like it, but nothing to be done. Dorothea and Cecily wouldn’t have understood. Couldn’t simply refuse and come away.’

Hazelmere nodded. ‘Yes, I see. What then?’

‘At first all seemed fine. Nothing untoward. Young people only and no flash characters. Took Dorothea for a stroll.’ Nodding to Hazelmere, he explained, ‘Your message. When we got back to the booth Lady Rothwell told us Cecily had gone. A servant had come with a letter for her.’ Fishing in his coat pockets for the letter, Ferdie continued, ‘Fellow told Lady Rothwell he was your man, Tony. Here it is.’

He handed the crumpled note to Fanshawe. As he read it his lordship’s face grew unusually grim. Handing it on to Hazelmere, he looked at Ferdie. ‘And she went with him?’

‘Lady Rothwell tried to stop her, but you know what Cecily is. After that we came straight back here.’

‘One moment! Did anyone other than Lady Rothwell know what happened?’ asked Hazelmere.

‘No, luckily,’ replied Fanshawe. ‘And she’s promised to keep mum. Going to say Dorothea was unwell and Cecily and I escorted her home.’

‘She’s a good friend,’ put in Lady Merion. ‘She won’t say anything unhelpful.’

‘And then?’ prompted Hazelmere.

‘We found the letter from Buchanan waiting when we got here.’

‘Where’s this letter?’ asked Fanshawe.

Lady Merion and Ferdie tried to remember where they had put it. Then her ladyship realised it was on the escritoire. Hazelmere retrieved it and remained standing while he read the single sheet, Fanshawe looking over his shoulder.

‘Is the writing the same as the others?’ asked Fanshawe.

Hazelmere nodded. ‘Yes, all the same. So it was Edward Buchanan all the time.’ He folded the letter and returned to the chaise. ‘What happened next?’

‘I suggested we send for you. Seemed the best idea. Dorothea didn’t agree. Insisted there was no need. Couldn’t see it, myself. Then she suggested I fetch Lady Merion. Meek and mild as anything! Thought that was a good idea, so I did. Didn’t know she’d go haring off as soon as my back was turned! Didn’t let on at all!’ Ferdie’s anger returned in full force.

Hazelmere smiled.

Lady Merion frowned. ‘Well? Aren’t you going after her?’

The black brows rose, a touch arrogantly. ‘Of course. While I dare say Dorothea may manage Buchanan well enough, like you, I would feel a great deal happier if I knew exactly what was going on. However,’ he paused, hazel eyes fixed on an aspidistra in the corner, ‘it occurs to me that flying off in a rush might land us in a worse tangle.’

‘How so?’ asked Fanshawe, seating himself again.

‘At the moment Cecily is presumably at the Castle Inn at Tadworth, in the company of Edward Buchanan and associates. Dorothea must have left before midnight and it’ll take her close to three hours to make the journey. It’s now after twelve-thirty. We can probably make the distance in two hours, so we should reach the inn not far behind her.’ He paused for breath. ‘However, if we go flying down there we end with both Darent sisters mysteriously disappearing from London, and on the same night you and I, Tony, also mysteriously disappear. And what do we do when we catch up with them? Bring them back to London? But we wouldn’t reach here until morning. The gossips would have a field-day.’

As the truth of his words sank in, Lady Merion grimaced.

Ferdie’s pale face went blank. ‘Oh.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Fanshawe.

Hazelmere grinned. ‘The problem is not insurmountable.’ Glancing at Lady Merion’s worried face, he added with a smile, ‘It’s a pity your inventive elder granddaughter isn’t here to help, but I think I can contrive a suitable tale. Ring for Mellow, Ferdie.’

Hazelmere asked for his groom to be summoned from Hazelmere House. While they waited he was silent, an odd smile touching the corners of his mouth. At one point he roused himself to ask whether Dorothea had gone alone.

Lady Merion answered. ‘Her note said she was taking their maid, Betsy, and of course Lang, her coachman, will be driving.’

Hazelmere nodded as if satisfied and relapsed into silence.

Jim entered the room, cap in hand. Hazelmere studied him for a moment and then, smiling, began in a soft voice that Jim knew well. ‘Jim, I have a number of orders which it’s vital you carry out to the letter and with all possible speed. The first thing you’ll do is fig out the greys.’

‘What?’ This exclamation broke from both Ferdie and Fanshawe simultaneously.

‘No! Really, Marc! Can’t have thought! The greys on bad roads at night!’ blustered Ferdie.

Jim, watching his master, merely blinked. Fanshawe opened his mouth to protest, then caught his friend’s eye and subsided.

‘There’s no point in having the fastest pair in the realm if one cannot use them when needed,’ remarked Hazelmere. Turning back to Jim, he continued, ‘After you’ve seen the greys put to, get a stable-boy to walk them in the square. Saddle the fastest horse in the stables—Lightning, I think. And then ride first to Eglemont.’ Turning to Fanshawe, he asked, ‘Your parents are at home, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ replied his lordship, mystified.

‘Good. You, Jim, will demand to see Lord Eglemont, or, failing him, her ladyship. You’ll tell them Lord Fanshawe will arrive before morning with Cecily Darent. He’ll explain when he arrives. You’re then to ride to Hazelmere and speak to the Dowager. You’ll tell her that I’ll arrive before morning with Miss Darent. Again, I’ll explain when I arrive.’ Suddenly grinning, he added, ‘It’s probably just as well you won’t know the whole story, so you can deny knowledge with a clear conscience.’

Jim, knowing the Marquis’s mother well, grinned back. Hazelmere nodded a dismissal.

Fanshawe had worked out some of the plan in his friend’s head and was grinning. Hazelmere refused to meet his eye, and instead turned back to Lady Merion and Ferdie. ‘I’ll only go through this once. We don’t have time for repeat performances. Listen well and, if you see any points I’ve missed, say so. We have to ensure the story is watertight.’

Satisfied he had their attention, he started, ‘Some time much earlier in the Season I unwisely described to Dorothea the beauties of seeing Hazelmere Water at sunrise. Dorothea told Cecily, and between them they made my life and yours, Tony, unbearable until we agreed to organise an excursion to see this wonder. With the aid of our respective parents, a plan was hatched. It’s best to see this spectacle on a clear morning, and because none of us wished to spend a week or more in the country waiting for such an opportunity it was agreed that on the first clear moonlit night we would drive down in the carriage, view the Water at dawn, visit Hazelmere and Eglemont and return to town later.’ With a nod at Lady Merion he added, ‘The party was to include your ladyship. Tonight is a clear moonlit night with the promise of a fine morning to follow. Perfect for our projected expedition. Did you say something, Tony?’

Fanshawe had put his head on his arms with an audible groan. Looking up, he said, ‘All very well to save their reputations, but what about ours?’

Hazelmere grinned. ‘I don’t expect this story to fool our friends. It’s the rest of the ton I’m concerned about.’ He paused. ‘Console yourself with imagining how grateful Cecily is bound to be when you tell her of your sacrifice to preserve her reputation.’

Lady Merion snorted. She wondered if Hazelmere expected Dorothea to be grateful. Then he was speaking again.

‘To continue. It was arranged that Lady Merion and the Misses Darent would decide on the most appropriate night and then contact the two of us. At the Rothwells’ party the girls realised tonight was the most suitable in weeks. So they excused themselves from the party on the pretext that Dorothea was ill and returned to Merion House. They sent a message to us at White’s. Ferdie helped with that. And all the gaming-room saw me get the letter, and then we both left to return to Cavendish Square. So far, all’s well. Then, after we arrived and agreed tonight was suitable, Ferdie went to fetch Lady Merion. What excuse did you give for summoning her ladyship, Ferdie?’

‘That Dorothea was ill.’

‘So that fits too. However, when you arrived home, Lady Merion, it was you who felt truly unwell. Sufficiently unwell, at least, to baulk at a night drive down to Hazelmere. But rather than postpone the outing, and seeing that as of this afternoon Dorothea and I are betrothed …’

Hazelmere broke off, seeing the sensation this announcement had caused. ‘No,’ he continued in a weary tone, ‘I haven’t asked her yet, but I do have horrible Herbert’s blessing and she’s not going to get the chance to refuse, so we will be by the time we return to London.’

He paused but, when no one made any comment, continued, ‘Where was I? Oh, yes! In these circumstances, you suggested the maid Betsy could go in your stead. We left immediately. Dorothea and I went down in the curricle with Jim and Tony, and Cecily followed in the carriage with Betsy. We had decided that, as the Season is somewhat flat at the moment, we would all spend a few days in the country. So that is exactly what has happened and is going to happen.’

A pause ensued while they considered the tale. Lady Merion’s mind was reeling as she considered the possible outcomes when Hazelmere calmly informed Dorothea that she was to marry him. She wished she could be there to see it. But it would do Marc Henry the world of good to meet some opposition for a change. She had little doubt he would succeed in overcoming it. So, an expectant smile curving her lips, she remained silent.

Then Hazelmere spoke again. ‘Now for the loose ends. You and I, Tony, are shortly to leave for Tadworth to remove the young ladies from Buchanan’s hands and from there we’ll proceed to Hazelmere and Eglemont. Lady Merion, you remain here and ensure we have no more rumours. Ferdie, you are the final player and you’ve probably got the most vital role.’

At these words Ferdie looked highly suspicious. Long acquaintance with his cousin made him wary of such pronouncements. ‘What am I to do?’

‘First, I want you to place a notice of my betrothal to Dorothea in tomorrow’s Gazette. There should be time. Then you must very subtly ensure the story of our romantic escapade is broadcast throughout the ton.’

‘No!’ groaned Fanshawe, pain writ large on his countenance. ‘We’ll never be able to show our faces at White’s again!’

Hazelmere’s smile broadened. ‘Even so. If everyone is exclaiming over our idiotic behaviour they’re unlikely to go looking for other explanations of tonight’s doings.’ Turning back to Ferdie, he asked, ‘Have I missed anything vital?’

Ferdie was running the whole tale over in his mind. He brought his gaze back to his cousin’s face, his eyes alight. ‘It’s good. No gaps. I think I’ll drop in on Ginger Gordon tomorrow. Haven’t seen him in ages.’

This was greeted by another moan from Fanshawe. Sir ‘Ginger’ Gordon was an inveterate gossip, Sir Barnaby Ruscombe’s chief rival. Even a few words in his ear could be counted on to go a very long way.

‘Good! That’s settled.’ Hazelmere glanced at the clock and rose. ‘Come on, Tony. We’d better go.’ Taking Lady Merion’s hand, he smiled confidently down at her. ‘Don’t fret. We’ll bring them off without harm.’

Turning to Ferdie, Hazelmere noted the smile of pleasant anticipation on his face. ‘Don’t get too carried away, Ferdie. I do wish to live in London, you know.’

Startled out of his reverie, Ferdie hastened to reassure his cousin that everything would be most subtly handled. As Fanshawe had finished taking his leave, Hazelmere merely threw him a sceptical glance as he moved to the door.

The friends strode rapidly across Cavendish Square. As they reached Hazelmere House Fanshawe said, ‘I’ll go and get changed. Pick me up when you’re ready?’

Hazelmere nodded and entered his house. Moments later his servants were flying to do his bidding, and inside ten minutes, attired more suitably for driving about the country at night, he mounted his curricle behind the restive greys and swept out of the square. Taking Fanshawe up at his lodgings, they made good time through the deserted city streets. Once clear of the suburbs, Hazelmere allowed the horses their heads and the curricle bounded forward.

EDWARD BUCHANAN’S master plan began to hiccup from the start. The first phase was the abduction of Cecily Darent from Vauxhall Gardens. Having assumed that she was no different from the usual débutante, he was unprepared for the spirited resistance she put up when he grabbed her on one of the shadowy paths. Assisted by his valet, he had secured her hands and gagged her, but she had managed to kick him on the shin before they had bundled her into the carriage. Thus warned, he had kept her bound and gagged until he had been able to release her into the parlour, the only one in the Castle Inn, and lock the stout oak door on her.

The Castle Inn was a small hostelry. Not far from the major roads, it was sufficiently removed to make interruption by unexpected guests unlikely. The front door gave directly on to the taproom. Edward Buchanan stayed by the fire in the low-ceilinged room, sipping a mug of ale and smugly considering the future. It had finally dawned on him that the desirable Miss Darent, she of the Grange, Hampshire, as nice a little property as any he had seen, had ripened like a plum and was about to fall into the hand of the Marquis of Hazelmere. And his lordship didn’t even need the money. It was grossly unfair. So he had set about rectifying the error of fate. But Miss Darent seemed possessed of an uncanny ability to side-step his snares. His attempts at the masquerade and the picnic had both come to naught. This time, however, he prided himself he had her measure. To save her young sister, she would, he was certain, deliver herself, and her tidy little fortune, into his hands. Her fight with Hazelmere and his lordship’s absence from town had relieved his horizon of its only cloud. He smiled into the flames. Then, bored with his own company, he rose and stretched. Miss Cecily had been alone for nearly an hour. It should, therefore, be safe to venture in and discuss the beauties of the future with his prospective sister-in-law.

Opening the door of the parlour, he sauntered in. A vase of flowers flew at his head. He ducked just in time and the vase crashed against the door.

‘Get out!’ said Cecily in tones reminiscent of Lady Merion. ‘How dare you come in here?’

He had expected to find her weeping in distress and fear, totally submissive and entirely incapable of accurately throwing objects about the room. Instead she stood at the other end of the heavy deal table that squatted squarely in the middle of the chamber. On its surface, close to her hand, were ranged all the potential missiles the room had held. Eyeing these, he assumed an authoritative manner.

Waving his hand at her ammunition, he said in a confident tone, ‘My dear child! There’s no cause for such actions, I assure you!’

‘Gammon!’ she said, picking up a small salt cellar. ‘I think you’re mad.’

A frown marred Edward Buchanan’s contentment. ‘You shouldn’t say such things of your future brother-in-law, m’dear.’

It took Cecily all of a minute to work it out. ‘But Dorothea won’t marry you.’

‘I assure you she will,’ returned Edward Buchanan with calm certainty. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat, a wary eye on the salt cellar. ‘And why not? Hazelmere won’t have her now, not after she cut him in the Park. And none of her other beaux seems all that keen to come up to scratch. And after she comes down here to spend the night with me—well, just think of the scandal if she doesn’t marry me after all.’

‘Good lord! You really must be mad! I don’t know what happened between Dorothea and Hazelmere in the Park, but I do know he’s only gone out of town to his estates. He’s expected back any day now. If he finds you’ve been trying to … to pressure Dorothea into marrying you, well …’ Words failed Cecily as she tried to imagine what Hazelmere really would do in such a situation.

But Edward Buchanan was not impressed. ‘By the time his lordship finds out, it’ll be too late. Your sister will be promised to me and Hazelmere will never stand for the scandal.’

‘What scandal? If he killed you it would be simple to hush it up. Tony told me there’s little Hazelmere couldn’t do if he wished it.’

A niggling doubt awoke in Edward Buchanan’s stolid brain. Memories of the tales of Hazelmere’s prowess at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon reverberated in his head. And Desborough’s warning flitted through his consciousness. He shook such unhelpful thoughts aside. ‘Nonsense!’

But Edward Buchanan was to find, as Tony Fanshawe already had, that Cecily’s mind was of a peculiarly tenacious disposition. She continued to dwell longingly on the possible outcome once Hazelmere learned of his plans. No amount of persuasion could shake her faith that he would find out, and that sooner rather than later. As her description of the likely punishments in store for him passed from the general to the specific Edward Buchanan found himself totally unable to divert her attention. She was trying to recall what drawing and quartering entailed when she was interrupted by a knock on the door.

With enormous relief he rose. ‘That, I believe, will be your sister, m’dear.’

Dorothea had spent the journey to Tadworth more in consideration of the possibilities of her next morning’s encounter with Hazelmere than in worry over her imminent encounter with Edward Buchanan. She had no real fear of the bucolic Mr Buchanan and did not pause to question her ability to deal with him. She planned to march into the Castle Inn and, quite simply, walk out again with Cecily. If Edward Buchanan was so Gothic as to believe he could bend her to his will by such melodramatic tactics he would shortly learn his error. Her only worry was that her grandmother would bow to Ferdie’s exhortations and inform Hazelmere. Hopefully, Lady Merion would hold firm. That way she could get Cecily and herself safely back to London and meet his lordship in the morning, having lost no further ground, bar the lack of a few hours’ sleep.

Lang found the inn without difficulty. Entering, Dorothea saw at a glance that this was a respectable house. Reassured, she left Betsy and Lang seated in the taproom and knocked on the parlour door. When it opened she swept through, head held high, without so much as a glance at the man holding the door. She advanced towards her sister, stretching out her hands in greeting. ‘There you are, my love.’

The sisters exchanged kisses and Dorothea pulled off her gloves. ‘Did you have a pleasant trip down?’ she enquired.

Moving back to his chair after shutting the door, Edward Buchanan began to feel that all was not proceeding as it should.

Cecily took her cue from Dorothea. Ignoring their captor, they happily conversed in the most mundane manner, as if nothing at all untoward had occurred. Dorothea moved to the fire to warm her chilled hands.

Suddenly Edward Buchanan could stand it no longer. ‘Miss Darent!’

Dorothea turned to look at him, disdain in every line. ‘Mr Buchanan. I had hoped, sir, that you would by now have come to your senses and that I would not be forced into conversation with you.’

The repressive tones stung. But Edward Buchanan had not come thus far to be easily turned aside. ‘My dear Miss Darent, I realise the events of the evening have come as a shock to you. But you must consider, m’dear. You’re here. I’m here. You need to be married. I’m only too willing to oblige. If you think about it, I’m sure you’ll see that Edward Buchanan’s not such a bad bargain.’

Eyes blazing, Dorothea replied scornfully, ‘You, sir, are unquestionably the most distasteful character it has been my misfortune to meet. I dare say you think you’ve been clever. Personally I doubt it! I cannot for the life of me understand your obsession with marrying me. However, other than as a source of irritation, it concerns me not in the least. By your presence you reveal yourself as anything but the gentleman you purport to be, and neither my sister nor I have the slightest wish to converse with you further!’

Edward Buchanan purpled alarmingly as the comprehensive condemnation poured over him. Rising abruptly, he knocked over his chair. ‘Ah, but I think you’ll change your mind, m’dear. You wouldn’t want it broadcast that I was alone with your lovely young sister for some hours tonight.’

Both Dorothea and Cecily whirled to face him, contempt written clearly on their faces. But before either could speak Edward Buchanan went on, ‘Oh, yes. I think you’ll change your mind. You’ve scuttled your chances with Hazelmere. Wouldn’t do for your sister to let Fanshawe off the hook, too.’

Cecily was fairly hopping with rage. ‘Thea, don’t you listen to him! Oooh, just wait till Tony and Hazelmere hear of this!’

Dorothea laid a restraining hand on Cecily’s arm as that spirited damsel was about to launch forth into further vituperative outpourings. Drawing herself to her full height, she spoke clearly, a distinctly martial light in her green eyes. ‘Mr Buchanan. There will be no scandal. My sister and I will shortly be leaving this charming inn and returning to town in our carriage, accompanied by our maid.’

Edward Buchanan jeered, ‘And what’s to stop me passing on the tale of what happened here tonight?’

Dorothea’s eyes opened wide. ‘Why, Hazelmere, of course.’ She would have given anything not to have needed recourse to his lordship, but, as far as she could see, he was the best deterrent she had. Cecily’s happiness was at stake now and she would do anything necessary to preserve her younger sister.

Her calm reference to the Marquis temporarily rattled Edward Buchanan. Then he recovered. ‘Nice try, m’dear. But it won’t do. Aside from the fact that all the ton knows you quarrelled with his arrogant lordship, I happen to know he’s out of town. By the time he returns, the damage will be done.’

The gaze Dorothea bent on the hapless Mr Buchanan would have frozen greater men. ‘My dear sir, if your information on the Marquis’s movements is so reliable I presume you also know that he returned to London today. As for our relationship, I have no intention of edifying you with an explanation. Suffice to say that Lord Hazelmere has requested an interview with me tomorrow morning.’ She paused to let her words sink in. Then she turned to Cecily. ‘Come, my love. We should start back. I wouldn’t like to be late for my meeting with Hazelmere.’

But Edward Buchanan was not yet defeated. ‘Easy to say, m’dear. But even if he is in town, who’s to say he’ll hear about it? No, I’m afraid I really can’t let you leave.’

His stubborn belligerence ignited Dorothea’s temper. ‘Oh, you silly man! I hope Hazelmere doesn’t hear about it. The only reason I came down here is so that there’s no reason for him to be involved. And if only you’d see sense you’d be assisting us to leave with all speed!’

‘Hah! So he doesn’t know!’

‘He didn’t know when I left, but I wouldn’t wager a groat that he doesn’t know by now.’

‘There’s still time to get married,’ mused Mr Buchanan. ‘I’ve a special licence and there’s a clergyman of sorts in the village.’

Cecily’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re quite mad,’ she informed Mr Buchanan.

‘Mr Buchanan!’ said Dorothea in tones of long suffering. ‘Please listen to me! I will not marry you. Not now, not tonight, not ever.’

‘Yes, you will!’

Dorothea opened her mouth to deny this charge but it remained open, her words evaporating, as a calm voice drawled from the doorway, ‘I’m shattered to disappoint you, Buchanan, but in this instance Miss Darent is quite correct.’

All eyes turned to see the Marquis of Hazelmere, standing in the doorway, shoulders negligently propped against the frame.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DOROTHEA WOULD HAVE given everything she possessed to know how long Hazelmere had been standing there. Across the room her eyes locked with his. Then, smiling faintly, he straightened and crossed to stand before her, taking her hand and kissing it, as was his habit. Dorothea struggled to master her surprise as the usual light-headedness swept over her. Under the warm hazel gaze she blushed. Hazelmere retained his clasp on her hand as he turned to view Edward Buchanan.

Fanshawe had been standing immediately behind Hazelmere and had entered the room in his wake, pointedly shutting the door after him. Cecily, with a suppressed squeal, had run to his side.

The arrival of their lordships left Edward Buchanan, at least temporarily, with nothing to say and nowhere to go. He was barely able to believe the evidence of his eyes, and all trace of intelligence had left his face, leaving it more bovine in appearance than ever. With the rug effectively pulled from under him, he stared in mute trepidation at Hazelmere, who stood, calmly regarding him, a considering light in the strange hazel eyes.

‘Before we continue this singularly senseless conversation I should point out to you, Buchanan, that, on her marriage, Miss Darent’s estate remains in her hands.’

Cool and precise, Hazelmere’s words affected Edward Buchanan as if a bucket of iced water had been dashed in his face. For a matter of seconds sheer astonishment held him silent. Then, ‘Why, that’s … that’s … I’ve been grossly deceived!’ he blustered. ‘Lord Darent has misled me! And Sir Hugo!’

Cecily, Fanshawe and Dorothea received these interesting revelations in fascinated silence. Hazelmere said, ‘Precisely. That being so, I think you’ll need a holiday to recover from your … exertions, shall we say? A long holiday, I should think. On your estates in Dorset, perhaps? I have no wish to see your face again, in London or anywhere else. If I do, or if it comes to my ears you are again indulging in the practice of abduction or in any way inconveniencing anyone, I’ll send your letters to the authorities with a full description of what took place. As all the notes are in your handwriting, and one is very conveniently signed, I’m sure they’ll take a great interest in you.’

The steely words effectively reduced Edward Buchanan’s grand plan to very small pieces. With his great chance fast disappearing downstream, he glanced wildly, first at Fanshawe and Cecily, and then at Hazelmere, Dorothea at his side, her hand still firmly held in his. ‘But the scandal …’ His voice trailed away as he encountered Hazelmere’s eyes.

‘I’m afraid, Buchanan, you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension.’ The tones were icy enough to chill the blood in Edward Buchanan’s veins. He suddenly recalled some of the other stories about Hazelmere. ‘The Misses Darent are on their way to visit Fanshawe’s and my families on our estates, escorted by their maid and coachman. Fanshawe and I were delayed in leaving town and so arranged to meet them here.’ There was a slight pause during which the hazel eyes calmly surveyed Mr Buchanan. ‘Are you suggesting there is anything in that which is at all … improper?’

Edward Buchanan paled. Thoroughly unnerved, he hastened to reassure the Marquis, the words fairly tripping from his tongue. ‘No, no! Of course not! Never meant to imply any such thing.’ One finger had gone to his neckcloth as if it was suddenly too tight. Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative. ‘It’s getting late. I must be away. Your servant, Misses Darent, my lords.’ With the sketchiest of bows he made for the door, slowing as he realised that Fanshawe still stood with his back to it. At a nod from Hazelmere, Fanshawe opened the door, allowing an agitated Edward Buchanan to escape.

Instantly the sounds of a hurried departure reached their ears. Then the main door of the inn slammed shut and all was quiet.

Inside the parlour the frozen tableau dissolved. Cecily openly threw herself into Fanshawe’s arms. Dorothea saw it and wished she could be similarly uninhibited. As things were, she felt barely capable of preserving her composure.

‘Oh, God! What a nincompoop!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Why’d you let him escape so easily?’

‘He’s not worth the effort,’ replied Hazelmere absent-mindedly, his eyes searching Dorothea’s face. ‘Besides, as he said, he’d been misled.’

Dorothea, trying to look unconscious of his meaning and failing dismally, tried to steer the conversation into lighter fields. ‘Misled! I’ve been trying for weeks to get rid of him. If only I’d known!’ It suddenly dawned on her to wonder how Hazelmere had known. She felt strangely giddy.

Hazelmere saw her abstracted gaze. Noticing the assorted objects on the table, he seized on the distraction. ‘Have you been using the abominable Mr Buchanan for target practice?’

Dorothea, following his gaze, was diverted. ‘No. That was Cecily. But she only threw a vase of flowers at him.’

Looking to where she pointed, he saw the shards of the shattered vase. ‘Does she often throw things?’ he asked faintly.

‘Only when she’s angry.’

While he considered her answer Hazelmere picked up Dorothea’s cloak and draped it over her shoulders. ‘More to the point, does she hit anything?’

‘Oh, usually,’ Dorothea replied, strangely engrossed with the ties of the cloak. ‘She’s been doing it since she was a child, so her aim is really quite good.’

Glancing at Fanshawe, absorbed with Cecily, Hazelmere could not repress a grin of unholy amusement. ‘Do remind me, my love, to mention that to Tony some time. I should warn him of what he’s about to take on.’

Dorothea smiled nervously. Hazelmere reached around her to retrieve her gloves and handed them to her. Correctly interpreting his nod, she put them on. She looked up, to find his hazel eyes warmly smiling.

‘I think we should leave this inn forthwith. Aside from getting you and Cecily safely away, it’s by far too crowded for my liking.’

She smiled back, ignoring the little thrill of anticipation the words and tone drew forth, perfectly content to do whatever he wished, just as long as he continued to smile at her in that deliciously peculiar way. As usual, he had assumed command. But she could hardly argue with the efficient way he had got rid of Edward Buchanan. In the circumstances, she felt she could safely leave discussion of his managing ways until they had returned to London. There was still that interview to be endured, after which they would doubtless discuss what possibilities the future held. She reminded herself she still had no unequivocal proof of the nature of his feelings for her.

Hazelmere escorted Dorothea into the taproom, closely followed by Fanshawe with Cecily. Seeing her chicks being ushered safely out, Betsy heaved a sigh of relief and came forward with Lang to hear their instructions.

Hazelmere consulted his watch. It was already close to four. In the curricle he could reach Hazelmere in just over an hour. The carriage would take closer to two. Dawn would be before six. He turned to Fanshawe with a grin. ‘I’ll leave you with the coach and Betsy, of course.’

Dorothea, who had moved with Cecily to reassure the clucking Betsy, looked up. Hazelmere smiled blandly back at her.

‘Yes, I thought you would,’ replied Fanshawe, disgusted at the thought of two hours’ frustrating travel with his love and her maid. ‘We’ll make directly for Eglemont. Cecily can see Hazelmere Water some other time. Preferably not at dawn, what’s more! To think I’m going to be saddled with this and I won’t even reap the rewards!’ He tried to scowl at his friend but could not resist the rueful laughter in the hazel eyes.

‘Never mind,’ replied Hazelmere, aware that Dorothea had missed little of their exchange. ‘I rather think I’ve got more to explain than you.’ He moved to Dorothea’s side and outlined the dispositions for the next phase of their journey. He accomplished this without explanation, and was about to lead Dorothea outside when she regained the use of her tongue.

‘But there’s no need for this at all! Couldn’t we simply go back to London?’ A long drive alone with Hazelmere had not figured in her plans.

Hazelmere stopped and sighed. ‘No.’

Dorothea waited for him to explain, but when instead he took her arm she stood her ground. ‘I realise it would not be wise for all of us to return together, but there’s no reason Cecily and I cannot go back in the carriage with Betsy, and you two can go down to your estates, then return to London later.’

Hazelmere caught the grin on Fanshawe’s face. It could hardly be missed; it was enormous. Noting the stubborn set of Dorothea’s chin and the flash of determination in her green eyes, he silenced her in the only effective way he knew. Under the bemused gazes of the innkeeper, Betsy, Lang, an intrigued and approving Cecily and a still grinning Fanshawe, he pulled her against him and kissed her. He did not stop until he judged her incapable of finding further words to argue with.

When Dorothea’s wits finally returned she was on the box-seat of Hazelmere’s curricle, the Marquis by her side, smartly heading his greys out of the inn yard, setting them on the road leading south. She glanced up at his profile, clearly visible in the bright moonlight. Her determination to force a clear declaration from him grew. Aside from anything else, if what had just occurred was any indication of how he planned to settle disagreements between them in future, unless there was some balance in their relationship, she would never win any arguments at all. Her mind made up, she reviewed her options.

THE ROAD BETWEEN Tadworth and Dorking was narrow but otherwise in good condition. Which, reflected Hazelmere, was just as well. The hedges on either side cast shadows over the road, and despite the silvery moonlight he could not see far ahead. And his love would not remain silent for long. One glance as they left the inn had convinced him that she was merely gathering her forces. He glanced at her now and found her looking speculatively at him. Her brows rose in mute question.

He smiled back and returned his attention to his horses. He had no intention of initiating a conversation. Let her make the first move.

This was not long in coming. ‘Are you ever going to tell me just what has been going on?’

Thinking ‘No’ by far the safest answer, he regretfully settled for, ‘It’s a long story.’

‘How long before we reach Hazelmere?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Plenty of time to explain, then. Even with your greys in hand.’

‘But we have to reach Hazelmere Water before dawn.’

‘Why?’

Glancing down at her lovely, confused countenance, he smiled reassuringly. ‘Because that’s the supposed reason for this midnight jaunt, and so at least one of you, having been so insistent on seeing it, had better do so. Just in case someone like Sally Jersey, who has also seen it, asks for a description.’

Raising her eyes to his face, Dorothea asked in weary resignation, ‘Just what is this tale you’ve woven? You had much better tell me from the beginning if I’m supposed to convince the likes of Lady Jersey of the truth of it.’

Content to keep the conversation on relatively safe ground, Hazelmere obliged. He started by telling her what happened after she had left Merion House. ‘You’ll have to remember to make your peace with Ferdie.’

‘Was he terribly bothered?’

‘Incensed.’ He sketched the outline of the story, omitting to tell her that they were supposedly betrothed. He spent some minutes impressing on her the magnitude of Fanshawe’s and his sacrifices in saving Cecily’s and her reputations. Hearing her chuckle over Ferdie’s mission to spread the tale far and wide, he hoped he had diverted her mind from what he had not explained.

Recovering from her giggles, Dorothea mentally reviewed what she had heard, her eyes fixed on the offside horse. This midnight drive was possibly the best chance she would ever have of extracting information from Hazelmere. In normal circumstances, his physical presence was so distracting that it was a constant battle of mind against body to formulate sensible questions, let alone combat his evasive answers. But, since he was now perched on the box-seat beside her, his hands occupied with the reins and his attention divided between his horses and herself, the odds were more even. She would certainly have to encourage him to take her driving more often in future. Silent, they passed through Dorking and into the country lanes leading to Hazelmere. Bringing her gaze back to his face, she said in the most non-committal of tones, ‘What were the other notes Mr Buchanan had sent?’

He recalled a comment of Ferdie’s that she had a habit of asking questions so it was impossible to sidle out of them. Resigned to the inevitable, he answered, ‘He made two previous attempts to abduct you. That was something I didn’t foresee when I decided to convince the ton of my interest in you.’

The moonlight had completely faded and sunrise was not far off. They had crossed the Hazelmere boundary, and the look-out over the ornamental lake known as Hazelmere Water was not far ahead.

After a considerable pause while she tried to analyse his actions in all this Dorothea said, ‘I take it the first was the Bressington masquerade?’

‘Yes. There’s nothing you don’t know about that, except I knew it wasn’t a joke. That was why I was suddenly so ridiculously attentive, even attending that boring party that Sunday. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t been able to learn your engagements. Did you know one of my footmen is walking out with your maid?’

Dorothea regarded him with a fascinated expression. He grinned and continued, ‘The second attempt was at the picnic you attended with Ferdie. He forgot to give you a note delivered while you were there. It was unaddressed, so he opened it when his man found it the next day. It was supposedly signed by me, but Ferdie knows my signature and so he brought it to me. Tony was with me at the time, so after that both of them knew.’

‘When did the rest of your friends find out?’

Impossible to deny it. ‘On Wednesday, at a luncheon. I had to leave town, and Tony and Ferdie couldn’t hope to keep you in sight all the time.’

‘Did it never occur to you to tell me?’ she asked.

‘Yes. But I couldn’t see what good it would do.’ Seeing her frown, he sighed. ‘Who could know if and when the next attempt might be made?’

The silence on his left was complete. After a minute he risked a glance and found she was regarding him quizzically. ‘You’re quite abominably high-handed, you know.’

He smiled sweetly and replied, ‘Yes, I know. But only with the best of intentions.’

The curricle topped a gentle rise and just beyond the crest Hazelmere turned the horses on to the grass verge, cropped to form a look-out. ‘And that,’ he announced, ‘is Hazelmere Water.’

With the sun breaking over the distant horizon, the scene spread beneath her feet was breathtakingly beautiful. He jumped down from the curricle and tied the reins firmly to a bush. He lifted her down and together they descended a flight of shallow steps cut into the escarpment. These led to a small plateau beneath the crest where a stone bench stood by an old oak. An uninterrupted view of the valley below unfurled at their feet. Hazelmere Water was a large ornamental lake edged by clumps of willows. There was an island in the middle with more willows, and a summer-house, painted white, showing through the lacy foliage. Swans cruised slowly on the gentle currents of the stream that fed the lake from one end and exited at the other.

As the sun climbed higher the colours of the scene changed constantly from the first cool sepia tones through the warm pink tints of early sunrise and the golden glow of increasing light, until finally, as the sun cleared the hills behind the lake and shone forth unhindered, the bright greens of the grass and willows and the deep blue of the lake showed clear and intense.

Seated on the bench, Dorothea watched in speechless delight. Hazelmere, beside her, had viewed the sight on many occasions. He still found pleasure in it, but today had eyes only for the woman beside him. Returning to London with the firm intention of settling their past and future in one fell swoop, he had found that, instead of waiting patient and secure for him to declare himself, his independent love had gone haring off in the middle of the night to do battle with Edward Buchanan. It really should not have surprised him. While he had little doubt she would have handled the matter after a fashion, her disposition to manage matters her own way had given him an irresistible opportunity to bring their frustrating courtship to its inevitable climax. But now, despite her apparent calm, she was defensive. To be trying to keep him at a distance after all that had passed between them seemed rather odd, even for his independent love. He watched her; delight in the scene before her glowed on her expressive face. Inwardly he sighed. He was going to have to find out what it was that was worrying her. The reins of this affair of theirs had continually tangled; he couldn’t remember when he’d had so much difficulty with a woman. And now he had a sneaking suspicion that, while he had thought he had got the reins untangled and running free, they had somehow got snagged again.

With the sun riding the sky, Dorothea turned towards him, her eyes glowing. ‘That was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen! I’m afraid Lord Fanshawe will have to bring Cecily here at dawn after all.’

Hazelmere had lost interest in Fanshawe and Cecily. ‘Just as long as it’s you who tells him so. Having consigned him to two hours in that carriage with Cecily and your Betsy, I fear I’m not at present riding high in his esteem.’

Dorothea, suddenly breathless, looked down and found that he had hold of her hand. She felt him move to draw her to him. Knowing that if he kissed her she would lose any chance of retaining sufficient control to force any admission, positive or negative, from him, she resisted. He immediately stopped. For a moment silence, still and deep, engulfed them. Dorothea, her eyes downcast, did not see the long lips curl into a wry smile. Hazelmere could think of only one way to precipitate matters, so he took it. ‘Dorothea?’ His voice was entirely devoid of its usual mocking tone. ‘My dear, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

Despite the fact that she had expected the question, for one long moment she thought the world had stopped turning. Then, her eyes still locked on his hand, gently clasping hers, she struggled to find words to extricate herself from the predicament the question had landed her in. How typical of him! If she simply said yes, she would never learn the truth.

‘My lord, I am sensible … very sensible of the honour you do me. However, I … I am not convinced there is … any real … reason or … or basis for marriage between us.’ In the circumstances, Dorothea felt quite pleased with the outcome. Nicely vague.

Although not surprised, Hazelmere still felt as if he had been winded. How on earth had she come to that wonderful conclusion? Clearly he was going to have to explain a few things to his beloved. Assuming it was his motives she question, he went direct to that issue. ‘Why do you imagine I want to marry you?’

Hearing the sincerity in his voice, she felt forced to reply truthfully. Now was no time for missish sentiment. ‘You have to marry. I gather you want a conformable wife, to give you heirs and manage your households.’ She paused, then added, ‘Someone who would not interfere with your present lifestyle.’

For once, he missed the oblique allusion. ‘There’s nothing in my present lifestyle that marriage to you would disrupt.’ For some reason, far from reassuring her, the statement seemed to have the opposite effect.

Dorothea gulped. For one instant she almost convinced herself that she didn’t want to know. Then she shook her head. ‘In that case, I really don’t think we … would suit.’

Hazelmere was entirely at sea. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he heard the catch in her voice. Foreseeing an unprofitable and probably distressing time ahead if they continued in this roundabout fashion, he decided to gamble all on one throw. Cutting tangled reins was the fastest way, after all. Provided you could hold the horses afterwards. Possessing himself of both her hands, he drew her around to face him. ‘If you’re adamant that is true, then of course I’ll not press you. But, if you wish to convince me what you say is so, you’ll have to look at me, my love, and tell me you don’t love me.’

Her heart had sunk like lead at his first sentence. The second threw her into total disarray. How could she do that? In the long silence that ensued she could feel his eyes on her, still warm. If she looked up she would lose.

‘Dorothea?’

Mute, all she could do was shake her head.

‘Why? My dear, you’ll have to give me some explanation.’ His voice, unbearably gentle and stripped of its usual lightness, brought her close to tears. She tried to look up and failed. Wrenching her hands free, she stood and took a few agitated steps, stopping beside the trunk of the oak. Her scheming was turning this into a nightmare. Heavens! What on earth had she started?

Hazelmere watched her. Clearly she was struggling with some imagined demon, but he could hardly deal with it unless she told him what it was. Calmly he stood and strolled to stand behind her. Taking her by the shoulders, he firmly turned her to face him. One hand at her waist held her lightly while the other gently tilted her face up. She stubbornly kept her lovely and far too revealing eyes lowered. ‘Dorothea, why won’t you marry me?’

Impossible not to answer. In the end, in a voice so small that she could hardly recognise it as her own, she said, ‘Because you don’t love me.’

For nearly a minute Hazelmere, dazed, remained perfectly still. Then enlightenment dawned, and with it came relief. Dorothea, equally immobile, suddenly felt his hands shake. Startled, she looked up and saw, to her disbelieving fury, that he was laughing! Really laughing! Outraged, she flung away. Or tried to, but he had seen her intention in those beautiful eyes and held on to her, pulling her roughly into his arms and holding her, hard, against him. Rage seared through her, leaving her strangely wan. Then his voice, muffled as he spoke against her hair and still shaking with suppressed laughter, reached her. ‘Oh, sweetheart! What a gem you are! Here I went to the most extraordinary lengths to convince the entire ton, or at least all those who mattered, that I was irrevocably in love with you and the only person who didn’t notice was you!’

Already stiff and unyielding, she went rigid. She looked up. ‘You don’t love me!’

The dark brows rose. The hazel eyes, still laughing, gently quizzed her. ‘Don’t I?’

She tore her eyes from that mesmeric glance. If she was ever to learn the answers she had to pose the questions. ‘What about that bet?’ she asked, trying to sound scornful and not succeeding in the least.

He propped his shoulders against the oak, still holding her against him. ‘Young men with too much money and not enough sense. There are always bets on such things. It’s nothing new. There are bets on Fanshawe and Cecily, and Julia Bressington and Harcourt, and a few other couples, too.’

Her eyes had returned to his during this explanation. ‘Really?’

He nodded, smiling. She dropped her eyes to his shoulder while she considered that. Hazelmere studied her face. When she remained silent he continued, ‘Furthermore, my love, I feel constrained to point out that, had I been seeking a suitable and complaisant wife, I would hardly choose a lady whom I have had to twice rescue from scandalous situations in public inns.’

‘But it wasn’t my fault in either case!’ protested Dorothea indignantly. She had glanced up into the teasing hazel eyes but quickly broke the connection. In a small voice she added, ‘I thought perhaps you felt being married to me would be more … comfortable than being married to Miss Buntton.’

‘Miss Buntton?’ said Hazelmere incredulously. He shuddered. ‘My dear, being married to a hedgehog would be more comfortable than being married to Miss Buntton.’ Dorothea smothered a giggle. ‘Whoever put that idea … oh, Susan, I suppose?’

Dorothea nodded. Then another thought occurred. ‘You’re not marrying me because of the … possible scandal over tonight?’

‘After I’ve gone to such lengths to ensure there’ll be no scandal? Of course not.’ As she persisted in keeping her eyes down, he added a clincher. ‘Besides, if that were so, how is it that I’ve already got Herbert’s permission to address you?’

That brought her head up. ‘You have asked his permission!’

‘My dear Dorothea, you really should strive to rid yourself of these ramshackle notions you cherish of me. I wouldn’t ask you to marry me if I didn’t have Herbert’s permission to pay my addresses to you.’

The pious tone pricked her temper. ‘What about your mistresses?’ she asked.

The hazel eyes caught hers. ‘What about them?’

She was at a loss. ‘How should I know?’ she said in exasperation.

‘Precisely!’ The dry tone left her in no doubt of what he meant. Their eyes held, then he sighed. ‘If you must know, I dismissed my last mistress when I returned to London last September, after meeting you. I’ve had enough mistresses for a lifetime. I want a wife.’

Her gaze had drifted to his cravat and her hands, trapped between them, were apparently occupied in smoothing its folds. Hazelmere sighed. ‘My dear, delightful, idiotic Dorothea, do look at me. I am trying, apparently unsuccessfully, to convince you that I love you. The least you can do is pay attention!’

Dorothea had exhausted her questions. Obediently she looked up. When her eyes once more locked with his Hazelmere nodded approvingly. ‘Good! For your information, my love, I’ve been in love with you from, I think, the moment I first saw you picking blackberries in Moreton Park woods. What’s more, my reputation notwithstanding, I am not in the habit of seducing village maids or débutantes.’

The green eyes widened. Slightly breathless, she said, ‘I thought that was part of the bet.’

Goaded, Hazelmere replied, ‘The only reason I’ve been seducing you, albeit in stages, is because I can’t seem to keep my hands off you!’ At her surprise, he continued, ‘Oh, yes! If you think I have power over you, you have just as much power over me.’

The thoroughly feminine smile that spread across her lovely features prompted him to tighten his arms around her. ‘Now that I’ve got your full attention, my love, what can I do to convince you I love you?’

Assuming his question to be purely rhetorical, Dorothea lifted her face for his kiss. His lips gently brushed hers in a series of teasingly gentle kisses that satisfied her not at all. She wriggled her hands free and drew his head more firmly to her. She felt rather than heard his satisfied chuckle, then his lips settled over hers in a long engagement that, despite his intentions, drifted deeper with each passing minute. At some point he pushed her cloak back, allowing him access to her body, still clad in the thin silk evening gown of the night before. Too soon they reached the same point they had in Lady Merion’s drawing-room. Hazelmere, still in control despite his raging desire, mentally cursed. He should not have let it go this far. There was no way he would even consider taking her here. Her first time she should remember with joy, not distaste. But he had already left her in this state once before. He couldn’t do that again.

He raised his head to look at her. Her eyes were huge and glittering, deepest emerald under heavy lids. She moved, unconsciously seductive, pressing her body against him. With a ragged sigh he turned them around so her back was against the trunk of the oak. He bent his head and his lips burned a trail to the hollow of her throat. Expertly his long fingers undid the column of tiny buttons closing her bodice and loosened the laces beneath. As his hand gently cupped her naked breast she moaned softly. His lips found hers again, letting their passions ride. There were other ways she could be satisfied. And he knew them all.

Much later, when she was wrapped once more in her cloak and resting comfortably in his arms, he felt her draw a deep breath and sigh happily. He chuckled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Does that mean you’ve agreed to marry me?’

Dorothea smiled dreamily. Without looking up, she asked, ‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Not really. If you don’t consent now I’ll take you to Hazelmere, lock you in my apartments and keep you there until I get you with child. Then you won’t have any choice at all.’

At that she looked up, laughing. ‘Would you?’

The hazel eyes glinted. ‘Without hesitation.’

She smiled, a slow, infinitely smug smile. She felt the arms around her tighten. ‘In that case, I’d better agree.’

He nodded. ‘Very wise.’ His eyes searched her face for a moment, as if trying to gauge her state of mind. Then he sighed. ‘I suspect I should take advantage of your contented state to tell you that the notice of our betrothal will appear in today’s Gazette.’

For a moment the implication did not register. Then she asked, ‘How on earth …?’

‘I asked Ferdie to put it in. It’s wiser to keep the tabbies happy wherever possible.’ His arm around her, he started to move towards the steps.

Feigning anger, Dorothea stopped dead. ‘So that’s why you’re so insistent I marry you!’

The arm around her tightened again, drawing her to him once more. ‘Don’t start that again. I’m marrying you, you disbelieving woman, because I love you‡’ He kissed her soundly, then pulled her on to the steps.

Amused, he watched his love blush delightfully.

‘THE HOUSE IS OVER the next rise. Knowing my mother, the entire household has probably been waiting for hours.’

Dorothea was eager to catch her first glimpse of Hazelmere, and as the curricle topped the rise she looked down on the huge sandstone mansion, honey-coloured in the sun, sprawling across the opposite side of the valley. Descending the gentle slope and crossing the bridge over the stream from the lake, the curricle swept through the gates in the low stone wall separating the formal gardens from the rest of the park. Hazelmere held the greys to a trot as they followed the winding drive through acres and acres of perfectly tended gardens and lawns, past shrubberies and fountains, until the curricle reached the broad sweep of the gravel court before the main entrance.

Jim Hitchin came running to take the reins, grinning with relief at seeing the horses in one piece. He had never doubted his master would return all right and tight with the lady beside him, so had wasted no thoughts on them.

Hazelmere jumped down and lifted Dorothea down. At the first sound of wheels on the gravel, Lady Hazelmere, who had been waiting in the morning-room since five o’clock, had come to the door to welcome them. She was agog to learn just why her usually correct son had seen fit to drive through the night, apparently alone with Miss Darent in an open curricle. One look at his face warned her not to ask.

Correctly surmising that they had been up all night, she immediately whisked Dorothea upstairs to the large chamber she had had prepared. It was only then that Dorothea removed her cloak, and as she moved towards the window the light fell full on her. Lady Hazelmere rapidly revised her assessment of her son’s behaviour and, turning, shooed out her maid, who had come in to help. Instead she helped the sleepy girl to bed, lending her one of her own nightgowns and forbearing to ask any questions, even as to the whereabouts of her missing clothing. The telltale signs of her son’s lovemaking, showing clearly on the perfect skin, would fade by the time she awoke. No need to further embarrass the child, or to expose her to the censorious mind of her sharp-eyed maid. Her own maid, Hazelmere had informed her, along with his valet, would arrive from London later.

Leaving Dorothea already halfway asleep, Lady Hazelmere went downstairs in search of her son. Hazelmere, aware of his mother’s curiosity, knew that if she once caught him she would not let him go until she had all the story. He had therefore refused point-blank to pay any attention whatever to Liddiard and had repaired with all possible speed to his apartments before she could materialise and waylay him.

Baulked of all prey, her ladyship spent the rest of the morning in comfortable speculation on what her son and the lovely Dorothea had been up to.

HAZELMERE woke to the rattle of curtains. Sunlight streamed into the large apartment. He closed his eyes again. He had left orders to be woken at one. He supposed it was one.

Then memory returned and the events of the early morning swam into focus. The severe lips curved in a smile of pure happiness. A discreet cough interrupted his recollections. He reluctantly opened his eyes and located Murgatroyd, standing by the bed, disapproval in every line.

‘I wondered, my lord, what you wished me to do with these?’ From finger and thumb hung suspended a garment, which, after a few moments of total bewilderment, Hazelmere recognised. ‘I found them in the pocket of your driving cloak, m’lord.’ Never, in all the years he had been valeting, had Murgatroyd had to deal with such an occurrence. He was badly discomposed.

Raising his eyes to the face of his henchman, now devoid of all expression, Hazelmere sternly repressed the urge to laugh. As soon as he could command his voice he said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I suppose you had better return them to their owner.’

Something very like shock infused the countenance of his imperturbable valet. ‘My lord?’ Incredulity hung in the air.

‘Miss Darent,’ supplied Hazelmere, sorely tried.

Murgatroyd assimilated this information, his face wooden. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He bowed and had almost reached the door before Hazelmere spoke again.

‘Incidentally, Murgatroyd, Miss Darent and I are to be married in a few weeks, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to such happenings.’

‘Indeed, my lord?’ Murgatroyd’s breast seethed with a whole range of emotions. He had never before valeted to a married gentleman, preferring the regularities of bachelor households. It was the reason he had left his last position. But he had been very comfortable in Hazelmere’s employ. And Miss Darent, soon to be her ladyship, was a very lovely woman. And the Marquis was … well, Hazelmere. The rigid features relaxed into something approaching a smile. ‘I’m sure I wish you both very happy, my lord.’

Hazelmere smiled his acknowledgement and dropped back on to his pillows as Murgatroyd left in search of Trimmer.

THE NEXT FIVE DAYS passed in a rush of activity. Hazelmere had decreed they were to be married at St George’s in Hanover Square in just over two weeks. There was a wealth of detail to be discussed and decisions made. A constant stream of couriers passed between London and Hazelmere, carrying orders and information. On that first afternoon Tony Fanshawe and Cecily dropped by on their way back to London. On hearing the news, Cecily was ecstatic; Betsy promptly burst into tears.

From Lady Merion came the news that the whole town was a-buzz with the tale of their trip to Hazelmere Water and, far from there being any undesirable comment, everyone was describing it as the romance of the Season. As Dorothea refolded her grandmother’s letter Hazelmere smiled wickedly across the breakfast table. ‘Just as well they’ll never know what really happened at Hazelmere Water.’

Dorothea gasped, then, outraged by the knowing look on his face, threw a roll at him. Ducking, he protested, ‘I thought only Cecily threw things!’

They decided to return to London on Monday. Hazelmere spent Sunday afternoon with Liddiard. He would only be able to spare a single day in the run-up to their wedding for dealing with any further business. Liddiard was to be in ultimate charge of all his estates until they returned from their wedding trip to Italy.

Dorothea, time hanging heavy on her hands, went to sit in the sunken rose garden. It had been five days since they had arrived; five days since that morning above Hazelmere Water. And in those five days Marc had been politely attentive but curiously distant. They had exchanged nothing but the most chastely light kisses—no passionate embraces, no delicious caresses. It was ridiculous! What on earth was the matter now?

A swish of silk skirts heralded Lady Hazelmere’s approach. The two women had become firm friends. With a smile her ladyship settled herself on the stone bench beside her soon to be daughter-in-law, and, as was her habit, took the bull by the horns. ‘What’s the matter?’

Used by now to her ways, Dorothea grimaced. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

Lady Hazelmere’s shrewd eyes studied the younger woman. Then she made an educated guess. ‘Hasn’t Marc slept with you yet?’

Dorothea blushed rosily.

Her ladyship laughed musically, then reassured her. ‘Don’t get upset, child. I couldn’t help notice you were missing a rather vital article of clothing when you arrived. I presume you didn’t set out from London like that?’

In spite of herself, Dorothea grinned. ‘No.’

‘Well,’ said her ladyship, examining the tips of her slippers as they peeped from under the hem of her stylishly elegant gown, ‘Marc seems to be taking after his father in more ways than one. It’s something of a shock to think you’re marrying a rake and find instead that, at least before the wedding, you’d get the same treatment from the Archbishop’s son.’

Dorothea giggled.

‘Well, maybe not quite the same,’ amended Lady Hazelmere. ‘But all the Henry men are like that—scandalous on the one hand and puritanical on the other. It’s decidedly confusing. Mind you, I doubt there have been many virgin brides in the family, either.’

Dorothea sat up straighter. ‘Oh?’

‘A word of advice, my dear: if you don’t wish to be forced to wait the full two weeks until your wedding, you’d better do something about it. You’re leaving for London tomorrow and once there, if I know Marc, you’ll have no chance to force the issue. If, on the other hand, you break his resistance now, you should have no trouble in London.’

‘But he seems so very distant, I wondered if perhaps he—’

‘Distant? What on earth happened at Hazelmere Water?’ exclaimed her ladyship. ‘That sort of thing, let me tell you, just doesn’t happen if a man is “distant”. Marc’s keeping as far away from you as possible because he doesn’t trust himself—he knows he’s too close to the edge with you, that’s all. If you want him to make love to you before your wedding you’ll just have to give him a push.’

Dorothea, eyes round, regarded her soon to be mother-in-law. The novel idea of forcing such an issue with her stubborn and domineering betrothed had an attraction all its own. ‘How?’

Tucking her arm into Dorothea’s, Lady Hazelmere smiled joyously. ‘Let’s go and look at your wardrobe, shall we?’

THAT EVENING Hazelmere arrived in the drawing-room, just ahead of Penton, as usual, to escort his betrothed and his mother into dinner. As he crossed the threshold his eyes went to Dorothea. He blinked and checked, then smoothly recovered himself.

Throughout the meal he struggled to keep his eyes away from the vision in ivory silk seated on his right. But for once his mother seemed curiously silent, leaving Dorothea and himself to carry the conversation. In the end he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. That was bad enough, but not nearly so disturbing as the rest of her. Where in hell had she got that gown? Presumably Celestine—simplicity was her hallmark. An ivory sheath with a bodice so abbreviated that it barely passed muster, with an overdress of silk gauze so fine that it was completely transparent. The entire creation was held together by a row of tiny pearl buttons down the front. He had never been so thankful to see the end of a meal as he was that night.

He watched Dorothea and his mother retire upstairs to the parlour. With a sigh of relief he went into the library. Half an hour later, settled in one of the huge wing chairs before the fire, a large brandy by his side, he was deep in the latest newssheet when he heard the door shut. Looking up, he stood as Dorothea came towards him, calm and serene as ever, a book in her hands. ‘Your mother has retired early so that she’ll be able to farewell us in the morning. I thought I’d come and sit with you for a while. You don’t mind, do you?’

He smiled in response to her smile and settled her in the wing chair opposite his. She opened her book and seemed to be quite content to sit quietly reading. He returned to his newssheet.

For a while only the ticking of the huge grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional crackle from the fire disturbed the peace. Glancing up, he saw she had laid aside her book and was calmly watching the leaping flames. The light from the fire flickered in a rosy glow over her still figure, striking coppery glints from her dark hair. He forced his attention back to the newssheet.

After reading the same paragraph four times, and still having no idea what it said, he gave up. He laid the paper aside. In one smooth movement he rose and, crossing to her, took her hands; raising her, he drew her into his arms. He looked down into her emerald eyes, then bent his head until his lips found hers. The room was still; only the flames rose and fell, illuminating the figures locked together before the hearth. When the kiss finally ended they were both breathing raggedly. The hazel and green eyes locked for a time in silent communion, then Hazelmere bent to lightly brush her lips with his. ‘I love you.’

Hardly daring to speak in case the magic surrounding them shattered into a million shards, Dorothea barely breathed the words, ‘And I love you.’

The severely sculpted lips lifted in a decidedly wicked smile. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

MANY HOURS LATER Dorothea, blissfully sated, snuggled herself against the long length of her husband-to-be. They had come up to his room; her room next door was not yet refurbished. Her clothes, and his, were scattered in a trail from the door to the hearth. They had first made love, exquisitely, on the huge daybed before the fire. Later they had moved to the even larger four-poster, where they now lay. With a soft, contented sigh she settled herself to sleep, one arm across his chest, his arm around her, holding her close.

Suddenly, in the darkness, Hazelmere chuckled. Then he shook with silent laughter. ‘Oh, God! What on earth will Murgatroyd say this time?’

Dorothea murmured sleepily and dropped a kiss on his collarbone. She had no idea who Murgatroyd was and was not particularly interested. She was too busy savouring the novel sensation of having won an argument with her arrogant Marquis. Even if she did not win another for a considerable time, she doubted it would bother her. She was bound to be far too contented to care.

THE SECRETS OF A

COURTESAN

Nicola Cornick

For my sister-in-law, Julie.

PROLOGUE

April 1809

Letter from Lord Hawkesbury,

Home Secretary, to Alasdair Rowarth, Duke of Welburn

Rowarth,

I write to you in absolute confidence, requesting your assistance on a matter of national security. Mutual acquaintances tell me that you are an utterly sound fellow. I am sure this is the case because I knew your cousin at Eton. So, Rowarth, here is the situation. For some time now this department has been investigating the criminal activities of one Warren Sampson, a mill owner who has acquired land around the villages of Peacock’s Oak and Fortune’s Folly in the North Riding of Yorkshire. Sampson is suspected of encouraging civil unrest and sedition and it is imperative that we put and end to his influence. Imperative, I tell you. The man is a blackguard, an utter scoundrel. And now we may have found a way but it is a matter of considerable delicacy. It involves a certain Mrs. Eve Nightingale or, as you may remember her, Eva Night …

Pray, call on me at your earliest convenience so that I may acquaint you with your task.

Yours in haste,

Hawkesbury

CHAPTER ONE

Fortune’s Folly, Yorkshire—May 1809

EVE NIGHTINGALE had never believed that her past would catch up with her. She had run too far and hidden herself too well to be found. And then she saw Alasdair Rowarth, Duke of Welburn, in Fortune’s Folly Market Square one morning in spring and knew that everything that she had striven for was in danger.

Eve had been shopping, browsing amongst the market stalls, taking her time to chat to the sellers and enjoying the sunshine. The winter had been long and bitter with so much snow that for a time the village, so high in the Yorkshire dales and fells, had been cut off from the outside world. Now that spring had finally arrived it had brought an influx of visitors, for Fortune’s Folly was a spa of some note, not as famous as the local town of Harrogate, but with health-giving mineral waters that were said to be far less disgusting to drink. And on this May morning the square was full of townsfolk and visitors taking the air, gossiping and strolling, perusing the goods in the shop windows, the ladies’ parasols a forest of bright colors against the sun, the gentlemen elegant in jackets of blue and green superfine. There was a sense of brightness and hope in the air after such a long and gloomy winter.

Eve had just placed a quart of milk and a piece of creamy Wensleydale cheese in her marketing basket when she felt a strange prickle that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was the unmistakable sensation that she was being watched. She turned slowly and met the dark gaze of a gentleman who was standing on the opposite corner of the street.

It was his absolute stillness that attracted her attention first when everyone around him was moving. That, and the fact that he was looking directly at her with a gaze so focused and intent that she could not escape the force of their connection. His head was uncovered and in the spring sunshine his hair gleamed with the colors of fallen leaves, bronze and auburn and dark gold. His eyes looked watchful, conker brown beneath straight, dark brows. He was very tall with a hard, handsome face as unyielding as the local stone. It was given even more character by high, slanting cheekbones and a cleft chin that looked the essence of stubbornness.

Rowarth.

For a moment Eve was utterly unable to accept the evidence of her own eyes. Five years had passed; five very long, difficult, painful years, since she had seen the Duke of Welburn. When she had run from him, run from London, she had thought never to see him again. Yet here he was. He had found her. She, who had never wanted to be found.

For a moment it felt as though her heart had actually stopped before it slammed through her body again and began to race. He held her eyes with a fierce intensity that captured and trapped her. For a moment Eve felt stunned, imprisoned by his gaze. He had already started to move toward her and in that moment of blind panic and fear, all she knew was that she could not face him. Not now, not yet, perhaps never. Her feelings for him were still too raw even after five years. She had to run again.

But it was too late. Her shaking fingers slipped on the handle of the basket and it fell from her grasp, spilling the ham and cheese across the cobbles and sending the milk cascading into the gutter. An enterprising crow swooped down and snatched the ham away. Eve made a grab for the basket, her hands trembling as she tried to gather everything together again.

“Allow me.”

Suddenly Rowarth was beside her, his hand on her elbow as he helped her to her feet, his touch searing her through the material of her sleeve. He picked up the slightly squashed cheese and handed it politely to her. Their fingers touched. Eve felt heat ripple through her awakening feelings she had thought long dead. Rowarth was summoning the dairyman and the butcher with authoritative gestures now to replace the items she had lost. Money changed hands. Eve heard the clink of coin and the men’s mumbled thanks. She felt hot and dizzy, the sun beating down on her bonnet and dazzling her eyes. She tried to steady her breathing. There was not the remotest chance of escaping a confrontation with Rowarth now. He still held her, lightly but with a touch that made her entire body thrum with awareness.

“Eve.”

She looked up and met his eyes and again felt the shock like a physical blow.

“Rowarth.” She was proud that her voice was so steady. “What an unexpected … surprise.”

His lips curved into a smile that was sinfully wicked but not remotely reassuring. “Is there any other sort?” he murmured.

“There are nice surprises,” Eve said.

“And then there is meeting me again.” His smile deepened. “Which I imagine falls into a different category given the alacrity with which you ran away from me.”

Pain twisted in Eve, bitter and sharp, not even slightly blunted with the passing of time. Yes, she had run from him. She had had no other choice in the world. And now, five years later, the mere sight of him could still affect her so profoundly that she felt faint and light-headed, her emotions stretched as taut as a wire.

But Rowarth’s measured tones had nothing but coldness in them for her now. Whatever feelings she still had for him, so deeply held that she had never quite been able to banish them, were not shared. Mistresses came and went, after all. He had been everything to her and there had never been anyone else for her since, but she could hardly expect it to be the same for him.

The crowds had melted away, leaving them alone. People were still staring, though from a discreet distance. Women were staring. But then, Eve thought, women had always stared at Alasdair Rowarth. Women had always wanted him. He was handsome, he was rich and he was a duke. What more could one ask for?

“You must let me escort you home,” Rowarth said. He was steering her across the market square and down Fortune Alley, one of the twisty little lanes that led away from the main thoroughfare. Already they had left the bustle of the main streets far behind.

“There is absolutely no need, I thank you,” Eve said. “I am sure that you have more pressing business.” It was impossible, she thought, that Rowarth had come to Fortune’s Folly to seek her out. A part of her longed for it to be true; when she had first seen him she had hoped for one heart-soaring moment that he had come looking for her because he still cared for her. Yet even in that moment she had known deep down that it was a foolish thought. The cynic in her, little Eve Nightingale, who had grown up on the streets of London and struggled to survive, knew enough of life to see that as the fairy tale it was. Besides, if by some miracle Rowarth had sought her out, that could only bring more lies and more heartbreak. There was no going back.

No, this could be no more than a coincidence. Fate was laughing at her, bringing Rowarth to this little town, miles from anywhere, where she had thought herself safe. In a moment he would excuse himself and be gone from her life a second time and she would have to try and forget him all over again.

“There was a time when you found my company a great deal more attractive.” Rowarth was making no secret of his amusement at her blatant attempt to dismiss him. “Though of course,” his tone chilled, “your affections lasted only as long as it took you to find someone you preferred.” He looked around at the dingy back streets with their rubbish in the gutters and the smell of rotting vegetables in the air. “What happened, Eve?” he said softly. “I hardly expected to find you here. Did your new lover leave you without a feather to fly?”

“That is none of your business, Rowarth.” Eve tried to speak lightly, dismissively, but the words stuck in her throat. In the note she had left him she had told him she had found another protector. It had been the only way she could think of to make him hate her—to make certain that he would not follow her and demand the truth. It had been the only way to set him free.

Rowarth squared his shoulders. “You mistake.” His voice, smooth and deep, cut across her thoughts. “It is my business. In fact I have no business here other than to see you, Eve.”

For a moment Eve’s foolish heart soared again at the thought he might, against the odds, care for her still. But there was something in his voice that warned her; in his tone and in the cool, appraising look that he gave her. And frighteningly he had read her thoughts and seen how vulnerable she was to him, for he smiled again with grim pleasure.

“Have no fear that I am about to importune you with impassioned declarations of love,” he said drily. “Nothing was further from my thoughts. This is business only.”

Eve felt a little sick at the contempt she could hear in his voice. “What possible business could you have with me after all this time?” she questioned, still striving to keep her voice light. “We have no more to say to one another.”

“We’ll talk of that in private.”

“No, we shall not.” Suddenly furious, she freed herself from his grip and spun around to face him. “We shall not do that just because you dictate it, Rowarth. You always were arrogant.”

Once they had laughed together about his innate confidence and the way in which people deferred to him because of his position. Eve remembered with a pang what it had been like when she had been his mistress, beside Rowarth on those occasions when they had visited the opera or the theater or a ball. There was a dizzy glamour that had been attached to his title and his status, a glittering, raffish fascination that had beguiled her. When they had lain together, tangled in her sheets in the rapturous aftermath of making love, she had teased him about his importance and his arrogance and the way that people fell over themselves to please him, and he had laughed and kissed her and they had made love again through the hot summer nights. She had loved the fact that behind the closed doors of her boudoir Rowarth was hers, and hers alone, that she was the only one who truly knew him.

Perhaps it had been an illusion, but for a brief time it had made her happy. She had thought that they had both been happy. From the start there had been an instant attraction between them, blazing into vivid life the very first night they had met at the Cyprian’s Ball. She, the newest of new courtesans, had been feted and courted as the gentlemen waited to see upon whom she would bestow her favor—and her innocence. Her price was high. And then Rowarth had arrived, cutting through the throng, and everyone else had faded away, pale imitations of men in comparison with his natural authority and overwhelming charm. She had been his from that first moment and miraculously, it seemed, he had been hers. She was not merely his mistress; they had shared everything. It had been so wonderful that for a short while even she, raised on the London streets, the illegitimate child of a seamstress and a sailor, abandoned as a baby and forced to fight for everything she had ever had in her life, had started to believe in happy endings. She had thought that there was more to their relationship than mere lust. She had felt that they had had an instant affinity.

Eve swallowed what felt like an enormous lump in her throat. Those days and nights had been full of color and excitement and joy, so far removed from her existence now that they had been another world, a fading memory but one that was so laced with pain that it could never quite die.

“And you were always the only one who dared oppose me.” There was an odd note in Rowarth’s voice now. For a moment it sounded almost like regret. “But in this, Eve, you cannot.”

“Watch me.” She was so cross now that she was prepared to argue with him in the street. She started to hurry away; he followed, effortlessly matching her step, not even remotely out of breath.

“With pleasure, as always.” He sounded as imperturbable as ever. “But it will make no odds.”

“You are as persistent as a stray dog.”

“A charming analogy. You always liked animals, as I recall.”

They had almost reached the pawnbroker’s shop that Eve now ran. It seemed that Rowarth knew exactly where she lived and what she now did to earn that living. A shiver of apprehension racked Eve as she wondered what else he knew and what he might do with that knowledge. His reappearance in her life was not only shocking, it was dangerous as well. She had lived like a nun since coming to Yorkshire. She had buried her past as Rowarth’s mistress and that was the way she was determined it would stay. Small towns were notorious for gossip and she was determined that nothing was going to ruin her reputation or her livelihood.

“We are at an impasse,” she said coldly, on the doorstep. “I shall not invite you in.”

“Then I will take you somewhere else where we may talk,” Rowarth said, “and I doubt you will appreciate my methods in conveying you there. Your choice.”

Eve looked at him. Would he really carry her kicking and screaming through the streets of Fortune’s Folly? Very probably he would, and without disturbing the cut of his jacket in the process. He looked unyielding, implacable. And despite her anger she really did not want a scene in the street.

“Very well,” she said, even more frostily. “Since you force my hand.”

She pushed open the door of her shop and stepped from the bright sunlight into the cool, dusty shade feeling a strange sense of relief at least to be on her own property. She placed her marketing basket on the counter with a little sigh. In the windows the sale items gleamed in the sun; jewelry sending a shower of sparkling rainbow colors across the display, bone china pawned by the wife of a brewer who was so fond of his own ale that he had spent too much time drinking and too little working, bed linen from a cottager out on the road to Skipton, all manner of goods brought in by people desperate to raise a bit of ready cash. There was also a very fine brace of pistols that Eve suspected belonged to a man who had turned his hand, unsuccessfully, to highway robbery, and a dinner service that a local banker had brought in when his bank had gone bust and he had wanted to avoid his possessions being confiscated by his creditors. All the goods told their own stories, Eve thought, of people struggling in what was a hard economic climate.

Joan, Eve’s assistant, came scurrying out of the back room, wiping her hands on her apron as she heard the ring of the doorbell. She was an older woman, a former servant at Fortune’s Hall, the local manor house and home to the squire, Sir Montague Fortune. She was the only person in whom Eve had confided her past and Eve valued her friendship highly.

“I did not realize you were back, madam—” Joan broke off as she saw Rowarth, and her sharp brown gaze swept over him, summing him up in one comprehensive glance. Her sandy eyebrows rose infinitesimally.

“This gentleman and I,” Eve said carefully, “have business to discuss. Could you take over here please, Joan?”

“Business, is it?” Joan said tartly. “I thought you had finished with that sort of business, madam.”

Eve smiled. She was accustomed to Joan’s sharp tongue and knew it hid a protective heart. Joan had been turned off for refusing Sir Montague Fortune’s advances and she had some hair-raising tales to tell of the goings-on at Fortune’s Hall. She also had no very good opinion of men.

“Don’t fret,” Eve said. “I am done with it.”

Ignoring Joan’s snort of disbelief she ushered her visitor behind the counter and through the doorway into the room at the back. The pawnbroker’s shop occupied two downstairs rooms in the stone-built terrace. Eve used one as the shop front and the other, a much larger room, as a combined office and a store for all the goods people brought in to pawn. Upstairs there was a tiny bedchamber and some even tinier living quarters. She and Joan clung to their financial independence by their fingertips. The premises were hardly sumptuous but the shop did at least provide an independent living and it had been a lifesaving opportunity for Eve when she had run from London—and from Rowarth—leaving everything behind, broken by a miscarriage, reeling from the news that she would never bear another child. She had left behind the beautiful little town house that Rowarth had given her in Birdcage Walk, where he had spent all his nights and most of his days with her, the clothes and the jewels, and had climbed on the first stagecoach from the Blue Boar Inn in High Holborn. She had told the driver she would go as far as her money could take her and had ended up in Fortune’s Folly, working as an assistant until she had accumulated sufficient savings to buy the shop, working her fingers to the bone, working, always working, as she tried to forget …

She pushed the memories away. Rowarth was standing in her office and looking around him with a lively interest. He looked elegant and polished, the epitome of wealth and privilege, utterly out of place in these shabby surroundings. Never had the differences between them felt so stark.

“So,” she said, a little ungraciously, “I can give you two minutes, Rowarth, no more. Whatever your business is with me, I do not want to discuss it.”

His gaze came back to rest on her, dark, brooding, and she repressed a little shiver.

“You will give me as long as I require,” he said. He straightened. “My business with you is this. I am here on behalf of the Home Secretary. You are under suspicion of criminal activity. If you do not help us we will ruin you. We will expose your true identity and we will take from you everything that you possess.” He smiled at her. “Now,” he said gently, “will you talk to me?”

CHAPTER TWO

SHE LOOKED THE same as she had done five years before. Alasdair Rowarth looked at his former mistress and amended his view slightly; she looked almost exactly the same except that there were shadows haunting those glorious lavender blue eyes now, suggesting a sadness that went soul deep. He did not feel any pity to see them; she had left him, walked out on him for another man, so whatever sorrow she had brought on herself was surely richly deserved.

The bitterness and resentment twisted within him and he ruthlessly subdued it. She was nothing to him now. He was here to prove it. But he remembered that it was Eve’s clear and candid gaze that had first enslaved him from the moment he had stepped into the ballroom at Albermarle Street, persuaded against his better judgment by his friend Miles Vickery to attend the Cyprian’s Ball. He had been bored and restless that evening, he remembered, searching as he always was for something elusive, something he could not even name, grasping after that mysterious entity that would fulfill him and provide a desperately needed balance to the lonely duty that was his life. Rowarth had come into his dukedom young; so many people depended upon him, it seemed that his days were never any more than a round of obligation and responsibility. He had searched for someone to share that weight of duty with him, looked for a wife at Almacks and in the long round of the London Season, and had been bored rigid by the witless pattern-card debutantes he had met.

And then he had attended the Cyprian’s Ball and there she had been, Eva Night, bright, dazzling, so very alive, and in some way strangely untouchable even as she was effectively selling her virginity to the highest bidder. He had been entranced. He was rich enough—so he had bought her. And yet from the first he had thought that there was more to the transaction than that. It had not been solely his money for her body. She had given him life and light and warmth, wrapping him around with her generosity of spirit, her very presence lightening the load of the responsibilities he carried. In return he had shared everything with her. Not simply his money but his concerns and his cares, his deepest, darkest fears and his hopes for the future. Even though he was a mature man of one and thirty he had fallen for her like a love-struck youth. He had wanted to marry her. It had been perfect. Or so he had thought until she had left him, run away, denting his pride, making him an utter laughingstock—the foolish duke who had wanted to marry his venal mistress—and breaking a heart that until he had met her he had cynically believed could never be touched.

He had been a fool. That much was clear. The thing that angered him most was that he had loved her and believed his feelings were returned when in fact she had merely been using him for money and advancement. He had been wealthy enough but nowhere near as rich as some of the peers who sought Eve’s favor now that she was the toast of the demimonde. It had been madness to think that he could hold her if another man offered more. When he had been a mere ten years old he had seen his mother do precisely the same thing, betray his father, running off abroad to be with her wealthy lover. There had been the most appalling crim con divorce case that had dragged through the House of Lords and made his father look like a naive, impotent fool. And Rowarth, who savagely told himself that he should have known better, had almost made the same mistake as his luckless father. He knew he should be grateful that he had not committed the ultimate folly of marrying Eve as he had wanted to.

After Eve’s defection he had gone abroad for several years—he had business concerns in India that had occupied him most successfully until the pleas of his estate managers had brought him back to England to face those responsibilities he had neglected. He had believed that he had put aside thoughts of Eva Night until he had come back to London and found himself searching for her face in a crowd or listening for news of her. He had learned that no one had heard of her since she had run away from him. It had been the on dit at the time but Eve was now long gone, her star extinguished, the brief time when they had been the glittering couple of the demimonde all but forgotten. Rowarth had tried to forget it, too, but every so often the memory of Eve would stab him like a wound that had not completely healed.

Then Lord Hawkesbury’s letter had arrived out of the blue, asking for his help. Yes, he would go to Yorkshire and confront his beautiful, treacherous former mistress. Yes, he would ascertain if she were a member of a dangerous criminal fraternity, as Hawkesbury’s intelligence suggested. And in doing so he would prove once and for all that he was free of the hold she had once exerted over him.

Criminal she might be. Beautifully, wantonly seductive she most certainly was. Eve’s face still had the vivid animation that Rowarth remembered: her creamy complexion was still dusted with amber freckles, her hair was still a fiery red, and the quick, expressive movements of her body were as ridiculously, dangerously appealing to him as ever. Not even her fearsomely respectable worsted gown and dark blue spencer could hide the lush curves of a figure he had known intimately and already ached to explore again in exquisite detail, unable to subdue the desires of his body even while he deplored her and the hold she still had over him.

He had not expected to want her.

He had thought those feelings dead and gone. They should have been—they should have been annihilated, destroyed by her betrayal. He was furious that they were not. Yet he was forced to acknowledge that when he had first seen Eve in the Market Square he had felt all the old emotions of desire and lust and longing as strong as they had ever been and searing in their intensity. He had been told himself then that the memories, the hold she had had over his senses, would never be permitted to cloud his judgment. That resolution had lasted all of five seconds. He had seen her and he had wanted her with a hunger all the more acute for the years of denial.

But his business with Eve was precisely that—business. He was here on Hawkesbury’s behalf to ascertain her connection to Warren Sampson and to use her, coldly, ruthlessly, to get to Sampson so that the man could finally be arrested. That was his goal, no more, no less.

“I strongly suggest,” he said, “that you do as I ask.”

For a moment Eve stared at him, those glorious lavender eyes wide and blank and he wondered if she had even heard him. Then an expression of fury came across her face.

“You bastard!” she said, picking up a very fine silver hairbrush from the desk in front of her and throwing it at his head. “How dare you come here and threaten to take away from me everything that I have worked so hard for?”

Rowarth caught the hairbrush absentmindedly in one hand before it made contact. He had always been good at cricket. Eve was looking absolutely furious, her piquant face flushed and her breathing quick and light. But it was more than anger he could see in her face. It was desperation. There was so much passion and rage in her voice that for a moment the principal emotion he felt was admiration that she was as strong as a tigress in defending the things that mattered to her. Memory stirred again; when she had been his mistress he had given her money and had been puzzled when she appeared to have spent it all on nothing. When pressed it had turned out that she had given it all away to feed and clothe urchins living on the streets. Rowarth had protested at her generosity and Eve had turned on him, saying that he was spoiled and privileged and could not understand—all true, of course, for how could an Eton- and Oxford-educated duke ever understand what it was like to struggle to survive? Most dukes would not even care. They had argued passionately and then made love even more passionately and she had lain in his arms and at last confided the truth in him.

“I did not know my parents,” she had said, her head against his shoulder, her hand resting over his heart, “and I was cold and hungry and afraid more times than I care to remember.” There had been a faraway look in her eyes, as though she were seeing far beyond the walls of her bedchamber. “If I can spare even one child from suffering as I did then that has to be for the good.”

Rowarth had felt humbled, made to look beyond the comfort that had shielded him since his youth to another more painful existence. He knew that Eve had chosen to become a courtesan only because she had seen it as a way out of such stark poverty.

“I was pretty,” she had once said lightly, “so I used it to escape.” But he knew those words hid a wealth of bitterness.

“It is only the rich who can afford moral scruples,” she had once flashed at him when he had commented on the hanging of a youth for the theft of a loaf of bread and he knew that she had felt the same way about the choice she had made in selling herself.

Or he had thought he had known her until she had betrayed him.

But that was in the past and nothing to the purpose now.

He put the silver hairbrush on the desk. He suspected it was part of a quantity of stolen goods that Hawkesbury had said Warren Sampson was almost certainly laundering via Eve’s pawnbroking business. Which brought him back to the matter in hand.

“You are working with Warren Sampson to pass on stolen goods,” he said. “He runs a housebreaking gang that robs property across the county and then his accomplices bring the items here and you sell them, making him a double profit.”

She stared at him contemptuously. “That is utter rubbish.” She turned away from him with an angry swish of skirts and took a couple of paces away across the room. She could not get any farther away from him because the office was so small and he could sense the anger in her, still simmering like a pot coming back to the boil.

“I barely know the man,” she snapped. “And what I do know I dislike intensely. It is both insulting and plain wrong to suggest some criminal conspiracy between us.”

Hawkesbury had suggested that Eve might be Warren Sampson’s mistress, a cozy arrangement if they were in bed and business together. And Rowarth was not simply going to accept her word that it was not so. Just the thought of her tumbling between the sheets with Sampson made him hot with rage and thwarted desire. Madness, when he had sworn he did not care and did not want to want her.

“Shall we sit,” he suggested evenly, “and discuss this calmly?”

She gave him another look of searing disdain. “If we must. If it will hasten your departure.”

He bit back a reluctant smile. Never had a woman seemed so anxious to be rid of him. But then, Eve had always been different.

“I shall want to see your accounts in due course,” he said. “I need to trace every one of your transactions.”

“How tedious for you,” Eve murmured.

“I suppose that they are in order?”

“Of course not.” Eve glanced at the tottering plies of paper on the desk and the floor. “You may have taught me to read and to compute mathematical sums, Rowarth, but you could not make me like it.”

The memory touched him on the raw. It was true that she had been illiterate before he had taught her. There was a bitter taste in his mouth as he thought of the sweetness of those lessons and the gifts he had brought her, the books she had painstakingly learned to read, the columns of figures she had haltingly added up while he had joked that at least that way she would know how much money she was giving away to the poor. He slammed the door on such memories. Evidently she had moved on and was able to calculate Sampson’s wealth very accurately and certainly well enough to profit by it.

“It was not the only thing that I taught you,” he said harshly. “You may have been a courtesan but you were not a tutored one.”

Color lit her cheeks at his reference to the fact that she had been a virgin when he had taken her to his bed.

“I do not recall you having any complaints,” she snapped.

He had not. It had been blissful. He recalled the sweetness of Eve’s lissome body stretched beneath his hands and the pure physical compatibility that they had achieved. And then he thought of her running from him.

“Such debate gets us nowhere,” he said harshly. “Now, tell me the truth about Warren Sampson this time.” He met her eyes directly. “Was he the man you left me for? Are you his mistress?”

“I do not believe that you have been hearing me,” Eve said wearily. She felt sick to her soul that Rowarth, who had once loved her, should now hold her in nothing but contempt. “For the last time, Rowarth,” she said, “I barely know Warren Sampson. I am neither his mistress nor his business partner, nor,” she added with emphasis, “his associate in any way.”

Disquiet stirred in her. It was true that for the past couple of months she had been aware of some very valuable goods passing through the pawnshop. The silver hairbrush was one such item and there had also been some silver plates and a couple of gold snuffboxes. A rather dissolute young man whom Eve had recognized as Tom Fortune, younger brother to the squire, had brought the pieces in. The workmanship on them had been superb and Eve had given him a good price for them. She had asked no questions at the time for she was well aware that people were very sensitive about bringing in property to pawn for money and one of the reasons her clientele liked her was because she was so discreet and kept their secrets. And yet she had not been comfortable about the transaction. A sixth sense had told her that something was wrong even as she had tried to persuade herself that Tom Fortune was probably only selling off the family silver to pay his gambling debts.

Her disquiet turned to foreboding. Could Hawkesbury be correct, not in his suspicions of her, but in the fact that Warren Sampson might be using her shop to launder stolen goods? Sampson was a deeply unpleasant man, grotesquely, ridiculously wealthy with a fortune that had been made in the mills of Leeds and Bradford. On more than one occasion Eve had caught him looking at her with speculation and lust in his eyes and she had shuddered to imagine that he might know her secrets, her background, her past. What Warren Sampson might do with such knowledge was terrifying. But he had said nothing and had always treated her with outward respect, and Eve had told herself that she was imagining things. Nevertheless, he always made her skin crawl.

Rumor, which swirled around Fortune’s Folly like the current of the River Tune, said that Sampson had added to his money through various criminal activities but nothing had ever been proven. Now it seemed that Hawkesbury was set on finding that proof and that Rowarth would use her in any way possible to bring Sampson down.

Eve shuddered. She knew that if Rowarth had Hawkesbury’s authority he could enforce whatever he wished and if Hawkesbury believed her guilty of criminal activity then she had no hope. Suddenly she felt so tired, so vulnerable to this man and to the insidious appeal that he still had for her and so miserable that he had nothing but disdain for her now. It appalled and distressed her that he had accepted Lord Hawkesbury’s commission to bring her down.

But such regrets would not save her. With a sigh, she gestured Rowarth to a seat on one of the rather rickety wooden chairs at the side of her desk. Accounts and correspondence spilled from the table onto the floor. She gave vent to her feelings by giving the papers a violent shove so that the ones still on the desk cascaded onto the floor.

Realizing that Rowarth was waiting, with impeccable manners, for her to sit first, she pushed some books aside and took a chair. He immediately sat down opposite her. His presence seemed to fill the space between them, powerful, authoritative. The room suddenly seemed too small, cramped and close, and it was nothing to do with the piles of goods that were stored in there. It was simply that Alasdair Rowarth had always been the most overwhelming man that Eve had ever met and she felt angry that he could still affect her in such a profound way.

To cover her nervousness she tilted up her chin and subjected him to a stern appraisal.

“You cannot have any evidence at all to back up these ridiculous accusations,” she said. “They are absolutely untrue.”

Rowarth inclined his head. His hair, glossy and thick, shone in a ray of sunlight that penetrated the dusty window. He looked self-assured, Eve thought, with all the confidence that privilege and position could bring. It only served to make her feel all the more vulnerable.

“The Home Secretary’s agents have had your shop under observation for several months,” he said. “They know that you are fencing stolen goods.” He picked up the silver hairbrush again and looked thoughtfully at it. “I am sure you are aware there have been a number of robberies locally.”

“No,” Eve said. Her immediate instinct was to protect herself and Joan and all she had worked to build up. But she could see as soon as the words left her mouth that Rowarth did not believe her. His gaze rested on her face with the perceptive intensity that she remembered. She blushed and saw the corner of his mouth lift in a smile, as though she had just confirmed her guilt. She could have kicked herself.

“If stolen goods are being passed through this shop it is entirely without my knowledge,” she temporized.

Rowarth held her gaze, his own implacable. Eve shivered to see the coldness there where once there had been nothing but heat and sweetness for her.

“That does not make you innocent,” Rowarth said.

“It makes me a victim of Sampson’s criminality,” Eve said sharply, “not an accomplice.”

Rowarth raised his brows in blatant disbelief but he did not challenge her immediately. Instead he picked up a monograph of some very naughty erotic drawings that Eve had failed to notice was lying on the desk. As he flicked through the pictures Eve started to feel unconscionably heated, her mind conjuring up visions of the past, of her body locked with Rowarth’s in the most intimate and sensual of embraces, his mouth hot against the bare skin of her inner thigh, her cries of need as his tongue flicked her tender core, the bliss as he took her, pushing her to the extremes of pleasure …

She tried to steady her breathing. Her pulse was fluttering like a trapped butterfly. Her skin tingled and she felt light-headed. She fanned herself surreptitiously, watching as Rowarth assessed the saucy sketches, brows slightly raised, a faint smile still on his lips. Her fingers were itching to snatch the book away from him and put an end to her embarrassment. And then he looked up and the turbulent desire in his eyes flared strong and elemental, and Eve felt the need knot in her stomach and almost gasped aloud.

“What an interesting variety of items you must take in here,” Rowarth said, a rough undertone to his voice. He shifted, clearing his throat. “These, I would guess, are the property of Mr. Tom Fortune. I hear he has an extensive library of such books.”

“I never divulge details about my clients,” Eve snapped. She pulled herself back from the brink of sensual awareness. If Rowarth could exercise such control against the ghosts of the past then so could she.

Rowarth’s gaze had moved on to a rather fine ruby bracelet that was nestling in a cut glass bowl.

“That is pretty.”

“It’s made of paste,” Eve said quickly and untruthfully. The bracelet was not in fact a fake, but Eve was desperately hoping that the Dowager Duchess of Cole, who had brought it in, would find the funds to buy it back. She had seen the look of despair on Laura Cole’s face when she had pawned her jewelry and had guessed that it was of great sentimental value. She had given the Dowager Duchess a very generous sum for she knew that Laura Cole and her little daughter were poverty-stricken.

Rowarth permitted the rubies to slide through his fingers before looking up at her. “You seem reluctant to sell.”

“I was not aware that you were buying,” Eve said. “I thought you were here to threaten me instead.”

“Touché.” He smiled at her suddenly. It was devastating. “You fight damned hard, Eve.”

“I always did.”

“I know.”

For one short, achingly fragile moment their eyes met and held and Eve’s heart tumbled to see the tenderness in his, and then it was gone, swept aside by a coldness so bitter that she felt shrivelled and frozen. Rowarth broke the contact, stretching in his chair, muscles rippling beneath the blue superfine of his coat. “Hawkesbury’s intelligence is that you are extremely liberal in the sums you offer to clients, sometimes giving far more than an item is worth,” he said. His voice had chilled, too. “Apparently if you know a client is attached to a particular item you will keep it safe for them to reclaim when they can afford it, rather than sell it. If you know some of your clients are pawning their last stick of furniture in order to buy gin to drink themselves into a stupor, you will try to persuade them off the bottle.”

“And your point?” Eve asked tartly. “I thought that you were the prosecution not the defense.”

“My point,” Rowarth said with an edge to his voice, “is that such generosity would make you vulnerable to blackmail. You do not have the skill to make your business profitable by legitimate means and so it seems you have resorted to illegitimate ones in order to keep afloat. Perhaps Sampson was able to blackmail you into his bed and his business because of your poverty?”

“That is entirely false,” Eve said, stung by the harshness of his judgment. “I bought the shop, but I could not buy the business acumen to go with it. I have tried my best and yes, you are correct, I struggle because I tend to be too kind to my clients. Nevertheless, I would never resort to criminal means for my livelihood.”

She could feel Rowarth’s gaze search her face, shrewd, perceptive and as tangible as a physical touch.

“I know you are determined to believe the worst of me,” she said bitterly, “but you should at least get your accusations straight. Either you suspect me of being Sampson’s mistress—in which case I would hardly be flailing around in poverty watching my business fail but rather enjoying his vast wealth in comfort and privilege—or you think me a blackmail victim. Neither is correct.” She snapped a pencil fiercely between her fingers. “You can take your base suspicions and put them in your ducal—” she broke off, in danger of reverting to the street slang of her childhood “—pipe and smoke it,” she resumed. “You can prove nothing, for there is nothing to prove and so you may tell Lord Hawkesbury.”

There was another silence and then Rowarth shifted, stretched. “What you have told me may well be true, Eve, but at the very least, you have committed a crime and that is proven. You have stolen goods sitting in your shop.” He gestured toward the hairbrush. “This piece here, and the candlesticks I saw in the window will, I suspect, match an inventory of goods taken from Broughton Castle two weeks ago. You could be hanged for that alone.”

Eve’s heart started to thud. She wondered for how long and how often Warren Sampson had been using her shop to launder his stolen goods. His associates had brought the items to her and she, in her ignorance, had paid for them, giving money for items taken by theft. She had been so naive and now her entire life teetered on the edge of extinction. Once again Rowarth’s gaze appraised her and Eve had the strangest sensation that he was probing her soul. Would he really condemn her to death? She could not, would not believe it. Yes, he had changed—he had a harder edge than the man she had once known—but surely that would be beyond him.

“Then have me arrested,” she challenged him. Their gazes clashed, blue eyes and dark. “Send me to the executioner if you can.”

There was a long and painful silence and then Rowarth shook his head slowly. “I have another purpose in mind for you,” he said, and again his tone was so cold that Eve shivered to hear it. “There is a particular piece of jewelry, a necklace of sapphires, that was taken in the same burglary as the silver. If we can prove it is still in Sampson’s possession then we will have him.”

“I fail to see how that concerns me,” Eve said.

Rowarth looked at her. “I will tell you,” he said. “There is a party at Sampson’s house at Juniper Hill tonight. You will attend with me. You will seek Sampson out and hint that you know he is using your shop to sell his stolen goods. You will suggest that the two of you go into business formally together in order to make more profit. That should appeal to him. You will ask if he has other items he could pass on to you, jewelry perhaps …” His gaze swept over and seemed to linger on the line of her mouth. “And you will sweeten the offer …”

“With the additional promise of myself?” Eve wrapped her arms about her to ward off the chill that was invading her very bones. “You are blackmailing me to make me prostitute myself to him just so that you can catch him?”

She saw a flicker of expression in Rowarth’s eyes that she could not read, and then it was gone.

“That is putting it a little harshly,” he said, “but yes, you have it precisely.”

Eve felt sick that he could not have made it clearer that she was nothing to him now other than a means to an end. “I would rather that you sent me to jail,” she said bitterly.

“I doubt that,” Rowarth said.

“I will not do it,” Eve said defiantly.

“You will.” Rowarth was implacable. “You have no choice.”

Eve knew she did not. She was trapped. And she knew Rowarth did not trust her. This was a trial; he was testing her as well as using her, for if it appeared from Warren Sampson’s reaction to her that the two of them were already in league, Rowarth would denounce her without a thought. The bitterness turned to ashes in her mouth. Once they had been so much to one another. Now there was nothing left. She supposed that she should not feel so harsh a disillusionment, for she was the one who had betrayed him originally, after all. She had deliberately pushed him away, believing she had no choice, knowing they could have no future. Even so, his ruthlessness shocked her.

She got up and moved toward the door. “I would like you to go now,” she said.

Rowarth stood up, too. Suddenly he was very close to her, so close that she could hear his breathing and smell the scent of his skin and see the stubble that darkened his chin and jaw. The light grip of his hand on her elbow sensitized her entire body. Heat scorched her like a flame, making her shake. She felt stunned, trapped and a little dizzy.

“I am sure that you understand,” Rowarth said, in a measured tone, “what Warren Sampson’s parties entail?”

Eve’s mind reeled. She had indeed heard rumors of the scandalous parties at Juniper Hill but she had forgotten about them in the turmoil and shock of seeing Rowarth again and in the horror of his accusations. With a sick lurch of the heart she realized that this would be no respectable dinner or ball. Not only would she be making Warren Sampson an indecent proposal in order to trap him, by her attendance she would be proclaiming to the whole of Fortune’s Folly just what sort of woman she was. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked up into Rowarth’s face.

“If you make me do this you will ruin me as surely as if you tell the world of my past history,” she said. She hated the pleading note in her voice but could not avoid it. “Rowarth …” She looked at him but his expression was as unyielding as granite. “If word gets about the town that I am the sort of woman to attend such entertainments,” she said desperately, “then you might as well brand me a courtesan in public.”

She knew even as she spoke that her words were falling on deaf ears and she felt desolate.

“We shall have to display a certain amount of … pleasure … in each other’s company since we shall be attending together,” Rowarth said, quite as though she had not spoken. “I trust that you will once again fulfill the role of my mistress with all the experience at your disposal.”

Pain twisted in Eve that he could dismiss their past loving as something so tawdry. She could feel him watching her, seeing too much with those dark eyes. Her feelings felt exposed, naked. Could he tell how vulnerable she felt, still so aware of him as a man despite all that had happened to divide them?

She took a deep breath, knowing that the die was cast and there was no escape for her.

“I never was a very good actress but I suppose I can pretend to an affection for you for a short time,” she said.

Rowarth laughed.

“Pretense, is it? Why, I could swear that you are not indifferent to me, sweetheart.”

He kissed her with no warning and no chance of refusal. Eve’s hands closed into tight fists against the smooth material of his jacket, only to open and slide over his chest as she was instantly seduced by the memory of what had once been between them. Hot, sweet, wicked and wanton … He did not plunder but teased, the subtle pressure of his lips tempting hers to open. His tongue caressed hers and her knees weakened and the pleasure curled down to her toes and spread through her whole body as though she was melting.

His arms locked tighter than steel about her and she leaned into him, opening to his kiss, her body quivering like an instrument that recognized a familiar touch. He tasted the same and yet the experience was so different; it shook her, making her shiver, and he held her closer still even as he took her mouth with the same thorough possession that he had once taken her body. Her mind was full of memories and deep, dark desire. She could feel the need in him, held under tight restraint, and suddenly she wanted to push beyond that control and make him feel with the same powerless intensity that she was feeling.

But then Rowarth released her abruptly, stepping back. His eyes were almost black with lust, desire distilled.

“Pretense,” he said again. “If that was counterfeit, then you are a damned fine actress after all, Eve.”

And then he was gone, leaving her staring blankly at the panels of the door as he slammed it behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

ROWARTH WATCHED EVE as the carriage rolled up the drive toward Warren Sampson’s mansion at Juniper Hill. It had been easy enough to procure an invitation to one of Sampson’s notorious parties. The man was an inveterate social climber and when he heard that the Duke of Welburn, no less, was interested in attending he had been expansive in his welcome. Whether or not Sampson would be equally easy to trap into revealing his crimes was a moot point, but in that Rowarth did at least have the support of two of the Home Secretary’s finest men, his old friend Miles, Lord Vickery and Nathaniel, Lord Waterhouse. Both would be attending that evening and both were part of Lord Hawkesbury’s mysterious and elite group of counterspies, the Guardians, who worked to keep the country safe.

Rowarth could tell that Eve was nervous as the coach traveled up the long drive. She was sitting forward, her gloved hands clasped tightly together, her eyes anxiously scanning the road ahead as though she were dreading the moment they actually arrived and was hoping that fate would intervene in that short time and save her the ordeal. Rowarth felt a treacherous pang of tenderness to see her anxiety. He knew that he should not care a rush for her feelings after the way that she had deserted him but his emotions, it appeared, were not susceptible to rational argument. He had come to Yorkshire determined to fulfill his commission, certain he would feel nothing for Eve and that he could lay the ghosts of the past. Yet almost as soon as he had seen her, his feelings had started to change. It had been unconscionably difficult to force her to fulfill Hawkesbury’s demands with the callousness the situation required. Instead he had felt protective of her, which was the last thing he had either expected or wanted. When he agreed to work for Hawkesbury he had fully anticipated leading Eve into the lion’s den and watching as she was thrown to her fate. Yet now, seeing her fear and the courageous way in which she confronted danger, he had been forced to reappraise the situation. Seeing Eve again, speaking to her, witnessing her bravery and her resilience and her determination under threat had reminded him of what a fine person he had once believed her to be, before betrayal had so disillusioned him. His instinct was stubbornly telling him that Eve simply could not be complicit with Warren Sampson, that she must be a victim of the man’s criminality rather than a partner in it. Which meant that his urge was to protect her rather than use her, to defend her instead of sacrificing her. And yet he felt so angry at this impulse to shield her. Eve Nightingale deserved nothing from him. She had ruthlessly cut her ties with him years before. Now it was his turn to use her equally ruthlessly.

The torches that lit the driveway to the house shone through the carriage windows and illuminated Eve’s translucent complexion, highlighting the scattering of freckles across her nose and dusting her cheeks with a golden glow. Her lips were painted a deep red and looked luscious and impossibly tempting. In accordance with Rowarth’s instructions, she had chosen a fashionable red evening gown that was cut almost indecently low across her breasts. It clung lovingly to her curves and rustled as she moved, emphasizing the swing of her hips. As soon as he had seen her that night Rowarth had found himself possessed by an impatient and overwhelming masculine desire to peel the gown from her body and make love to her on the carriage seat. He wanted to rediscover where else she had those freckles. He wanted to relearn the taste of her, to inhale the scent of her skin and to let himself drown in the warm, silky sweetness of her body as she closed around him tight and hot. Lust, painfully sharp and predatory, twisted within him again as he thought about it. He was in an advanced state of sexual frustration, desperate to take his former mistress with a hunger that had dissipated not one whit. Yet she had spurned him, left him flat. He despised himself for his lack of self-control.

“Where did you go when you left London?” He spoke abruptly.

He had not meant to ask. After he had seen her at the shop he had resolved not to rake up anything of the past, simply to do his job tonight and then go back to London and never see her again. But now old emotions were aroused and old memories stirred and there were some things that he had to know.

He thought for a moment that Eve was not going to reply. The light from the torches skipped across her face in bars of flame and shadow.

“I came here,” she said slowly, after a moment. “I have been here for five years. Did Lord Hawkesbury’s intelligence not provide you with that information?”

It had. It had been something that had puzzled Rowarth, a doubt nibbling at the corner of his mind. Why choose Fortune’s Folly? And if she had run off with another lover, as she had told him in her farewell note, where was he? Who was he? Rowarth had assumed it must be Warren Sampson but now he was not so sure. None of Hawkesbury’s informants had mentioned that Eve had a new protector. Either she and her lover had been extraordinarily discreet or the man had not existed at all.

“You told me in your parting note that you had found a new protector,” he said slowly, watching her, “but my information is that no such person ever existed.”

He saw her stiffen, a quick, instinctive gesture she could not hide, before she turned her face away and feigned indifference. But it was too late and he was too quick, too perceptive.

“Eve?” he said. “Did you run off with a lover?”

She was stubbornly silent but he already knew the answer. Even after five years apart he knew her so well he did not need words.

“You did not,” he said. Urgency beat within him. “There was no new lover, was there, Eve?”

He saw her lips set in a tight line as she capitulated. “No, there was not.” Her words fell starkly into the darkness of the carriage. The torchlight flickered over her face and for a split second he saw utter honesty reflected in her eyes.

No new lover. Rowarth’s mind reeled. She had not left him for another man. She had not been another man’s mistress. Stupefaction, relief, pleasure flooded him at her words. He grabbed her hands, his heart lifting with absurd hope.

“Then why …” He had to clear his throat. “Why did you tell me that you had run away with someone else?”

Again it seemed forever before she answered as the carriage drew closer and closer to the door of Juniper Hill.

“I lied because I wanted to be sure that you would never seek me out.” She spoke the words so quietly that he had to lean closer to hear them and when he did they were like a blow to the heart. “I did not wish to be your mistress anymore, Rowarth. I had to leave you.”

I had to leave you …

Rowarth’s hopes crashed before they were barely born. He dropped her hands as he felt a dull pain spread though his chest. Eve had not wanted to be with him. She had felt so strongly that she wanted to make sure that they never saw one another again. The affinity they had apparently shared, physical and emotional, had been nothing to her. She had quenched the restlessness in his soul, she had anchored him and fulfilled the empty need within him and yet she had felt nothing. She had wanted to be free.

“I see.” He spoke slowly as he absorbed the blow. “I had no idea that you were so unhappy as my mistress. You should have told me. I would have paid you off. There was no need to run away.”

Eve did not reply. She turned away and the light and shadows skipped across her face, hiding all expression.

Rowarth knew that he should be humiliated. He should not want to pursue this further. And yet … And yet once again his instinct prompted him that there was something here that did not make sense, something he strove to understand.

“I tried to find you,” he said.

He had never intended to admit it. She had made him a laughingstock in the ton, the rich, handsome duke who could not hold on to his mistress and was in danger of making as much of a fool of himself over a woman as his father had done before him. He had looked everywhere for her in such a fever that he could not tell anger, fear and desperation apart; he had inquired everywhere but found no trace of her so that in the end he had been forced to accept that she did not want to be found, that maybe she had gone abroad, that he would never see her again.

“I am sorry.” Again her words dropped softly into the silence. She sounded indifferent, as though she were apologizing for stepping on his foot. Her apparent coldness, her pity, when his feelings for her were still so strong, was intolerable. His anger broke through five years of restraint. He grabbed her upper arms. The cerise wrap slipped from her shoulders to puddle on the carriage floor.

“Did it really mean so little to you, Eve?” he said fiercely. “After all we had shared could you really walk away from me so easily?”

The fury inside him was volcanic in its power. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her, to ravish her, to make her his once more and claim her with all the passion and anger within him. He pulled her close and she closed her eyes, her lashes spiky sharp against the pale curve of her cheek, as though she were warding off the fury in him, trying to defend herself. Her expression was stark in its misery and Rowarth felt in that instant, with a sudden, terrifying conviction that whatever she claimed, she had not left him by choice. Something terrible had happened to her, something she had felt unable to tell him, something that still pierced her soul. All the evidence supported it. Her false claim that she had left him for another man, the fact that she had left behind all her money and jewelry when she could have taken it and lived in luxury, the fact that she had hidden herself away in this little backwater … Whatever she had told him she had not run because she had been unhappy as his mistress. There had to be something else …

All the rage left him then, banished by the misery he could see in her face and feel in every line of her body. He picked up the wrap and placed it gently about her shoulders, wanting to draw her close, shaken by the instinct he felt to comfort her. But again she drew away from him, lonely but indomitable in her strength.

“Do not pursue this, Rowarth,” she said. He could see her hands shaking as she wrapped the shawl about herself. “It was a long time ago.”

Frustration and determination gripped him in equal measure. Pride and anger prompted him to let the matter drop and yet he found he could not.

“I don’t believe you,” he said brutally. “I don’t believe that you left me through choice, Eve. You must tell me what happened.”

For a brief moment she looked him directly in the eyes. “Nothing happened,” she said. Her voice was cool and light again, devoid of emotion. It was as though the unhappiness he was sure he had seen in her only a moment before had never existed.

“You mistake,” she said. “I appreciate that it must be difficult for you to accept, but I am afraid that I discovered that the role of your mistress was not one that suited me. So I left. That is all.”

Rowarth swore. “So you preferred to go back to an existence where you struggled to hold body and soul together as you had done once before?” he challenged. “You ask too much if you expect me to believe that, sweetheart.”

“I never wanted you for your money and status.” There was a thread of anger in her voice now. At last he had provoked her out of her self-control. She had always had a temper. “Oh, it was nice to be rich—” she invested the word with scorn “—but it was never really my money, was it?” She sighed. “I wanted respect,” she said. “Self-respect I had earned. I did not have that as a courtesan, using my body to buy survival.”

Again Rowarth thought she was dealing in half-truths. He knew how fiercely she hated the depths to which poverty and desperation made men sink and that she had deplored the necessity of selling her body in order to save her life. But he had also thought that between them there had surely been mutual respect and trust.

“You had my respect,” he said. “I wanted to marry you.”

Again she was silent for a moment, biting her lip. “I did not wish to be a duchess.”

“No,” Rowarth said. “Apparently you wished to be a pawnbroker.”

Again she showed a flash of temper. “Is it inconceivable that I might want an honest trade?”

“Rather than be a duchess?” Rowarth drawled. “Frankly, my dear, it is. And besides, pawnbroking is not generally considered to be an honest profession.”

She looked furious. “Enough,” she said. She turned her shoulder to him. “I am afraid that you will simply have to accept that I left you because I did not wish to be with you. There is no point in discussing the matter further.”

The carriage had drawn up in front of the steps of Sampson’s mansion and a liveried footman opened the door. Rowarth descended and held out a hand to help Eve down. Her face was serene again, concealing any emotion she might feel inside, but he felt her fingers tremble a little in his.

You will simply have to accept that I left you because I did not wish to be with you …

The words echoed in Rowarth’s head as he guided her into the entrance hall. So be it. Eve had made her feelings clear. His instinct that there was more to her betrayal than met the eye was clearly wrong and he would be a fool to pursue it further. She had wanted to be free of him. There was no more to be said.

The hallway at Juniper Hill was a riot of bad taste. Eve’s fascinated gaze was drawn upward to the ceiling where naked painted cherubs romped amidst fluffy blue clouds. In the alcoves were statues of hugely endowed Greek gods and artfully draped goddesses, whose state of undress was only equalled by the scandalous deshabillée of Warren Sampson’s female guests. Those invited tonight were not the respectable citizens of Fortune’s Folly but those of the local gentry who hunted hard, especially when it came to women, plus some actresses from the theaters of York and Harrogate, a smattering of Sampson’s business associates and those of their wives bold enough to attend.

Servants were circulating with trays of champagne. In the center of the hall was a gigantic ice sculpture of a naked, rampant god Poseidon, his icy erection almost as enormous as the trident in his hand. It rather spelled out the point of the entertainment, Eve thought. And in the middle of all this splendid ostentation was Warren Sampson himself, preening in peacock blue, expansive and vulgar and most frightfully proud, as far as Eve could see, of displaying his money in such an opulent style. He was surrounded by a positive plethora of hangers-on, including the squire’s brother Tom Fortune, who smiled very suggestively as Eve approached. As she and Rowarth stepped forward Eve registered the sudden excitement that ran through the ranks of Sampson’s guests. The men raised their quizzing glasses and looked Eve up and down from the diamond clasp in her red curls to the tips of her red satin slippers, lingering on the bodice of her gown where her abundant charms were so amply displayed. The women cast glances of lascivious greed at Rowarth who was looking exceptionally elegant in his austere black-and-white evening dress.

A frisson of nerves ran through Eve as Sampson’s gaze fell on them and he came forward to greet them, his eyes lighting with self-congratulation to have caught so eminent a guest as the Duke of Welburn.

“My dear fellow …” He stretched out a hand to Rowarth, his voice unctuous. “I am charmed that you have been able to join us tonight.”

Not by a flicker of expression did Rowarth give away any emotion other than an apparent delight to be there. The perfect courtesy bred in an English gentleman evidently made him able to carry off such a meeting, Eve thought. In contrast, her skin was crawling simply at being in close proximity with Warren Sampson. There was something unwholesome about the man and when he turned his gaze on her she felt a sense of revulsion she was afraid might be almost too strong to conceal.

“Mrs…. Nightingale, is it not?” Sampson was working hard to cover his astonishment at seeing her, but could not quite hide his feelings. Eve could not be sure whether his surprise arose from the unexpected appearance of his unwitting stooge or simply from shock at seeing a lady he had previously thought irreproachably respectable flaunting herself in such a shocking gown. His eyes lit with a predatory gleam as his gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts. Eve felt Rowarth stiffen almost imperceptibly beside her but when she flicked a glance up at his face his expression was quite smooth. His hand was in the small of her back, pushing her forward a little so that she could not avoid Sampson’s appreciative appraisal. She felt a bitter taste in her mouth, as though Rowarth was whoring her out, which of course, he was. And she had only herself to blame. When he had started to question her on the past in the intimate darkness of the carriage she had lied to him because it was the only way to keep her secrets and to keep the horrible memories of her miscarriage and loss locked away in the dark where it belonged. But she knew that she could not now complain if Rowarth despised her. She had deliberately pushed him away. Even so, a sliver of misery like a lump of ice wedged itself in her heart.

“Mr. Sampson.” She forced a smile. “It is such a pleasure to attend one of your parties. Your hospitality is legendary.”

Sampson laughed, showing his teeth. “My dear Mrs. Nightingale, had I known of your interest I would have invited you sooner.” He took her hand, his touch suggestive, and pressed his lips wetly to her fingers. Eve suppressed a shudder. Sampson’s predatory gaze went from her to Rowarth.

“Nor did I realize,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear, “that you were a particular friend of his grace.”

“Oh, Rowarth and I are very old acquaintances,” Eve said, with an arch look up at Rowarth who smiled back straight into her eyes. “But should we ever fall out I will let you know, Mr. Sampson.”

Sampson laughed. “I live for that day,” he said.

Eve smiled. She had never been much of an actress, she was all too well aware that she had too fiery and opinionated a disposition to hide her true feelings well, but since Rowarth wished her to offer herself—since she had to do so to save herself from Hawkesbury’s so-called justice—she would fulfill her role with all the fervor she could.

And hate herself for it later, no doubt. But she could not allow herself to think about that now.

Sampson was still holding her hand and she let it rest there, tightening her fingers with the slightest of pressure.

“I was hoping,” she murmured, “that I might have a few moments with you in private later, Mr. Sampson. There is a matter I would very much like to discuss with you—a business matter to our mutual benefit.”

Sampson’s eyes almost popped out of his head with a combination of lust and excitement, curiosity and, Eve was interested to note, wariness.

“You intrigue me, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said. “I will rejoin you as soon as I can arrange it.” He kissed her hand again, running his lips over her knuckles in an odiously familiar manner that made Eve want to wipe her hand on her gown.

“Your servant, madam,” Sampson said, moving off to greet some of his other guests and giving her one very long, backward look.

Rowarth took Eve’s hand in a grip so tight she almost flinched.

“He seems to like you,” Rowarth said, his voice hard and low.

“Of course he does,” Eve said sharply. “There is plenty of me on display to like.” She glared at him. “You would also have observed that he was surprised to see me. He was not expecting me to be here tonight. I told you that I barely know him.”

Rowarth’s gaze narrowed on her. “I accept that,” he said slowly.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Eve snapped. “Not that it makes any difference to you. Well, stay close to me, Rowarth, while I trap him for you. You want me to whore myself tonight,” she added, seeing him recoil and glad that her bitter words had touched him, “so I will do. I was your harlot so will do whatever you wish.”

She was unprepared for Rowarth’s response. He caught her arm and pulled her behind the cover of an enormous statue of Apollo. His expression was tight and furious and made her quake inside. “Never refer to yourself like that again, Eve,” he said. “Never! Do you hear me?”

Eve was utterly shaken. For a long moment their gazes held, tense and stormy, and then Rowarth swore under his breath and his arms went about her and his mouth came down on hers with absolute mastery, forcing her lips apart, his tongue tangling with hers and plundering her without restraint. Eve was lost from the first moment, her emotions adrift, the sensuality flaring between them in a scalding tide. She forgot where they were, almost forgot everything, in the maelstrom of sensation and desire that swept her away.

“Getting into the swing of things rather well, Rowarth.”

An amused male voice had them falling apart, panting, and Eve looked up to see a tall man with brown hair and the wickedest hazel eyes she had ever seen smiling at her and making her an elegant bow.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said, “though I do apologize for interrupting you at such an impossibly awkward moment. You may remember that we met a few times in London. Miles Vickery, entirely at your service.” He gave Eve a look of comprehensive admiration that brought a blush to her cheeks. “I wish that Hawkesbury had chosen me for this assignment rather than bringing Rowarth in specially,” he drawled, “but then I suppose he does have the prior claim.”

Rowarth did not seem amused. “Vickery—” he began, with so much possessive threat in his voice that Miles backed off, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“All right, Rowarth. I understand.” He grinned. “Don’t forget that I am your oldest friend. There is no need to call me out. I’m here only if you need help tonight. As is Nat Waterhouse.” He pointed out a tall, dark man who was across the other side of the hall drinking champagne and flirting with a blond woman with improbably girlish ringlets, whose breasts were tumbling out of the bodice of her clinging blue gown. As they watched, Waterhouse raised one of the blond’s ringlets to his lips and she simpered up at him in return.

“Contrary to all appearances,” Miles Vickery said drily, “Waterhouse is working tonight.”

He bowed again and sauntered off, leaving Eve very aware of Rowarth’s presence at her side. She had felt the tension simmering in him from the moment they had first greeted Warren Sampson. She turned to see him glaring at her.

“No one will believe that we were ever lovers if you look at me like that, Rowarth,” she said. “There is no need to behave with such ill-tempered possessiveness.”

“Is there not?” Something primitive flared in Rowarth’s eyes before he banked it down. “That is what you do to me, Eve. There is business unfinished between us.”

“There is nothing between us—” Eve started to say, even as he caught her close again with a demand she was powerless to resist and which made a mockery of her denials.

“You still respond to me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Admit it, Eve.”

“And what is that to the purpose?” Eve was really angry with him now both for demonstrating the power he still had over her and arrogantly asserting that it meant anything at all. “I admit that there is some sort of inconvenient attraction still between us,” she said, “but it is no more than that.” She tapped her fan sharply in the palm of her hand. “You should take a good, long look at yourself, Rowarth, duke or no. You come here and insult me with your false accusations and coerce me into behaving like a harlot in red silk and no underwear and then you behave like a dog in a manger.”

They stared at one another, locked in furious confrontation, until recalled to their surroundings by a discreet cough.

“Excuse me, madam.” A liveried servant had approached and was standing a little distance away, clearing his throat. Eve tore her gaze away from Rowarth. “Mr. Sampson’s compliments and would you care to join him in the library?”

“Thank you,” Eve said, casting Rowarth one final glance before she followed him. “I should be delighted.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“I DON’T LIKE it,” Rowarth said to Miles Vickery. The two of them were stationed on a stone balcony directly above the open terrace windows that led from the library into the gardens. It gave them a perfect means of eavesdropping on the conversation inside the room without being so obvious as to be lurking suspiciously on the terrace. But Rowarth could also see the disadvantages. If Sampson closed the terrace doors then they would hear nothing and more importantly, if Eve needed help it would take them a long time to reach her. Nat Waterhouse, who was downstairs making sure that no one sprung them, was nearer, but he could not know what was happening inside the library.

At the moment Eve was alone and Rowarth was already feeling as strung out as a wire. His tension had ratcheted higher and higher since the confrontation with Eve in the carriage. He had despised the way in which Sampson had looked her over, his hands itching to plant the man a facer. He had almost done the same to Miles, who was a childhood friend. And Eve’s words to him in the hall had cut directly through all the bitterness and anger within him and had gone straight to his heart.

You come here and insult me with your false accusations and coerce me into behaving like a harlot …

Rowarth gritted his teeth. He was not proud of himself. There had been a time when he had been a better man than this. Eve had made him so. Now he wondered what would be worse—being obliged to listen to Eve seducing Warren Sampson, for the man was such an exhibitionist and the party so uninhibited that Sampson probably would not trouble to close the windows—or being unable to help her if Sampson turned threatening. Both thoughts were unendurable and it was he who had placed her in this situation, using her as bait, driven by his anger and need for revenge….

“Of course you don’t like it,” Miles Vickery said, breaking into his thoughts. “The woman you used to love is down there in danger of either seduction or violence or worse.” Miles shook his head. “To be honest, old chap, I think you are touched in the attic to have gone so far with this scheme. When Hawkesbury first mooted the idea you should have told him to go hang. I could not believe that you did not.”

“Yes,” Rowarth said, belatedly recognizing the truth of Miles’s assertions. “I should have done.”

“I know you were bitter after Eve left you,” Miles continued. “I know you were afraid to show weakness like your father, but really, old chap …” He shook his head. “The two cases were very different, were they not? And Eve had been ill, which I am sure must have made matters more difficult—” He broke off, seeing Rowarth’s expression. “I know, I know. None of my business.”

Rowarth stared at him, wondering if he had misheard. The wind from the gardens came faintly to him, carrying the scent of pine and jasmine with it. It also breathed suspicions into his mind, faint but powerful, no longer possible to dismiss.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“None of my business—” Miles began.

“No,” Rowarth interrupted. “The other bit.”

“Eve had been ill,” Miles repeated, as though Rowarth was a rather slow schoolboy having trouble with his lessons. “I know it was not something that you ever mentioned, but I saw the doctor leaving—”

Rowarth grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “What? When?”

“Steady on, old chap,” Miles wheezed. “I thought you were supposed to be cool under pressure?”

Rowarth released him. “When?” he repeated, very softly now.

Miles smoothed his jacket down. “Must we do this now, old fellow?” he beseeched. “Try to keep your mind on the job in hand. Sampson will be arriving at any moment.”

“Forget that,” Rowarth said. “This is more important. You were saying?”

Miles sighed. “I knew it was a mistake for Hawkesbury to recruit an amateur.” He caught sight of Rowarth’s expression. “Oh, very well. If you must know, I called on you at Welburn House a few days before Eve left you. There was an urgent matter I needed to discuss with you … Well, it is of no consequence now. I did not realize that you were out of town—the servants made no mention of it—so naturally when you were not at Welburn I assumed you were with Eve.” He sighed. “I was about to knock on the door of the house in Birdcage Walk when it opened and Dr. Culpepper came out.”

“The doctor?” Rowarth felt suddenly cold, the fear creeping down his spine.

“Yes, the doctor,” Miles said. “Must you repeat everything that I say?”

“Go on,” Rowarth said.

“As the maid was showing him out I heard him instruct her to look after her mistress,” Miles said. “So I assumed Eve was ill. That’s all.”

Rowarth took a deep breath. “Why did you never tell me this before?” he demanded.

“I’d forgotten about it until tonight,” Miles said simply.

The sharp click of the library door opening and closing again snapped them back to attention. There was the sound of voices.

“That is Tom Fortune,” Miles said, listening intently, “not Warren Sampson.” He spun around as Rowarth let out an oath and, opening the balcony doors, ran back inside the house.

“I say, old fellow, you can’t intervene now,” Miles protested. “You’ll ruin everything!”

“No, I won’t,” Rowarth said harshly. “I’ll be doing what I should have done long ago, devil take it.” He was already slamming out of the room, his footsteps echoing across the floor as he headed toward the stairs.

“As I said, I knew it was a mistake to recruit an amateur,” Miles said, but he was smiling as he followed Rowarth out.

Eve had found the library in near darkness, lit only by a single stand of candles that cast long shadows up the wall. It was also empty and for a moment Eve was relieved, for Warren Sampson’s absence at least gave her a moment to collect herself. She drew a deep breath, leaning against the long central table, which bore a breathtakingly tasteless vase of lolling lilies. Misery and regret beat through her body as she thought of the bitter words she had exchanged with Rowarth.

It was so pointless, so foolish, to want to go back, to wish to change the past. She had run from Rowarth in the first place because she had had no choice and nothing had changed. Five years ago she had turned her back on all that they had had because he had wanted to wed her and she had known that it was utterly impossible.

When first Rowarth had proposed marriage to her she had been astounded but he would entertain no opposition nor accept any refusal from her. He had rejected all her objections that she was unsuitable, that she had been born out of wedlock, that she had no education, that she had been his mistress and so it was utterly unacceptable for her to be his wife and even more inappropriate for her to be a duchess. He had swept it all aside, confident and happy, buoyed up by his love for her. He was a duke—he could do as he wished. And for a while Eve had been swept along, too, believing that they could be happy.

But then she had found out that she was pregnant and had lost the baby almost in the same instant. She had been ill, dreadfully ill, and Dr. Culpepper had told her that she would never bear another child. The news had been the bitterest blow that she had ever had to accept in her life. Even now she could not think about it without the pain expanding in her chest and stealing her breath and making her want to weep. She had thought herself hardened to every misfortune that life could throw at her. She had dealt with more than her share. But this grief was a different matter. It was a black, aching emptiness, a jagged pain that caught her at unexpected moments like a thief in the dark. It sapped her soul until she was so tired and worn that sometimes she had not known how she had carried on.

Rowarth had been away on business, visiting his estates in Kent, and by the time he had returned to London Eve had packed up and gone, knowing that she could never be his wife now, that it was all at an end, that fairy tales did not happen to the likes of little Eve Nightingale. Even if a duke was unconventional enough to marry his mistress he needed a son to carry on the title and inherit the estates that he had cared for so dutifully all these years. But she would never, ever be able to give Rowarth children and it had broken her heart and it would break his, too, if he ever knew …

Eve straightened, rubbing the tears from her cheeks with impatient fingers.

Fool to cry. She had always known that everything that had once been precious and sweet and true between them was long gone. She had always known there could be no going back for them.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mrs. Nightingale.”

Eve had been so wrapped up in her grief that she had not heard the door open but now she saw not Warren Sampson, as she might have expected, but Tom Fortune bearing down upon her, a glass of wine in one hand, a wolfish smile on his lips. She straightened quickly, masking her distress.

“I am sorry,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “I thought that Mr. Sampson was joining me.”

Fortune smiled again. “He will be here presently.” He came so close to her that she could smell the stale sweat on his body and the wine on his breath. Eve’s nerves tightened. There was something feral about Tom Fortune, something dangerous. She had met men like him before and knew precisely what they wanted. She looked around for something with which to arm herself but the fire irons were out of reach, as were the heavy china figurines on the mantel. She wondered where Rowarth and his colleagues had stationed themselves in order to witness her springing the trap on Sampson. She hoped they were close enough to intervene. But of course they would not do so. Her heart plummeted as she thought about it. Since Rowarth was happy enough for her to seduce Warren Sampson in the interests of eliciting a confession, no doubt he expected her to seduce Tom Fortune as well if the situation required it.

“Now then, Mrs. Nightingale,” Fortune was saying, “I believe that you had a business proposition you wished to discuss?”

Eve gave him a cool look. “For Mr. Sampson’s ears only,” she said politely.

Fortune laughed. He ran one finger down Eve’s bare arm and she tried not to flinch away. “You can tell me,” he murmured. “Mr. Sampson trusts me to handle his business affairs.”

“Does he indeed?” Eve said, raising her brows. “Was it Mr. Sampson’s business that brought you to my shop?”

Tom Fortune’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a very sharp look. “No indeed,” he said. “That was a personal financial embarrassment, I fear.”

“Selling off your brother’s silver to pay your debts?” Eve said. “A pity. I had thought … hoped … that there might be more business potential in the situation than that.”

Tom was very still, watching her like a snake watching a mouse. “What exactly are you suggesting, Mrs. Nightingale?”

“As I said,” Eve said, turning away and feigning boredom, “that is for discussion with Mr. Sampson only.”

Tom laughed. “Then if you will not talk to me,” he murmured, “I suggest that we pass the time until Mr. Sampson’s arrival in more pleasurable ways.” He lingered suggestively over the words. “You must know, Mrs. Nightingale, that in your case Mr. Sampson would deem it a positive delight to mix business with pleasure.”

“And you expect a share in that … pleasure, too, I suppose,” Eve said, trying to edge away from him. Tom Fortune followed her until they were in danger, Eve thought a little hysterically, of chasing one another around the table.

“I always try the goods out myself first,” Tom agreed. He moved quickly, grabbing her arm and pressing a damp kiss on the curve of her neck. Suddenly his hands seemed to be everywhere, down the neck of her gown, grasping for her skirts. It was intolerable and suddenly Eve knew she would rather be dead than succumb to him, Rowarth and Hawkesbury be damned. She tried to free a hand to strike him, but Fortune was strong and determined. She managed to reach for the huge phallic vase in the center of the table and brought it down on his head. Fortune swore. Water cascaded everywhere. Lilies flew in all directions. And in the same moment the door of the library was flung open and Rowarth, all urbane elegance gone, charged across the room, grabbed Tom Fortune by the neck cloth, dragged him away from Eve and struck him so hard and so scientifically that the man seemed to arc across the library before landing in the fireplace with a crash.

“Damned scoundrel,” he growled.

Miles Vickery, who had followed Rowarth into the room, went across to check on Fortune. “Out cold,” he said. “You always did have a dangerous left hook, Rowarth.”

“Rowarth,” Eve said, her hands pressed to her cheeks, torn between laughter and tears, “I do believe you have completely sabotaged your own commission.”

“To hell with my commission.” Rowarth scooped her up in his arms and strode to the door. His expression was set and hard. “To hell with Sampson. To hell with Hawkesbury. I should have told him to go hang from the start. You and I are going home, Eve. We have matters to discuss.”

Outside in the hall it seemed that all hell had broken loose as well. The ice sculpture of Poseidon, partially melted and drooping now, had been toppled onto the floor and was spreading water all around. A very pretty young girl of about eighteen in a peacock-blue mask was struggling in the arms of one of Warren Sampson’s guests, who, inebriated and lecherous, was trying to kiss her.

“Don’t you know who I am?” the maiden shrieked, pushing him hard. “Unhand me at once, you dolt!”

The man reeled backward and in the same moment Nat Waterhouse erupted across the hall, caught him by the cravat and hit him across the room in much the same way that Rowarth had despatched Tom Fortune. Waterhouse turned on the girl.

“Lizzie,” he said, in tones that made a chill trickle down Eve’s spine, “what the devil are you doing here?”

Despite the mask, Eve had recognized the girl now as Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, half sister of Sir Montague Fortune and of Tom, the very man who had just tried to seduce her in the library. It was evident from Lady Elizabeth’s very expensive but demure debutante’s raiment and the look of the startled virgin on her face that she could not quite hide, that for all her bravado she was in completely the wrong place.

“I heard there was a party,” Lady Elizabeth proclaimed, “and I wanted to see for myself.” She sounded ever so slightly drunk.

Her gaze swung around the hall, taking in the seminude women, the couples in various states of debauchery and the overendowed ice sculpture, and Eve saw her gulp. She had heard that Lady Elizabeth was wild but the poor girl had, Eve was sure, overstepped the mark this time.

“I’m taking you home,” Nat Waterhouse said to her, still sounding furious.

Across the hallway a couple of drunken young bucks had decided that if there was going to be a mill then they would join in. Half-dressed women ran shrieking for cover as they ploughed enthusiastically into the fight. Before long the servants had joined in and the entire room was a heaving mass of men planting random punches. Miles Vickery was doubled up with laughter.

“A marvelous end to Mr. Sampson’s entertainment and to our endeavor,” he said cheerfully. “Rowarth—would you like to be the one to explain this to Lord Hawkesbury?”

CHAPTER FIVE

“WE NEED TO talk,” Rowarth said. He and Eve were alone in the carriage, having delivered Lady Elizabeth Scarlet secretly and safely back to Fortune Hall and received her incoherent and tearful thanks. Waterhouse and Vickery had bidden them good night and retired to their lodgings at the Morris Clown Inn, mocking Rowarth for the fact that he was so rich that he was staying at the Granby Hotel while their miserable pittance of an income from the Home Secretary condemned them to less salubrious surroundings.

“I don’t want to go to the Granby,” Eve said. “I have had a sufficiently disreputable evening as it is without creeping into a gentleman’s hotel room. That would finish my reputation for good.”

Rowarth took her hand. “Then where shall we go?” he asked. His gaze compelled her and a curl of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She knew that there could be no avoiding a final confrontation now. She had felt it from the moment Rowarth had scooped her up into his arms in Sampson’s library.

“There is no one at the shop,” she said reluctantly. “Joan has rooms at her sister’s house in the village.”

She saw the flare of satisfaction in Rowarth’s eyes and something else, heated and intense. “Just to talk, Rowarth,” she reminded him, though her pulse fluttered.

“Absolutely,” Rowarth said smoothly.

The tiny room above the shop seemed even tinier with Rowarth in it, his presence dominating the space. Eve stirred the embers of the fire to a bright burning glow and lit a candle that she could ill afford. The soft light gave the room an illusory warmth but she felt cold and on edge inside.

“Would you care for a brandy?” she asked. Her cupboard was scarcely creaking under the weight of wine or spirits but she felt that even if Rowarth refused, she needed a drink for Dutch courage.

He laughed. “You still have a taste for brandy?”

The memories flooded back into Eve’s mind. When they had been together Rowarth had teased her once about the unladylike pleasure she took in drinking brandy and she had explained that she liked it because it was expensive, a gentleman’s drink, unlike the rough gin that was sold on the streets. Rowarth had gone out and bought her a case of the best brandy the very next day and she had told him that it was not his gift that mattered the most to her, although it touched her, it was his generosity in wanting to make her happy.

“I do not need a drink,” Rowarth said.

“I do,” Eve said feelingly. She poured for herself, then found that she could not touch the spirit anyway.

“Eve …” Rowarth came to sit next to her on the sofa. “I am sorry,” he said. “What I made you do tonight was unconscionable.”

“You did not make me do anything in the end,” Eve said. “I had already decided that you and Lord Hawkesbury could go to hell in a handcart before I touched Warren Sampson. And I was well able to deal with Mr. Fortune.”

“He looked very fetching wearing those lilies,” Rowarth said, smiling. The smile faded. “But you know what I mean. I was utterly in the wrong to coerce you so. It was unforgivable.”

The breath caught in Eve’s throat. She looked at him. He was watching the embers of the fire and his gaze was somber.

“I regret it more than I can tell you,” he said. “There are no excuses, but I want to explain. I want you to understand.” Then, as she inclined her head he continued: “To my eternal shame, I was so angry with you, Eve, angry and bitter. I should have told Hawkesbury what to do with his commission but when I heard that he had found you all I could think of was to see you again so that I could prove to myself that you no longer had any power over me.” He looked up, took her hand, his grip painfully tight. “I think that I feared becoming like my father,” he said softly. “His divorce case was so scandalous and sordid. It broke him. I was only ten years old but I saw the change in him. And then he died when I was barely eighteen and I knew my mother’s betrayal had killed him in the end.” He intertwined his fingers with hers, looking down at their linked hands. “I was furious that I had almost made the same mistake myself.”

He shifted, his fingers tightening painfully on hers. “Hawkesbury was able to use me because of that fear and resentment,” he said, “and in return I used you.”

“I understand,” Eve said. Her voice was thick with tears for the boy who had seen his father broken and betrayed and for the young man who had had to step into his shoes at so young an age and take on all a grown man’s responsibilities. “It does not matter, Rowarth,” she said. “We have both made mistakes. It is all done now.”

Rowarth was still holding her hand, his thumb stroking in distracting circles over her palm. “No, it is not,” he said, and Eve shivered because she knew what was coming. “Tell me what happened to you, Eve. Why did you run? I do not believe what you told me before. I know that you loved me, so why did you leave me?”

The grief and the misery wrenched at Eve’s heart. She looked up and met his eyes and saw nothing but compassion there, all anger spent.

“I cannot tell you,” she said. “Oh, Rowarth, don’t ask me. Please don’t ask me.”

His hand came up to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re afraid,” he said softly. His fingers touched her cheek with aching tenderness, cradling her. “Eve, I have to tell you that Miles Vickery told me something tonight that I never knew. He saw you on the day you left. He had come to call on me and he saw Dr. Culpepper leaving, too.”

Eve went very still. Icy shivers chased over her skin. Rowarth’s words had conjured all the fear and misery of those last days. She struggled to keep the horrible memories locked in the box where they belonged. She sat silent, her heart breaking.

“Eve …” Rowarth was gentle but relentless and she knew he would not give up now, not until he had the truth. She felt trapped. Could she relinquish half the secret, explain a little while keeping those worst, darkest and most devastating of memories safely locked away? She was terrified; she could never tell the worst of it. Even now it would destroy her.

“Were you ill?” Rowarth asked. “Eve, please—”

Eve gave a little hiccup between laughter and tears. “I was not ill. I was pregnant.”

There was a moment’s silence while Rowarth thought about this. “Did you leave because you thought I would not want our child?” His voice was rough. “Surely you knew me better than that? You knew I wished to marry you—” He broke off as Eve shook her head violently.

“It was not that,” she said. “I lost the baby, Rowarth. I had a miscarriage. I lost our child and I could not bear it.”

To her enormous relief he did not press her any further but gathered her close, brushing the hair away from her face as she cried now, unable to help herself. He murmured endearments to her, his arms as strong as steel bands about her.

“My darling … that you should have had to suffer that and I was not there for you …”

The warmth of his touch, the bliss of being in his arms after so many barren years, was too much for Eve. Suddenly she desperately wanted to deny the past, forget it and lose herself in this moment. She knew that she and Rowarth could not go back, that too much had happened to force them apart, but she wanted to hold on to this night forever. In the warm intimacy of this tiny room with the door closed against the world and the future, she could fool herself for a little while that she could recapture what they had had.

“I don’t want to talk about the past,” she said, pressing her fingers to her lips. “I want to spend this one night with you, Rowarth, and forget about all else.”

Rowarth went very still at her words. He held himself under absolute control, aching to touch her, hold her and kiss her to within an inch of her life. His body had sprung into almost instant hardness at the images her words conjured. To lie with Eve again, to rediscover the pleasure they could give one another, to hear her soft cries and take her with all the lust and tenderness and regret that was in his soul … But that was not enough. It would never be enough.

“Just the one night?” he asked.

“Yes.” The firelight shimmered on some expression in her eyes that he could not understand. “We both know that there cannot be anything else for us, Rowarth.”

He would take issue with that, Rowarth thought. Not long ago he might have thought that one night with Eve would be sufficient to sate his need for her and lay to rest the ghosts of the past. Now he knew that it could never be enough. His future would be a desert if Eve were not a part of it. The idea of her walking away from him again in a day, two days, and never seeing her again was intolerable.

His. The possessive desire almost floored him. She had always been his, from the first moment he had seen her, and she would be his again. They had lost each other a little along the way but soon, very soon, they could wash away the loneliness and grief he had seen in her, and the bitterness and revenge that had been in him. And then he would never let her go again.

Eve moved closer to him, which brought her into his arms, and raised her face to his so that he could kiss her. He was within an inch of forgetting everything except his need for her. With a groan he lowered his mouth to hers and she opened her lips to him and he tasted her, hot, sweet, as seductive as she had always been except that his desire for her was so much more potent now. His tongue grazed hers and she gave a little whimper of pleasure. He scooped her up in his arms, still kissing her, his only thought now to take her to bed and claim her once and for all as his own.

Eve stood on the rug before the fire in her bedroom, shivering. She was terrified. She had gone this far, recklessly, on emotion alone, and now a part of her was excited, wanting to luxuriate in the wonderful, wicked pleasure of rediscovering Rowarth’s touch, but she was also nervous, as gauche as a debutante.

He had carried her through to the bedroom and placed her gently on her feet but now he did not touch her. The anticipation and the anxiety thrummed through Eve like a wire. She had thought he wanted her with a hunger that matched her own.

“If you have changed your mind then let us forget the whole matter.” It was her pride talking because she could not bear for him to reject her now, after all that they had been through.

He moved then, so fast that she was taken by surprise, catching her hand and drawing her close.

“I have not changed my mind.” His voice was amused but with a rough edge to it now and the excitement flickered through her blood like sheet lightning to hear it. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you again and I knew this would happen.”

“How arrogant of you.” How she loved that confidence in him.

Rowarth put a hand under her chin. His eyes scanned her face, eyes so warm, so tender. Eve shivered again, this time with longing as well as fear. She had always known deep down that she still loved Rowarth and tonight she did not want to think about the future. She wanted to banish the darkness, at least for a little while.

He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip and Eve felt her body quiver in response.

“You’re nervous.” His voice was low. “I swear I will not hurt you.”

“I am not afraid of you,” she corrected him. At least there would be no physical consequences for her; there could not be when she could no longer bear a child. “It’s been a very long time for me,” she said.

Five years …

Tenderness warmed his eyes. “Then we shall do this very slowly and stop whenever you wish.”

“I don’t think I am likely to want that,” she murmured.

He was smiling and suddenly, fiercely, she wanted to kiss that smiling mouth, to taste him and lose herself in him.

“May I kiss you?” he murmured.

So sweet to be asked when most men would simply take.

“Please do …” Her voice was husky. His mouth took hers deeply, fiercely, his tongue tangling with hers in intimate dance. Her skin came alive beneath his hands, recognizing him in the most elemental way, tingling with the need to be close with no barriers between them. She freed herself from his ardent grip only so that she could undress him, eager now, her fingers slipping a little in her haste. She unfastened his stock and then the neck of his shirt, and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss on the hot skin at the base of his throat. A groan rumbled in his chest. She could feel the pulse there beating against her lips with the same rhythm as his heart. His hand went to unbutton his coat and waistcoat. Eve was fascinated to see that he was shaking. He shrugged himself out of the garments and tossed them aside. They hit the bed and slithered to the floor.

He caught her about the waist to press another kiss on her lips. Heat spiraled through Eve, twisting and tightening. Sweet desire flooded her down to the tips of her toes.

“Let me finish …” She pressed her palm against his chest and felt the warmth of his body through the material of his shirt “… or I will never get you out of these clothes.”

He made a sound like a growl. “Be quick then.”

Eve laughed. “I used to think that you were a patient man.”

Again she reached up to kiss him, full of feminine power and a bubbling happiness that took her by surprise. It was so long since she had felt like this. Joy and discovery, excitement and nervousness all mingled within her and made her feel honey-soft inside. She freed his shirt from the waistband of his pantaloons and burrowed underneath, fanning her hands out against his stomach. His muscles rippled against her fingers. He caught his breath and ripped the shirt over his head. Eve stared as the firelight turned his body golden and bronze, smooth, hard and sculpted. Beautiful. Time had not altered the physical perfection she remembered so well.

Her throat dried. She reached out to him but he was too quick for her, picking her up to lay her on the thick rug before the fire. His hands traveled over her, easing the gown from her, unlacing her stays with quick, practiced movements, taking her chemise from her so that she was naked but for her stockings. Eve was quiescent and still, her breath coming rapidly, her eyes fixed on his face where she saw intent concentration and desire distilled.

“Ah …” His eyes went almost black with lust as he exposed her body to his gaze. He sat back on his heels, a flush of arousal along his cheekbones. He had, she noticed, an enormous erection that his pantaloons could barely contain.

“Turn over.”

He rolled her onto her stomach. Her breasts, so full and sensitive now, brushed against the soft caress of the rug and she groaned. He leaned over her to press kisses up her spine and over the line of her shoulders. Her nipples hardened, her entire body alive and prickling with arousal. He licked a path down her spine again, his hot, wicked tongue spiraling over her skin, and Eve moaned. When his hands swept up her thighs she allowed her legs to fall open and felt the coolness of the air against her flesh.

“Leave the stockings,” she managed to say, as she felt his fingers on her garter, and she heard him laugh. The rough edge to the tone made her heart beat in double time. His caresses rose higher, stealing over her in a seductive circling motion that made the heat pool deep within her, until he reached the softest skin of her inner thighs. His fingers grazed her cleft and she cried out, the sensation blazing through her even as her body grasped for more. His hand was on her hip and he rolled her over so that she was staring up, dazzled by sensual need, into the hard, hot glitter of his eyes.

“I want to see you …” His words were low and harsh. “You always were so very beautiful … I want to touch every part of you …”

Eve felt very beautiful, worshipped and adored for the first time in five long years. There was reverence in the way Rowarth touched her, as though she was exquisitely precious, and awe in the way that he looked at her.

At last he moved to unfasten his pantaloons and his erection sprang free of the constraint, thick and hard. He lay beside Eve on the rug and started to kiss her all over again, his hands holding her still as he ravished her mouth deeply, his fingers tangling in her hair. He dropped his head to her breasts and skimmed his tongue over the sensitive underside and up to the nipple, licking and sucking, wrenching a gasp from her lips that was half moan, half plea. She wanted nothing more than to feel him inside her now and she reached for him, but he held off, making her wait.

“Patience …” There was amusement in his voice. “I want you to really want me …”

Oh, she did. She thought she would die of the wanting.

He trailed kisses across the curve of her stomach and she felt her muscles jump and clench. She arched, raising her hips, begging now.

“Darling Eve …” His voice was a dark whisper. “You have always been mine.” He moved between her thighs and hung there poised for what felt like the longest moment of her life. The emotion strung out between them, fierce and tight and impossibly tense, and then he slid into her, claiming her, so smooth and deep that she cried out.

Her body shifted to accommodate him as he thrust with strong, slow strokes. Already the pleasure was building within her, shimmering and tantalizing just out of reach. She wanted more. She wanted to explode.

“Faster, if you please …” She dug her fingers into his buttocks to pull him even tighter inside and felt his body jerk in response.

“So polite …” His breathing was ragged. He obliged her by plunging deeper and harder, driving her higher and higher as she smoothed her hands down his back to encourage him on and bit his shoulder in an agony of need and ecstasy. She had lost all coherent thought, everything drowning in pure pleasure and the absolute necessity of fulfillment. And then her body clenched and she came with a blissful, dazzling intensity. Fireworks exploded in her head, flooding her mind with light. Her body clasped his in helpless spasm, and she held him and heard him call her name as he, too, fell into the deepest languor and pleasure. Past, present and future collided in the most perfect reunion.

In the aftermath she felt him draw her close, tucking her into the curve of his arm as though she was the most precious thing on earth, her head on his shoulder and the beat of his heart against hers, and it felt like coming home.

Eve woke to see the light flooding the room and to feel a quick, uncomplicated joy. Rowarth was lying beside her, his arm about her waist in casual possession, his legs tangled with hers. She could smell his skin, at once familiar and exciting. Her body quickened again and she shifted, feeling the ache inside that was the aftermath of bliss and the promise of pleasure to come. It had been so perfect. She had never imagined it would be like that again.

The happiness fled. The loss she had staved off the previous night came flooding back, filling the emptiness within her soul with its bitter harvest. She had gone into this knowing that she loved him but that she could never keep him. Not Rowarth, with his responsibilities and his obligations, not least amongst which was his need to produce an heir for his dukedom with some suitable, blue-blooded, fertile aristocrat. She had borrowed him for one last night, loving him too much to deny either of them. And now she would have to give him up because that was the only thing to do.

“Sweetheart …” He was stirring. He stroked a palm over the soft skin of her stomach. He sounded happy. Another crack appeared in her heart.

He rolled over, looked at her, and at the expression in his eyes she felt sudden acute apprehension. Her heart was thumping. She knew he was going to ask her to be his mistress again and she was so sorely tempted to agree. To have Alasdair Rowarth in her life again, even if it was only for a little while … Would she sacrifice the independence she had achieved here and all she had worked for in order to be with him? And could she watch him wed another woman and produce an heir when she had thought once that she would be his wife and she knew that she loved him more than anyone else ever could?

“I once asked you to be my wife, Eve,” Rowarth said. “Now I am asking you again. Will you marry me?”

“Oh, no!” Eve could not quite bite back the words in time. This really was a disaster. She had not imagined, not dreamed, that this could happen. And of course it was utterly impossible, for all the same reasons that it had been before.

Rowarth was looking quizzical and a little chagrined at her outburst.

“I did not think the idea would be so abhorrent to you,” he said.

“I thought you were going to ask me to be your mistress again,” Eve said helplessly.

Rowarth did not look pleased. In fact he looked most forbidding. “That position is not on offer.”

Oh, dear. She knew she had offended him. No, she had hurt him. She could see it in his eyes. She loved him so much that it made her want to cry, she who had once thought herself as hard as diamonds. “I … I cannot.” Her heart was breaking piece by little piece. She wanted to explain why, but it hurt so much to open up those final dark secrets that she did not think she could force out the words. Besides, she could not bear to see his face when he knew the truth and to hear him retract his proposal. Like her, he knew that a man, a duke, needed an heir to his dukedom. He cared for Welburn so much, had done so since his youth with both a sense of responsibility and a deep love. It would be imperative for him to pass on that love and that duty to the next generation.

“My life is here now, Rowarth,” she said. “Flattered as I am by your proposal, I believe that it would be a mistake to try to re-create what we had.”

He had gone very still. There was a hard, determined light in his eyes. “Last night you told me that you loved me.”

Had she? She had no recollection of it at all, but during their impassioned lovemaking it would have been fatally easy to pour out all the feelings she had harbored for him during those five long, lonely years.

“Did I say that?” She forced lightness into her tone, making the entire experience sound no more than a pleasant tumble rather than something that had touched her soul. “A figure of speech, my dear. I certainly enjoyed it—”

He looked as though he was going to argue. He looked as though he did not believe her. Her defenses felt perilously weak. One word from him and she might falter. She moved to put a stop to it before it had started.

“I believe a gentleman can accept a refusal with good grace?”

Now he looked really angry. “If you wish to put it like that …” He bit the words out. “You tie my hands, madam. I will say no more.”

He leaped from the bed, magnificently unconcerned about his nudity, and gathered up his clothes, throwing them on haphazardly with swift, angry movements before wrenching open the door. Then he looked back.

“Farewell, Eve,” he said.

She heard his furious steps on the stairs, heard also Joan’s startled squeak as they met in the shop doorway and heard the door slam behind him. She lay still and forced herself not to watch him walk away from her because she knew that if she did she would change her mind and run after him and that was the one thing she could not permit herself to do.

It had been the most damnably miserable day. No matter that the sun poured down from a cloudless sky and the pavements of Fortune’s Folly bustled with people shopping, taking the waters or walking on Fortune Row. Eve was unhappy and Joan shook her head over her and brought her endless cups of tea for solace.

“I told you so,” Joan said. “No good ever comes from tangling with handsome gentlemen.”

“I am not tangled,” Eve snapped. “He has gone.”

Business was improving. A young lady had called by that morning. Miss Alice Lister had brought in a footstool to sell with an enormous, vulgar coat of arms on it.

“I’m afraid my mother embroidered it,” she said sadly. “She will sew our family crest on anything that doesn’t move away fast enough. Please, could you get rid it for me? I truly cannot bear to look at it.”

Eve had chatted with her and had smiled and sorted out the stock that had come in over the past few days and the time had dragged, the hands of the clock edging around so slowly into a future that now seemed colorless and gray. She had sent Rowarth away again because it was the only thing that she could do, for his sake and her own. Now all she had to do was forget him for a second time; no easy matter when she ached for him with every particle of her being.

At three-thirty the doorbell clanged again. Eve had been dealing with the accounts—hateful job—while Joan was in the village. She came out into the shop in time to hear the key turn in the lock and the shutters rattle closed.

“What on earth—”

Rowarth.

Impossible.

He was standing just inside the door. He had the key in his hand. Shaking, Eve moved several of the counter items at random. “I thought you had gone,” she said foolishly, since he was standing right before her.

“I’ve come to claim something I lost.” He sounded confident, authoritative, the humor lurking just below the surface. Eve’s heart leaped and she tried to quell its insistent beat.

“This is a pawnbroker’s shop,” she said, “not a lost property office.”

Rowarth smiled. Her stomach dipped. “I appreciate that. And there is another difficulty, too, I fear. I cannot pay you. What I want is beyond price. You have to give it to me freely.”

“That isn’t the way that I do business.”

“It is now. I want your love. Your hand in marriage.”

“My love?” Her voice sounded squeaky as a rusty gate. “Marriage? Rowarth, I told you this morning—”

“You told me that your words of love meant nothing. I think that you lied. I think you sent me away because you are afraid to take the risk.”

Eve stared at him, unwilling, unable to lie again. That morning it had been painful enough. “I cannot be held to anything I said in the throes of passion. It was so blissful I probably would have said anything …”

Rowarth smiled again, devastating, wicked. She felt light-headed, dizzy with love for him. “Eve …” He shook his head. “Take the risk. I love you—you make me happy, a better man. I hope I make you happy, too. So we will wed.”

The blunt male logic of it made it sound so simple.

Eve’s throat closed with tears. How to dissuade him now? He had come several steps closer. There was a smile in his eyes and a confidence about him that said he knew now how this would end. She could not hurt him again, could not lie.

“We cannot marry,” she said defiantly. “I was your mistress. I am unsuitable. Everyone will talk scandal.”

He looked unmoved. “I have had a great deal more women than you have had men, my dear.” He shrugged. “Does the past matter, if we love each other?”

Actually she found it did. She was consumed with jealousy for all those women. She wanted to rip them to shreds.

“If you believe that my past does not matter, you are mistaken,” she said. “No one will receive me.”

He looked regretful. “Some will because of the title. But I know that it is a great deal to ask of you. Do you love me enough to do it?” Then, as she hesitated, knowing she was only making excuses anyway, he added, “Eve, you know that I am no callow youth with unrealistic ideals. I’m old and cynical yet despite that I know that once I have found love—the real thing—I cannot afford to let it go if I am ever to be happy again.”

Eve picked up a cuckoo clock, concentrating fiercely on it. “I cannot. I am illegitimate, and ill-educated—”

He took the clock from her, placed it carefully on the desk and then took her hands, his gaze suddenly intent. “You may recall that we have had this conversation before. I do not care about your parentage or your education. You are loving and generous and warm and the most special woman in the world and I knew it from the moment we first met.”

She could not look at him. She tried to free herself and was held fast.

“Rowarth,” she said again, and she could hear the unsteady note in her voice and cursed herself for it. “How many dukes do you know who married their mistresses?”

He was actually counting. She could see it. “Three,” he said, at last. “Dunston, Glenroth and Shefford. The Duchess of Shefford called herself an actress but we all knew—”

“Rowarth!”

“I beg your pardon.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. “But you are scared, Eve. You are making excuses.”

She was. It was true. She so desperately wanted to accept him and to lay to rest the very last secret between them, yet she knew that if she did she ran the biggest risk of all, that of losing him for good.

“Eve, look at me,” Rowarth said. “Tell me what truly troubles you.”

It was pointless to resist. He was determined and his gentleness undermined every last defense she had.

She let go of her last secret. “I told you that I lost our baby five years ago.” She looked up into his eyes. “What I did not tell you, Rowarth, was that Dr. Culpepper explained that I would never bear more children.” She took a deep, painful breath. “I had not even known I wanted a child but then to be told I could never again bear one … it almost destroyed me.” She covered her face briefly then let her hands fall. She needed to end this. When he had gone she could break down. “But the point is that we cannot wed, Rowarth. We could not then and we cannot now, for I would never be able to give you an heir. That was why I ran away.”

There, it was out. The painful truth that she had nursed to herself all these years was finally exposed in the light. She had never talked of it with anyone. It was too difficult. The wound had never healed, for the hurt had run too deep. It had scarred over, her defenses imperfect, aching when something reminded her, or when, like now, the barrenness of her future was spread before her in all its sterile detail.

Rowarth’s expression had changed. She had known it would. She could not hit him with such a shocking truth and expect everything to be the same. He would withdraw from her now, free himself and beat a hasty retreat. He would do it charmingly, of course, with expressions of deep regret and commiseration even as he headed for the door, but he would leave her nevertheless.

“Eve, I am so very sorry.”

He sounded sincere. Eve was sure he was. She stifled a strong desire to throw herself into his arms and beg him to make everything right, because of course he could not. No one could. She drew herself up.

“Thank you.” Inexplicably he was still holding her hands and she realized that he had made no move to go. He was watching her, the deepest compassion in his face. She swallowed the enormous lump in her throat.

Why did he not go? She did not want his sympathy. It would be unendurable.

“Thank you,” she said again, very quickly. “But you must see …” She wished she did not have to spell it out. “It would be quite impossible for us—for you. You need an heir for Welburn. I know you love the place very deeply and would want to pass it on to your son. So …”

So why do you not simply go, put an end to this, walk away?

He dropped her hands at last and straightened up. Her body sagged with relief as well as misery.

“I am afraid that I do not.” He sounded terribly polite. Eve felt confused.

“Do not what?”

Unbelievably, there was still a spark of humor in his eyes. Her battered heart lifted to see it before plunging back down again. How could she feel even remotely happy when she was banishing forever the love of her life?

“I am afraid that I do not see why this makes it impossible for us to be together.”

She stared at him, utterly unable to comprehend what she was hearing.

“But, Rowarth—”

“My darling Eve.” Now, his arms went about her. Now the comfort and the peace she craved was so close but she did not quite dare to reach out to grasp it. He pressed his lips to her hair and spoke softly. “I am sorry for all you have suffered, Eve. I am even more sorry that I was not beside you when you needed me. I cannot imagine what you have been through or what it feels like for you, though I would do anything in my power to take away those memories. Alas, I cannot. But I can promise to devote myself to your future and your happiness always, if only you will let me.”

“But, Rowarth—” Her throat was clogged with tears. She never normally cried and now she was turning into a watering pot. It was infuriating. “The dukedom! Pray, do not be so foolish—”

“My darling Eve,” he said again, his lips moving to brush her ear, making her shiver, “my current heir is my nephew, and he loves Welburn almost as much as I did at his age. I am sure he has been secretly praying that I will never wed so that he can inherit. And I should be glad if he did.”

“Oh!” Eve felt taken aback, almost shocked. “But surely a man wants a son?”

Rowarth was strong enough not to deny it.

“It would have been very special,” he acknowledged, “to have had a son—or a daughter—with you.” For a moment they stood locked together in contemplation of a different future, one that could not be. Then Rowarth’s arms tightened about her.

“But I want you, Eve, more than anything else in the entire world. You are the one who completes me. You are all I need.”

Eve felt his compassion and his tenderness and his love touch her soul, taking away the darkness, and she turned her face up to his.

“I have never loved anyone but you,” she whispered. “I cannot believe this is true. It makes me feel quite giddy.”

She saw a smile curve his sensuous mouth. “My sweet, I have always said that you are a very inexperienced courtesan. To love only one man in your entire life …”

She touched his cheek lightly, lovingly. “And you love me, too.”

“So much that it consumes me,” Rowarth said. “I love you even more than I did five years ago. I had no idea it could be like this.”

“So we may learn about love together.” Her heart unfurled, light banishing the darkness, healing her. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and Rowarth caught it with one finger and traced the line of her cheek.

“You have worked very hard for all that you have achieved here,” he said, as the cuckoo clock chimed loudly from the desk.

“That’s true. I have.” Eve looked around at the shabby shop and felt a rush of affection for it.

“You once said that you preferred being a pawnbroker to being a duchess.”

“Perhaps I shall have to reconsider.”

“I thought,” Rowarth said, “that you might wish to keep the shop anyway. Perhaps Joan could run it for you?”

“I think that she would like that very much.” Eve pressed her fingers to his lips. “How generous you are to risk offering me a means of escape should I find I really do prefer being a pawnbroker to being a duchess.”

“You will not want to escape.” His arms about her told her that he would never let her go now he had found her again. The happiness swelled within Eve and this time she dared to trust it. “You are arrogant,” she whispered.

He laughed. “So you keep telling me.” His voice changed. “Accept me, Eve. Come away with me.”

Her heart was so light and full of joy she thought she might burst. “I thought that you had a job to do,” she teased. “You have not yet caught Warren Sampson.”

“The other Guardians can do that,” Rowarth said. “Hawkesbury will not rest until he has Sampson behind bars.”

“And what will you be doing meanwhile?” Eve asked, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.

“I shall be on my wedding trip with you,” Rowarth said. He bent his head and his lips met hers. “We can go wherever you wish, my love. Wherever you are is my heart’s home and it always will be.”

HOW TO WOO

A SPINSTER

Kasey Michaels

CHAPTER ONE

LADY EMMALINE DAUGHTRY sat in the gardens of Ashurst Hall on one of the first bright days of spring, completely and entirely alone.

It was her twenty-eighth birthday.

On her lap was the letter that had arrived in the morning post from her nieces, Lydia and Nicole. In order to keep to one sheet, thus saving on the postage, Lydia had written her rather formal, excruciatingly correct wishes in her finest copperplate. Nicole, being Nicole, had scribbled her good wishes upside-down between Lydia’s lines, her usual exuberance evident in both her atrocious spelling and her latest affectation of marking all her i’s with small hearts.

The twins were back with their mother, the thrice-widowed Helen Daughtry, at their small estate of Willowbrook, as Helen was once again between husbands and had remembered that she had daughters to fuss over in her own fashion.

That would change in a few weeks, when Helen went tripping off to London for the Season, and Lydia and Nicole were once again shuttled back to Ashurst Hall “to bear their dearest spinster aunt their Comfort and Presence, as you must be So Devastatingly Lonely isolated in the back of beyond.” Or so Helen’s last letter, all but pinned to the twins’ luggage, had stated so cruelly. But all under the guise of being caring and compassionate.

Lady Emmaline knew her late brother’s widow could be a kind person, in her own way. She simply wasn’t a kind person frequently.

In that way, Helen had fit very well with the Daughtry family, who seemed to belong to another age, the more rough and tumble—and most definitely profane—age of two decades past. Marital fidelity was a joke to them, kindness considered a weakness and selfishness a near art form. Or else today’s Society had simply learned to hide their failings and vices better …

Her morals had, however, been the only way her sister-in-law resembled the Daughtrys. Helen always said she’d married the wrong brother when she’d wed the second son, but even that marriage had been quite above her social station. Yet, ever resourceful, she’d made do with a husband who had tired of her within a few months, and built her own life, her own circle of London friends.

When Emmaline’s brother Geoffrey had died, Helen had tricked herself out in crushingly expensive widow’s weeds, impatiently waited out a full month of mourning and then deposited her son, Rafael, and the twins on the doorstep of Ashurst Hall and returned to London and those friends. Over the years, the children had spent more time at Ashurst Hall than on their own estate, until Rafe had left to serve with Wellington.

Emmaline had been as thrilled by these additions to the family as her only surviving brother had been appalled—which may have been one of the reasons Emmaline had been so delighted. After all, it wasn’t as if there was any love lost between Charlton and herself.

Charlton and Geoffrey were so very much older than Emmaline, and males to her female, so it was not surprising that the three had never been especially close. And Emmaline could have accepted that. But Emmaline’s mother had departed this earth the same day her only daughter was born, and for that, Charlton and Geoffrey would never forgive her. Even their father, the Duke of Ashurst, had been no more than occasionally aware of his daughter’s existence. Not that he’d much cared for his sons, either. Emmaline always thought his children would have garnered more affection from their sire if they could run on four legs, go up on point when they spotted the fox and then lay at his feet at the banquet whilst he celebrated his latest glorious kill.

And then Geoffrey had died, and their father had looked around and noticed that, by Jupiter, he was in danger of being outnumbered by petticoats. Charlton’s wife was enough to have twittering about Ashurst Hall, complaining that he came to dinner in his hunting clothes, or tossing fierce looks at him when he belched or scratched satisfyingly whenever the spirit moved him. It was time to marry off the one he could get rid of, by Jupiter!

So Emmaline had been hauled off to London upon the occasion of her eighteenth birthday, where she was put under the supposedly watchful eye of Helen Daughtry. Which is the same as to say Emmaline was left to her own devices while Helen flirted outrageously with any man who happened to look at Emmaline in a matrimonial way.

Not that Emmaline hadn’t had her chances during the Seasons she’d suffered through under Helen’s haphazard chaperonage. There had been at least a few gentlemen who hadn’t taken one look at Helen’s décolletage and deserted Emmaline as if she’d just told them she had contracted the plague. There had been Sir William Masterson, a widower with six children under the age of ten. He’d made no bones that he was looking for a woman to ride herd on his … well, on his herd. Lord Phillipson had loved her; Emmaline had been very aware of that fact from the way he had all but drooled on her shoe tops, but as his breath would fell an ox at ten paces, she’d felt she had to decline his proposal.

There had been no third Season, as her father had died, and Emmaline had insisted on a full year of mourning (Helen had actually laughed when she’d heard that, which was, in fact, as she headed out the door on her way to London less than two hours after the duke had been put to bed for his eternal rest in the family mausoleum).

Charlton, now the thirteenth duke, had given Emmaline one more chance the following Season, sending her off with a warning that an only passably pretty woman of three and twenty shouldn’t be so damned choosy and she’d better find some fool who’d come up to scratch because he was done paying through the nose for gowns and gloves and other fripperies.

The Season hadn’t gone well. Emmaline sometimes wondered if she had deliberately sabotaged herself and her matrimonial hopes simply to spite the new duke.

On the event of her twenty-fourth birthday, Charlton’s gift to her had been a half dozen white, embroidered spinster caps and the information that, while he and his sons George and Harold (their mama having succumbed to a putrid cold three years previously) would be going to London for the Season, she was to remain at home.

Emmaline hadn’t protested. Indeed, at the time, she had been rather relieved. After all, in her many Seasons in London she had met, danced and spoken with nearly every eligible bachelor not risking his life on the Peninsula, and none of them had excited her in the least. She could find little attraction in men who cared more for the cut of their evening jacket than they did the notion that Bonaparte might somehow best Wellington and they’d all be speaking French. How on earth was she supposed to take any of these men seriously when none of them had been any better than her brother and nephews, some of them actually worse?

But now the war was at last over and Bonaparte was on his way to a deserved exile, and the world could welcome home all its fine, brave soldiers … who to a man would surely be on the lookout for ladies much younger than Lady Emmaline.

No, she was destined to remain forever on this estate, sitting in this same garden, season after season, year after year, birthday after birthday, waiting for her perfect lover who would never arrive. How she had tired of watching Charlton eat with his fingers at the dinner table, hearing George and Harold brag about their latest bouts of drinking and gambling, wretches that they were, not to mention listening in some fear to her brother threaten to send her off to their great-aunt in Scotland because he was weary of looking at her.

Yes, having Rafael and Lydia and Nicole so often in residence these past years had been Emmaline’s main comfort, and she missed them sorely.

She did not miss Charlton or his sons, who had left her alone without a kind word about her birthday, most probably because they’d forgotten the date. No, they’d gone off five days ago to play with George’s newest toy, a yacht he had won at the gaming tables. As if any of them knew the first thing about steering a boat, or whatever it was one did with a boat.

Would it be terrible of her to hope that all three of them spent most of their voyage hanging over the side, sick as dogs and casting up their suppers into the Channel?

Emmaline sighed, folding up the letter from her nieces as she tried to shake off her depressing thoughts. She wished her good friend Charlotte Seavers, who lived in Rose Cottage with her parents, right next door to Ashurst Hall, could share her birthday with her, but her mother was still not quite well. But, no, Emmaline wouldn’t think about that particular sadness tonight, either.

Cook had promised her a special treat for supper, and she really should go change out of her simple sprigged muslin gown and into something more festive. She didn’t wish to disappoint the servants, who she knew had been busily polishing silver especially for what would be a solitary meal in the cavernous dining room, followed by a quiet evening of reading and an early bedtime.

Perhaps she should reconsider those caps Charlton had given her along with the warning that she was only living under his roof because of his kind and generous nature. She considered this idea for a full three seconds before declaring to the flowers and the trees: “The devil I will. With or without my family, I’m going to celebrate my birthday. By Jupiter.”

And then, after surprising herself with her outburst, Emmaline quickly bit her lips between her teeth as she heard the sound of firm, purposeful footsteps approaching along the brick path. How wonderful. Now she was talking to herself, a very spinsterlike thing to do, and someone may have heard her.

She turned her head at the sound of her name. “Yes. Here I am,” she said, knowing she did not recognize the male voice that had called to her.

The gentleman who appeared momentarily was a complete stranger to her, for she surely would have remembered such a tall, darkly handsome man as this if she had ever seen him.

“Lady Emmaline?”

“Yes … um, yes, I am she,” Emmaline said, feeling rather shaken by the sight of the man’s coal-black hair and blazingly blue eyes. As her own eyes were a very ordinary brown and her hair so typically English blond, she had always had an attraction to dark hair and blue eyes. Indeed, she had secretly envied young Nicole her ebony curls and nearly violet eyes, knowing that when she and the differently beautiful Lydia came of age and headed to Mayfair, their suitors would probably have to be beaten away with stout sticks.

“Please pardon the intrusion, ma’am. Your butler told me I would find you here.”

Belatedly, Emmaline held out her hand to the man, her hopefully subtle inspection unnoticed by him. She recognized his uniform as belonging to the Royal Navy. And on my birthday, too—what a lovely present.

She mentally slapped herself for her frivolous thoughts, probably old-maid thoughts, or those more often entertained by someone like Helen. Then again, Emmaline reminded herself, she was not exactly a debutante, was she? “Captain?”

“Alastair. Captain John Alastair, ma’am,” he said after only a slight hesitation, taking her hand in his and bowing over it before releasing her and rising to his full height once more. “I’ve brought news. If we might step inside, ma’am? And do you have other family in residence at the moment?”

Goodness, what a glorious uniform, right down to the bicorne hat he had tucked up under his arm. Now this was a man worth meeting. Stop that! she warned her inner self, who was certainly not behaving as a spinster should. But, my, he was so handsome …

“No, I’m quite alone,” Emmaline answered after a moment, feeling slightly dazed. When he’d taken her hand she’d felt a tingle of awareness skip up her arm, and knew she was disappointed that he had not kissed her hand. Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if someone had sent her the man as a birthday present, for goodness’ sake. Still, the image of him being presented to her, all tied up with a lovely satin bow, persisted in her traitorous brain. If this was what reaching the lofty age of eight and twenty got her, what would she be doing at thirty? Chasing men down the streets of the village? Shame on her!

His frown told her she had given him an answer he could not like. “Then perhaps your maid? A companion?”

Reluctantly, Emmaline brought her mind back to attention. “Captain Alastair, I don’t understand. I’m certainly past the age of needing a chaperone. Or have you come to the front door of Ashurst Hall and introduced yourself to my brother’s butler all with the intention of either robbing us or killing us, or both? If so, you may want to reconsider housebreaking as a way to make your way in the world now that the hostilities are a thing of the past.”

Had she really said all of that? Why, she was babbling, that’s what she was doing. But he looked so serious. So handsome and so serious. It seemed necessary to keep speaking, even babbling, so that he didn’t say what he had obviously come here to say. Something he would say that, it would seem, required that she have some other female conveniently on hand for the moment when she would either erupt in hysterics or faint dead away.

A sudden fear invaded her. “Has this to do with Rafe? My nephew, Captain Rafael Daughtry? He is with Wellington. But no, that can’t be it. For one, the hostilities are over. And you are a navy captain, and Rafe is with the—I’m sorry. I should stop asking questions and ask you to accompany me inside, shouldn’t I, as that is what it would seem you wish me to do?”

“That was another question,” Captain Alastair pointed out, not unkindly. “If I may?” He held out his arm to her, and she took it, suddenly believing she might need some sort of support.

Neither spoke as they made their way along the brick path to one of the many sets of French doors leading into the large formal saloon. The captain held open the door for her, and Emmaline stepped inside to see that not only was the silver tea service already set up on the table between the two couches near the center of the room, but that both Grayson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Piggle, were standing just outside the room, pretending not to be watching for her.

She shot them a look they both seemed to understand, and the double doors were closed. Not that Emmaline didn’t feel certain that both servants had stepped no more than an inch away from the doors. Knowing Mrs. Piggle, the woman was probably already down on her knees, one eye to the keyhole.

“This is about my brother, isn’t it?” Emmaline asked as she sat down and waited for the captain to take up his seat on the facing couch. “What have he and his sons done? Did they somehow ram and sink one of His Majesty’s boats? Has the Navy put them under arrest?”

“No, ma’am,” the captain said, reaching for the teapot. “May I?”

“Oh! I should have offered. I’m so sorry … yes, please do. Would you rather some wine?”

He looked across the table at her, those blue eyes unreadable. “I’m pouring the tea for you, ma’am. You might consider it a restorative, unless you’d rather a glass of wine. I’m afraid I’m the reluctant bearer of very sad news.”

“Yes, I believe I’ve rather sensed that, Captain Alastair. Please forgive me for attempting to delay delivery of this very sad news. I’m trying to keep my wits about me. Unfortunately, I believe I’m sadly failing at the effort. I’m imagining all sorts of things, none of them very palatable.”

“Then please allow me to say this as quickly as I can, and I apologize now for being so abbreviated. Lady Emmaline, it is my sad duty to inform you that your brother and his sons were lost at sea last evening off Shoreham-by-Sea. My own ship arrived on the scene just as the yacht was disappearing beneath the waves with all save one soul still onboard. I’m … I’m profoundly sorry we could not save them.”

Emmaline sat very still. She may have breathed, but she couldn’t be sure. Her mind objected in the most ridiculous way: But it’s my birthday. Isn’t it just like them to do this to me on my birthday?

She twisted her hands in her lap, and then pinched herself, just to be sure she was awake, and not in the middle of a nightmare that incongruously somehow included a man best described as the perfect lover of her more pleasant dreams.

“Lady Emmaline? May I please summon someone now?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. She waited for the tears, but they didn’t come. In all, she felt rather numb. What had been the last words Charlton had said to her five days ago before climbing into his traveling coach behind George and Harold? Oh yes, she remembered. Make me a happy man, sister mine. Run off with one of the grooms before we get back!

Her nephews had laughed hard and long at their father’s joke. She could still hear them laughing as the coach moved off down the drive.

Emmaline snapped herself back to the moment at hand.

“Was … um, was there a storm?” She didn’t know why she asked this. But she felt it was something at least halfway sensible to say, something to break the oppressive silence.

“No, ma’am. Not anything I’d call a storm, at least. As I understand the thing from speaking with the survivor, a Mr. Hugh Hobart, the captain was intoxicated and belowdecks at the time, and one of your nephews was at the helm. Waves are powerful things, ma’am, even on a day that could only be called choppy from the wind along the Channel. Ride with the waves and you fly across the water. Hit one of them wrong, and even a sturdy ship can crack like an egg.”

He looked at her, wincing. “I’m sorry. That was stupidly clumsy of me. I shouldn’t say that the tragedy could be laid at your nephew’s door.”

“The yacht was a recent … acquisition. I can’t imagine what either George or Harold could have been thinking, to attempt to take the wheel like that. But that’s what this Mr. Hobart told you?”

The captain nodded. “The man was rather overset and unintelligible. But, yes, he said his friend Harold was at the helm. That is—was—one of your nephews, correct?”

Emmaline nodded, still waiting to cry. She should be crying, shouldn’t she? Clearly Captain Alastair believed she should be weeping, in need of comfort. She was an unnatural sister, that’s what she was, and an unnatural aunt.

Because all she could feel, of the little she seemed capable of feeling, was relief …

CHAPTER TWO

JOHN ALASTAIR WAS certain he’d felt more uncomfortable in his lifetime, but at the moment he could not recall anything that measured remotely close to the impotence he felt as he sat across from the bravely stoic Lady Emmaline Daughtry.

He wasn’t certain what he’d been expecting from the woman once he’d delivered his terrible news. Tears, protestations that he was wrong, slightly buckling knees or even an outright swoon necessitating burnt feathers being passed beneath her nose to revive her.

He was in considerable awe of the woman, even as he was grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with a hysterical female, as he did not believe playing the role of sympathetic comforter was one of his stronger suits.

Although the thought of having Lady Emmaline in his arms as he comforted her probably appealed to him more than it should.

The late duke’s valet, whom John had run to ground at a tavern in Shoreham-by-Sea, had rather grudgingly informed him that Lady Emmaline was the late duke’s closest relative, and then gone back to drinking himself under the table, bemoaning the loss of his master. John had asked that the man accompany him to Ashurst Hall, but the valet had demurred, pointing out that there was nothing for him there anymore so he’d stay where he was for the nonce before returning to Ashurst Hall, thank you very much, and then maybe take himself to London to find a new position. When the valet began loudly complaining that he’d have to find that new employment without aid of a written recommendation, considering that the duke was currently fish food, John left the useless man where he was, and good riddance.

He left feeling certain that whatever belongings of the duke and his sons had remained in their rooms at the tavern would soon be sold in order to line the servant’s pockets, but it wasn’t as if he could command the fellow to show him the way to Ashurst Hall. Instead, he’d commandeered the duke’s crested traveling coach and set out to be the Bearer of Sad News.

News Lady Emmaline Daughtry seemed to be taking exceedingly well. What sort of men were the late duke and his sons? The valet had cried … the sister had not?

John studied her as she spooned sugar into her tea and then added cream, her hands steady, her movements graceful. She was a mature woman, little of the girl about her. Her blond hair was styled very simply, swept up and back, away from her face, which showed her smooth chin line and remarkable cheekbones to his admiring eyes. Her brown eyes were rather long, their shape definitely bordering on the exotic, although she did not use them to their best advantage.

Not that he’d expected her to flirt with him. For the love of heaven, what was he thinking? This was probably what happened when a man hadn’t stepped foot onshore, let alone been in the company of a beautiful woman, in more than half a year.

“Lady Emmaline?”

“Yes, Captain?” Still slightly bent toward the tea tray, she looked up at him from beneath her curiously dark eyelashes. Now she was using her eyes as they were meant to be used. Except he doubted she realized that, even as he was certain she couldn’t know how his traitorous body had reacted to the look of vulnerability he saw in those soft brown depths.

“I apologize again for being the one to bring you such disturbing news, and feel I have intruded on your sorrow long enough. I took advantage of having your coachman drive me here in the duke’s coach, so I would be most appreciative of the loan of a horse so that I might be installed at an inn before nightfall. I’ll see that the horse is returned tomorrow.”

“You … you’re leaving?”

It seemed a strange question. But he couldn’t ignore the sudden apprehension in her voice. What was wrong with him? She’d told him she was alone here. Alone, and most probably completely at sea as to what she should next do.

As if to help decide the question of his departure, there was a loud boom of thunder just as the skies seemed to open in a downpour that would have had him soaked to the skin in moments were he to step outside.

Lady Emmaline turned to look out through the panes of the French doors, and then returned her gaze to him. “You were very kind to have come here today, Captain. Please, allow me to offer you the hospitality of Ashurst Hall for the night. Unless it is imperative that you return to your boat?”

“Ship,” he corrected with a slight smile. “A frigate, to be exact. But not mine. I was merely traveling with the Fervant, as my duties have concluded. I was on my way home via the port of Hove, in fact, when we came upon … when we came upon the wreckage.”

She ignored his mention of her brother’s yacht. “Have you been away from your home and family for a long time, Captain?”

“My home, yes, my lady. Four years or a little more, when last I thought about it. As for my family, my three sisters are wed and gone. My parents are also gone—to their eternal rewards. Not to belabor the thing, but as I have spent a solitary bachelor existence at sea for so very long, I will be returning to a home as empty as this one must feel to you at the moment.”

“Then I wouldn’t be delaying you overmuch if I were to shamelessly beg you to remain here until I … until I can think what next to do. I should be doing something, shouldn’t I? Should I be asking you to take me to Shoreham-by-Sea?”

John shook his head. “There’s nothing for you to do there, no, my lady. The Fervant circled the area for hours, and only Mr. Hobart was located. He’d somehow been lucky enough to free the small boat the yacht had been dragging with it before it, too, was pulled beneath the surface.”

“How fortunate for Mr. Hobart. Will there be an inquiry, do you suppose?”

John didn’t have an answer to that question. “I suppose that will be up to the authorities in charge of such things. But Captain Clark has already written his recounting of what we found, what we did. I’m fairly certain the ruling will be death by accident, not misadventure.”

“Yes, I would agree with that. Not misadventure, but adventure. Is that what men call heading out to sea with a drunken captain, and with less knowledge of how to pilot a boat—ship—than a strutting barnyard rooster?” She entwined her fingers together as she looked at John in some surprise. “Why, yes, that’s it. That’s what I’m feeling. I wasn’t certain. But now I know. I’m angry, Captain Alastair. My brother and my nephews are dead, leaving me to do Lord only knows what, and I’m very, very angry with the three of them. Is that wickedly unnatural of me, Captain?”

John lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I suppose that, in some ways, you could believe that they’ve behaved rather inconsiderately toward you. Dying, that is.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then John felt the corners of his mouth attempting to embarrass him with a smile.

But rather than be appalled by his inappropriate levity, Lady Emmaline’s brown eyes began to twinkle, and a smile played about her lips, as well, before she stood, so that he, too, hastened to his feet.

“I need to have Grayson summon all the servants and inform them of the duke’s demise. Oh, dear. The duke’s demise. That sounds rather like a farce at Covent Garden, doesn’t it? Do you know something, Captain Alastair? I think I may be about to become slightly hysterical, after all.”

“I sincerely hope not,” John told her frankly. “I’ve no experience with hysterical women, and I was hoping to be of some use to you as long as it would appear I am to be your guest for the evening.” He was liking this woman more with each passing moment. Her courage, her strength—her honesty. And those lovely soft brown eyes …

“Very well, then, I won’t be hysterical. Not even slightly, I promise. But you’ll come with me, won’t you? You’ll speak to Grayson for me?”

“Would you rather I hunted him down and brought him in here?”

“I suppose. But you won’t have to look far, I’m sure. Just open the door. Oh, and be careful Mrs. Piggle doesn’t topple in on your feet.”

Lady Emmaline’s strange warning had John thinking that the woman still wasn’t very far from a complete breakdown, but when he opened the doors that led into the foyer, it was to see a rather red-cheeked, pudgy woman of an indeterminate age attempting to regain her feet just on the other side of the door.

“You could at least have offered your arm in helping me up, Mr. Grayson,” she complained to the butler, who was now eyeing John as if he was some bit of vermin he’d unintentionally let into the house.

“Let me assume that you’ve heard the news,” John said before turning to close the doors behind him, blocking Lady Emmaline’s view. She’d mentioned a farce, and he sought to spare her the one now taking place in this foyer.

“How can we know they’re dead? We’ve only your word for it. And who are you?” Grayson asked, accused, the moment those doors were shut.

John nearly told him, but then mentally bit his tongue. A duke of the realm and his two heirs didn’t all perish together without repercussions that would reverberate for weeks, if not months. There was enough turmoil at Ashurst Hall at the moment, without him making some grand announcement. Besides, Lady Emmaline might not be as ready to appeal to him for help if she knew who he really was. As things stood now, she could accept his assistance and retain the illusion that she was in charge. John believed she needed to feel in charge, competent.

“I am who I said I was when I arrived here, Grayson. Captain John Alastair, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. I’m also the man who would consider your words an insult to his honor if not for the grief that has just settled over this household.”

Grayson’s chin lowered slightly, the older man seeming to understand that he had spoken out of turn to a gentleman who didn’t take insolence lightly.

“I’ll have one of the grooms ride to the village to summon the vicar. Lady Emmaline will wish for spiritual guidance.”

“Hummph,” Mrs. Piggle snorted, and then quickly covered her mouth as she turned her less than laudatory reaction into a cough. “Suppose someone’ll want the chapel taken out of Holland covers. Ain’t been a Daughtry in there since the last duke was carried in feetfirst. I’ll set the maids to it first thing tomorrow.”

“We all worship the Almighty in our own ways, Mrs. Piggle.” Grayson quelled the woman’s insolence with a stare that would have made any sergeant-major proud. “Lady E. attends services in the village, you understand. His Grace and his sons … preferred to worship our Lord in their own way.”

“You don’t need to explain. I will tell you that I’ll be staying here tonight at Lady Emmaline’s request,” John said, not wishing for any more confidences from the servants at the moment. “See to it that a chamber is made ready for me. My bags are still in the coach, I imagine. I’d like to bathe and change into a fresh uniform before the dinner bell is rung.”

“Oh, laws, Lady E.’s birthday! Mr. Grayson, we forgot. Lady E.’s birthday celebration. And Cook has prepared all of her favorites, and now we’re all at sixes and sevens, what with the duke and those horrid boys drowning and all. Ah, what a misery this day is. Poor little dab. What a misery …”

John cocked a look at the butler. “It’s Lady Emmaline’s birthday?”

“Just as Mrs. Piggle said, yes. She’s had more than her share of birthdays under this roof, that’s what His Grace would always say. He may have forgotten this one, I’m afraid.”

“They’d all still be alive if he’d remembered this one. Excepting he probably would have gone sailing at any rate.” Mrs. Piggle took a step away from the butler as Grayson frowned. “I’m only speaking the truth, you know. I can’t remember the last birthday any of them paid a bit of mind to. Poor little dab.”

John took a step toward the butler. He was beginning to feel rather proprietary toward Lady Emmaline Daughtry. “But we’re not going to forget it, Grayson, are we? Whatever has been planned shall go forward. So, what is planned?”

Mrs. Piggle answered. “Just her favorite meal, sir, and a simple confection she also favors. And all to be served in the main dining saloon, with the table shining with all the silver and candles and such. The staff is quite fond of Lady E.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Piggle. It all sounds lovely and thoughtful. I would ask that another place be laid, as I will be joining Lady Emmaline at table. There’s time enough for the vicar tomorrow, Grayson. For tonight, we will discuss the duke’s death only if her ladyship wishes it. Agreed?”

Grayson nodded. “Agreed, sir. And I will inform the staff. Her ladyship should not have to worry her head about a thing, not if we can be of assistance.” He frowned, hesitated and then added, “The new duke will be here soon enough, if he’s not dead, too.”

“And who might this new, perhaps deceased duke be, Grayson?” John asked, anxious to get back to Lady Emmaline, who probably shouldn’t be left alone with her grief for too long.

Grayson sighed. “The most unlikely person, that’s who. The late duke’s brother’s son. One Rafael Daughtry, and a captain serving under Wellington. I cannot imagine anyone less suited for the title.”

“And don’t be forgetting the mother,” Mrs. Piggle said, rolling her rather bulging eyes. “There’s one would make a stone statue blush, what with her outlandish ways. We’re to be taking orders from the likes of her?”

“Shush, Mrs. Piggle. That will be quite enough.” Grayson turned to John once more. “Forgive us, sir, the both of us. We’ve had quite the shock. We’ve known the late duke ever so long, and the boys since before they were born. And then, of course, Lady Emmaline holds all our hearts. It’s … it’s a trying time. But we will overcome it, sir.”

“Then you’re all finished with being shocked now, aren’t you, and from this moment on you will all do whatever is in your power to assist Lady Emmaline during this trying time—without further comment. Am I correct? Very good.” What a poorly run household this was, John thought. He’d never met the Duke of Ashurst or his sons, but he felt fairly certain he had nothing to regret in not making their acquaintances.

At last, the butler seemed to pull himself together. “Yes, Captain. I’ll see to having your bags taken up to the west wing and a bath called for. I’ll have one of the footman escort you directly. Dinner is at six.”

“Thank you, Grayson. But before you do that, please summon Lady Emmaline’s maid to her and explain that I will rejoin her in an hour.”

“Yes, of course. And again, Captain, our apologies. We will strive to draw ourselves together and carry on.” The butler put his hand to the small of the housekeeper’s broad back. “Come along, Mrs. Piggle. I know you can’t wait to be the one who tells everyone the terrible news.”

John looked at the closed doors to the main saloon, part of him wishing to rejoin his hostess, while another part of him longed to be out of his uniform and sunk in hot soapy water to his chin. Bathing aboard ship was always a spotty thing, and he was sorely in need of not only soap and water but clean linen and even a razor.

He should have stopped at an inn along the way from Shoreham-by-Sea and made himself more presentable, but he’d believed time was of the essence, that news of the duke’s demise—as Lady Emmaline had termed it—must be brought to his estate as quickly as possible.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to just step back inside the room for a moment, to assure himself that the woman was still as bravely stoic as she’d been since first hearing of her now vastly altered family situation.

Giving in to his curiosity, if that was the proper term for it, he opened the door only slightly and peered toward the couches set in the middle of the large room.

Lady Emmaline was no longer seated on one of the couches.

John stepped fully inside, casting his gaze around the room, only to discover that it was empty of all but its furnishings.

Where could she have gone? A quick glance toward the French doors told him that the rain was still coming down hard, so she wouldn’t have gone back outside into the gardens.

Then he noticed another door in the far right-hand corner of the room, and he approached it quietly, to see that it was slightly ajar.

“Lady Emmaline?”

“Yes. One moment.”

He stepped back from the doorway and she joined him in a few moments, as promised, a new look of determination on her beautiful face.

“How do I best get a message to Paris?” she asked him without preamble. “Or at least to France. I think Rafe’s in France.”

“Rafe. Your nephew?”

Lady Emmaline nodded. “Yes, my nephew. He has to come home, doesn’t he? Ashurst Hall cannot be without its master.”

“You should not be alone here, no. I would suggest a personal courier, ma’am. Perhaps a former soldier? A Bow Street Runner? It’s an orderly turmoil now that Bonaparte has retreated to Paris, but it is still turmoil, and will be until the man officially abdicates.”

She looked up at him, her eyes fearful. “Is Rafe in any danger?”

“Hopefully not. But as I said, Bonaparte is still in Paris, and one can never consider the man as being entirely toothless.”

“Oh, dear,” she said as she turned and stepped back into the room she’d just left. She crossed to a small table, the top of which was more than completely covered by what looked to be an open Bible. “I want Rafe to be safe. There’s no question of that. But there is more than just Rafe’s safety that is at stake now.”

John walked over to the table and looked down at the writing on the inside of the back cover of the Bible. “The next in line after your nephew is a real rotter?” he asked, hoping to make her smile.

“Hardly. The next in line after Rafe is nobody. I was certain that is the case, but felt it necessary to check my conclusion by looking at our family tree in the Bible. And there is nobody. The titles, these lands, this estate and others, they would all revert to the Crown. That can’t happen, it simply cannot. Someone must be sent to find him, immediately, and bring him back here.” She laid both her hands on his forearm and looked up into his face. “Please, Captain Alastair. Help me.”

“I will. I promise.” He didn’t know how he would help, but if she’d asked him to move a mountain he would have agreed to that chore, as well. How could he deny this woman anything when she looked at him with those soulful brown eyes?

CHAPTER THREE

EMMALINE SURREPTITIOUSLY TURNED her head toward her left shoulder and sniffed. Maryanne, her maid, had sworn to her that the black gown did not smell of camphor after being packed away in the attics these past half dozen years or more, since her father’s death, but Emmaline was still not convinced.

What she was convinced of, however, was that the gown, never a favorite, was woefully out of fashion. According to her sister-in-law, Helen, it had been out of fashion the moment it had been stitched up by the seamstress in the village, as anyone with any sense knew there was no hope of cleverness to be found in Mrs. Watley’s hamlike fingers. To Emmaline, that had meant that Mrs. Watley had flatly refused to lower Helen’s bodice another two inches for fear that the deceased would take one look at those exposed bosoms and sit up straight in his coffin.

The last time Emmaline had worn this gown (the one with the depressingly ordinary neckline) had been during her year of mourning for her father. That grief, although not overwhelming by any means, had been genuine, as it was difficult to fault the twelfth duke for being the man he had been: rough, gruff and fairly oblivious. Summoning up authentic grief for her brother and his sons was still proving problematic, however, and she’d once again felt a fraud as she’d come down to dinner in this gown.

Emmaline paced the main saloon, unable to settle herself, wondering where she’d summoned the courage—no, the audacity!—to enlist a complete stranger’s assistance in dealing with the repercussions of her brother’s death. But there was something about Captain John Alastair that instilled confidence in him and his ability to, if not make things right for her, at least shepherd her through the next difficult days.

She closed her eyes and thought about him, and the way he’d looked as he’d approached her out in the gardens. His tall, handsome form so splendid in his impressive uniform, his bicorne hat neatly tucked beneath his arm, the slight shadow of an evening beard on his lean cheeks. He’d looked weary, and more than a little nervous, most probably because he was certain he would momentarily be presented with a wildly hysterical, weeping woman.

Emmaline walked along behind one of the couches, lightly running her fingertips over its curved back, and then stopped to look up at the portrait of her father that still hung in its place of honor above the fireplace. Yes, she’d wept when the twelfth duke had died. Why couldn’t she seem to weep for the thirteenth duke and his two sons?

There had to be something unnatural about a woman who would see their deaths as a problem to be solved rather than the tragedy that it was. There had to be something perverse about a woman whose primary occupation since hearing of those three deaths had been to worry for her own future … when she wasn’t peering into every mirror she could find to assure herself she and this horrid gown wouldn’t frighten Captain Alastair when next he saw her.

“Emmaline?”

Emmaline turned in time to see Charlotte Seavers racing into the room, tossing her shawl in the general direction of Grayson, who was now wearing a black armband and a suitably stern expression.

“I just heard the news,” Charlotte said, approaching Emmaline and taking her hands. “Is it true? Harold’s dead?”

Charlotte, who lived on a small estate that bordered Ashurst Hall, was not only Emmaline’s dearest friend. She had also recently been betrothed to her younger nephew, a fate Emmaline had considered worse than death for that beloved friend. Indeed, for the past month, since Charlotte had become betrothed to Harold and she had learned the circumstances behind that engagement, Emmaline had lost any remaining love she’d harbored for her brother and nephews.

“All three of them, yes. It’s over, Charlotte. You’re free.”

“Oh, but I … that is, I shouldn’t …” Charlotte shook her head and sighed. “Surely I’m going to hell, Emmaline. I want to dance a jig!”

“Oh, thank God,” Emmaline said, pulling Charlotte down on the couch beside her. “You’re the only one who understands how I feel, and I don’t have to pretend with you. We can travel to hell together.”

“Perhaps not. Lord knows George and Harold and your brother are already there. Perhaps we’ll go somewhere else. Would you like to see Paris, Emmaline?”

“I know you’re joking, but perhaps we could. It is imperative that Rafe be informed of his changed station as quickly as possible. Would you like to see Rafe, Charlotte?”

The younger woman colored, her eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. “No. I … I wouldn’t know what to say to him. It has been six years. We’re no longer children, are we?”

“He will be coming back here as the new duke,” Emmaline reminded her friend. “You won’t be able to avoid him. And if you were to tell him the truth, he’d certainly understand. Or I could explain everything to him for you.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, don’t do that, please. He can’t know. I couldn’t possibly look him in the eye once he knew, not knowing what I’d see. Please, Emmaline, let’s not speak of this anymore. Just take this,” she said, pulling off the heavy betrothal ring and putting it in her friend’s hand. “There, that’s better. It was as if I had a small millstone circling my finger. From now on, we shall pretend it was never there, and Rafe never needs to know. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed, although I doubt such a secret will stand for long, not once Rafe has returned.” Emmaline examined the fine Ashurst ruby set inside a cluster of diamonds. “This ring has been in our family for untold generations. How often do you think such a pretty thing was employed to hide an ugly truth?”

They sat silently for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, before Charlotte asked what she might be able to do for Emmaline in the coming days.

“I really can’t be sure. There are no … that is, there is nothing to be laid to rest in the family mausoleum. I suppose, for the sake of propriety, there must be a service of some kind at some point. The few relatives we have left need to be notified. Nicole and Lydia. Oh, dear. You know whom else that means, don’t you?”

“Helen,” they said at the same time, and then Emmaline smiled.

“I could say I sent a letter off to London and it became lost in the post?”

Charlotte nodded, not quite suppressing a smile of her own. “The post has been notoriously erratic recently, hasn’t it? Why, by the time your letter arrived in Grosvenor Square, it could be whole days after the service, and with the Season already begun. No one could expect Helen to leave Mayfair in the midst of the Season.”

“Least of all Helen,” Emmaline pointed out, her smile widening, until the two of them dissolved into guilty laughter, which is how Captain Alastair discovered them a few moments later as he entered the main saloon.

“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

Emmaline wiped at her moist eyes and looked up at the captain, who appeared bathed and shaved and positively resplendent in his brushed and pressed uniform. “Oh, no, no. Miss Seavers and I were … we were just reminiscing about a family memory. Captain, may I introduce you to my dear friend and neighbor, Miss Charlotte Seavers. Charlotte, Captain John Alastair, who was kind enough to personally inform me of … of the tragedy.”

She quickly explained the man’s continued presence to Charlotte, and his generous offer to help her wade through the necessities that must be dealt with in the coming days.

“Captain, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to my friend,” Charlotte said, holding out her hand. He bowed over it elegantly, Emmaline thought. And then Charlotte got to her feet after only one quick, interested look at Emmaline, saying she was needed at home and must leave. “My mother is not quite well,” she explained to the man. “I only stole a moment to sneak here once the rain stopped, to see how you were, Emmy.”

“You can’t stay for supper?” Emmaline inwardly winced, wondering if her lack of disappointment was evident in her voice.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t. Oh, but I forgot!” Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in ivory paper and tied with a small red bow. “Happy birthday, Emmy. It’s only a silly bookmark, and I’m afraid my embroidery isn’t what it should be. But please know I give it with love,” she said, and then kissed her friend’s cheek. “Captain,” she said, dropping into a quick curtsy, “it was a pleasure to meet you, and I thank you for being so considerate as to offer your support to Lady Emmaline during this trying time. I’m sure I’ll see you again, at the memorial service?”

The captain looked to Emmaline, who realized she was suddenly holding her breath, and then back to Charlotte. “Why, yes, Miss Seavers, I shall look forward to that.”

Emmaline watched the captain as he watched Charlotte depart the room, and then she quickly looked away as he turned back to her, so that he shouldn’t know that she’d been staring. But who could resist staring, when the man’s presence seemed to fill the room with light, charging the very air with an excitement she could not name, yet knew she had never before experienced.

“May I add my congratulations to Miss Seavers’s sentiments, ma’am, and wish you as pleasant a birthday as possible under the circumstances,” he said, inclining his head toward her.

She didn’t know where the words came from, what part of her normally reticent self had allowed such a thought to enter her head yet alone escape her lips, but suddenly Emmaline heard herself saying, “Captain, I would consider my natal day to be more of a blessing and less of a reminder of my continuing gallop into old age if you could please resist addressing me as ma’am again.”

His low chuckle sent hot color flooding into her cheeks. “A thousand apologies, Lady Emmaline. Are you feeling quite decrepit? Surely you’re not anything so ancient as ma’am would suggest. At six and thirty, I believe I have some years on you.”

“Good Lord, yes,” Emmaline shot back, suddenly willing to give as good as she got. “You’re positively tottering on the brink of the grave.” Then she realized what she’d just said. “Oh, dear. No matter what anyone says, we seem to keep circling back to Charlton and the boys, don’t we? I still imagine they’ll all come storming back in here at any moment to put the lie to what I know is true.”

Did she sound as if that was a prospect much to be wished, or the thing she would dread most in the world? Really, she had to take control of her tongue, and quickly, or the captain would wonder if he’d blundered into a madhouse.

“May I?” Alastair asked, indicating with a small gesture that he’d like to join her on the couch.

“Oh, yes, please do,” she said, tucking her horrid black skirts more closely around her just as if he’d planned to plop himself down right next to her when the couch could easily accommodate a half dozen people. “And would you care for some wine?”

“Thank you, no,” he said as he sat, and then bent down to pick up something that had fallen to the floor. “Yours?” he asked, holding up the ruby ring.

Denying the dratted thing would open up questions about Charlotte, and as the story could only reflect badly on her brother and Harold, she quickly claimed the ruby as her own. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, reaching for it. “It was my mother’s, and always much too large for me.”

And then the dratted ring made a liar out of her by stopping at her second knuckle as she attempted to slip it on her finger. She resisted the urge to fling it across the room.

“Ma’am—Lady Emmaline …?”

“Just Emmaline, please,” she said, sighing. “And I shall call you John, since we’re just the two of us here. And then, John, I should tell you that I just quite blatantly lied to you, shouldn’t I?”

“About the ring. Yes. But you don’t have to explain.”

She relaxed. “Good, because I really don’t want to.” She slipped the ring into her pocket and picked up the small wrapped present. “Shall we open this instead? I love presents, and Charlotte is always so inventive with hers, even if she insists she has no talents. Just this past Christmas she gave me a small, smooth rock she’d painted to look like a toad.”

Actually, Charlotte had given the toad a face that greatly resembled that of her nephew George, but the captain didn’t have to know that.

The captain put his hand on her wrist. “Lady … Emmaline,” he said, so that she forgot all about Charlotte’s present. “I should leave.”

“Leave?” Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, hating that she had seemed to squeak out the word. “But … but why? I know the rain has stopped, but it’s coming on to dark soon, and we’ll be called in to dinner at any moment, and—”

“I didn’t mean tonight,” he said, cutting her off, thankfully, before she could say something so silly as to mention how much she really wanted him to stay. “I would go only as far as the nearest inn, if you still wish my assistance for a few days, until we can summon your brother’s solicitor, set up a search for your nephew and anything else I might do for you.”

“You’re saying without saying it that we are unchaperoned here.”

“No, I’m saying without saying it that you are unchaperoned here. I would suggest that Miss Seavers come bear you company, but as she is quite young, and there’s the problem of her mother being unwell …”

“John, there are twenty-seven servants in this house, at least three of whom, I have every certainty, are spying on us even now. I hardly call that being unchaperoned.”

“No. However, Society would. You’ve just been dealt a serious shock, Emmaline, but one of us must think clearly.”

She nearly let her shoulders sag as she realized what he was saying. “You feel responsible for me. Because it was you who brought me the news about Charlton and the boys. And I did nothing to dissuade you of that impression, absolve you of your gentlemanly impulse to protect a clearly helpless woman.”

His slow smile sent her stomach to doing a small flip inside her. “That sounds so very noble, doesn’t it? Actually, I came here to deliver my news and then depart as quickly as possible. Until I saw you out there in the gardens and thought you the most exotically beautiful woman I’d ever seen. You’ve had the most immediate and remarkable impact on me, Emmaline. I am in no hurry to leave.” “Oh.”

“Yes—oh. And, hopeful idiot that I surely am, I don’t think you have taken me in disgust. Now do you understand? The proprieties must be adhered to, no matter the circumstances. I won’t go far, unless you’ve now decided that I should, but I cannot remain here, the two of us beneath the same roof.”

“There are sixteen bedchambers under this roof,” Emmaline said, as if that meant anything to Society, that same Society that had condoned Charlton’s behavior, George’s and Harold’s behavior, but would condemn her, a confirmed spinster, for the most minor infraction of their silly rules. “There’s no need for you to be put to the expense of staying at the inn.”

His smile in response to that statement had her looking at him strangely, and she quickly attempted to explain what she’d said.

“Not that I’m intimating at all that you might be … that you cannot afford, um, that is—oh, stop that! I’m not saying anything in the least amusing.”

He took her trembling hands in his and raised the right one to his lips, turned it over, and pressed a bone-melting kiss against her palm. Just for an instant, the tip of his tongue lightly stroked her sensitive skin. And then, holding her hands against his chest, he looked at her with those soul-destroying eyes. “Now, Emmaline? Now do you see why I need to take myself off to an inn tomorrow morning?”

“Yes … I rather suppose I do.”

CHAPTER FOUR

JOHN DIDN’T KNOW if Grayson’s entrance into the main saloon to announce that dinner was being served had been fortunate, or if it had been the worst timing in the history of Affectionate Old Family Retainers. Probably the former, as John hadn’t known what in bloody blazes he was going to do next, once he was looking so deeply into Emmaline’s glorious eyes.

He had wanted to kiss her. No, he had needed to kiss her. He would kiss her before this night was over. As a man who had spent many years at war, he knew that opportunities were just that, and often fleeting. For too many years of his life, he’d put his own wishes aside in the name of the Better Good. Now it was time for him to think about what John Alastair wanted.

And he wanted Lady Emmaline Daughtry.

Curiously, knowing this, he was finding it best suited to his purpose to keep his true identity hidden just a little while longer. He wanted Emmaline to see him as Captain John Alastair, accept him that way … perhaps discover feelings for him that way; the simple man, the man she could be concerned about if he had to pay for his lodgings at the local inn.

He also wanted to know more about the late duke and his two sons, but would she find it as easy to confide in him if she realized his true rank? Emmaline had been shocked by the news of their deaths—anyone would have been shocked at the suddenness of it—but John felt certain he’d also seen a measure of relief in her eyes.

Having experienced much the same feelings when he’d opened the letter from Warrington Hall, informing him of his father’s departure from this earthly coil by way of collapsing after a hard ride on one of the local tavern wenches, John wondered what sort of man the late duke had been. What sort of brother he’d been to Emmaline. Obviously not a beloved one.

John sensed that applying to Grayson for enlightenment would get him nowhere, but he had higher hopes of Mrs. Piggle, and planned to speak to the woman in the morning. In the meantime, he would not press Emmaline for details, not knowing how painful it might be for her to share them with him.

This decision left him free to concentrate on Emmaline herself, which was what he’d much prefer to do in any case.

He entered the cavernous dining room with Emmaline on his arm, only to see that their places had been set at opposite ends of a table that could easily serve as a bowling green. Once he’d assisted her to his chair and Grayson had withdrawn his disapproving face, John picked up his gold charger plate, utensils, serviette and wineglass and carried them all down the length of the table, placing them to Emmaline’s right.

“This way we won’t have to shout at each other,” he said as he sat down. “And I might add that I cannot think of more pleasant company than you in this, my first meal in months in which I won’t have to worry about my wineglass sliding off the table as the ship cuts through the waves.”

“Grayson will not be pleased,” Emmaline told him as a young girl entered, two bowls of soup balanced on a tray. “He’s quite the stickler for propriety.”

“Among other things, yes, I can see that propriety would be one of his sticking points. Does that worry you?”

Emmaline cocked her head slightly to one side, as if considering the question. “No. No, I don’t think it does. Thank you, Mary. It smells delicious.”

“Yer fav’rit, milady. Cook remembered. All yer fav’rits tonight. All whats yer likes best, right here.”

“Yes, I believe you’re right,” Emmaline said, sneaking a quick look at John from beneath her lashes, a delightful flush coloring her cheeks.

The soup was country thick and flavorful, or so John remembered it later, even though the rest of the courses were eaten without him tasting them. He was much too well-occupied answering Emmaline’s intelligently probing questions about his service in the Royal Navy, much too enthralled by the way the candlelight danced in her golden hair, the grace with which she patted her lips with the snow-white serviette … the way she listened to him as if he was reciting words he’d brought down from some mountain on stone tablets.

He did remember the dessert course, because it seemed that Emmaline’s favorite sweet consisted of a simple dish of strawberries and heavy cream. Whenever some of the cream clung to her upper lip, and she surreptitiously employed the tip of her tongue to swipe it away, John began to wonder if taking himself off to the inn the next morning could be seen as in the way of cruel and unusual punishment for a man who definitely had another destination in mind.

At last the meal was over, and John suggested they take a stroll in the gardens now that the rain had disappeared and a setting sun still lent enough light for a pleasant inspection of the grounds.

Good Lord, he sounded so stiff, didn’t he?

“Emmaline—I want to be alone with you,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled out her chair for her. “And to hell with the posies.”

She looked up at him, her smile tremulous, and laid her hand on his as she got to her feet. “The herb garden is well away from the house at the bottom of the gardens. And fenced,” she said quietly. “With rather tall shrubbery.”

“I’ve always liked herbs,” he said as, together, they departed the dining room through the French doors conveniently placed there so that gentlemen could end their meals by stepping outside to blow a cloud, spit or relieve themselves over the railing of the stone terrace. John’s father used to hold contests as to who could aim best and shoot farthest, much to his son’s embarrassment. He pushed the memory from his mind.

“Rosemary is one my favorites,” Emmaline told him as they descended the flagstone steps into the gardens.

“Mine, as well. Along with parsley and sage and …”

“Thyme,” she finished for him. “I’ve always thought Scarborough Fair a most confusing poem. If you wish someone to be your true love, why would you then make impossible demands on that person in order to become that true love?”

John bent and broke off a perfect pink rose, stripped it of its thorns and then bowed as he handed it to her. “‘Love imposes impossible tasks,’“ he quoted from memory, “‘though not more than any heart asks.’“

“Oh? And do you think that sounds as asinine as I do, John? Why should a heart that cares make demands?” Emmaline asked as she held the rose beneath her nose and sniffed. “Ah, nothing complicated about a rose, is there? It is pretty, it smells heavenly, and if you aren’t careful in the way you handle it, it pricks your finger. Still, you can see the thorns, so it isn’t as if you weren’t warned, correct?”

They threaded their way along the curving brick path. “Am I being warned, Emmaline?”

She stopped, turned to look up into his face. “Someone probably is, but I’m not sure which one of us that person might be. John … I think you should know that I’m not a very … nice person.”

“Is that so?” He cocked one eyebrow as he offered her his arm once more and they continued down the pathway. “Do you abuse kittens? Snore in church? No, wait, I have it—you pull faces behind Grayson’s back.”

“Well, sometimes—that last bit about Grayson. But I’m attempting to be serious here, John. I’m … I’m an unnatural sister, an unnatural aunt. I’ve been trying all day long to work up even a single tear over Charlton and the boys, and I simply can’t manage it.”

“You didn’t love them?”

“No, no, of course I loved them. One doesn’t have much choice in that, seeing as we’re related. The question is, did I like them? And I didn’t.”

John kept moving toward the tall thick shrubbery that he was sure concealed the herb garden. “They weren’t likeable?”

“I suppose that would depend on whom you applied to for their opinion. Their friends seemed to like them well enough.”

“And did you like their friends?”

They stopped at a slatted wooden gate and John opened it. “No, I didn’t. Why would you ask that?”

He ceremoniously bowed her through the entrance to the herb garden, where they were immediately cast in the shade of the towering evergreens. “I don’t know. It simply occurred to me that, if you didn’t care for the people who cared for them, then perhaps the only reason you cared for your brother and nephews at all was because of an accident of birth. We can’t choose our relatives, Emmaline. Only our friends.”

“You’re only trying to make me feel less guilty.”

“I know,” he said, leading her to a curved stone bench at the center of the small garden. “Am I succeeding?”

She sat down, gracefully arranging her skirts around her, and looked at him. “Why, yes, I believe you are. Charlton and his sons are dead, and I’m sorry they didn’t lead better lives while they had the chance. I think I could weep for that.”

He joined her on the bench. “Now?”

Emmaline was slowly twirling the rose stem between her fingers, and looked up at him in some confusion. “Pardon me? Now what?”

“I was asking if you were going to weep now,” he explained, biting back a smile.

“Oh. Oh, no, I don’t think so. But at the service it will be better if I don’t disappoint Vicar Wooten. So then I shall think about what might have been.” She sighed. “What might have been is always so sad, isn’t it? What we could have done, what we should have done. What we missed because we didn’t dare to—”

John brought his mouth down on hers, cutting off any chance that either of them would ever look back at this moment and think, If only.

He pulled back slightly, smiling into her eyes. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t seem to resist. In fact, I still can’t …”

This time when he kissed her he also slid his arms around her, pulling her closer against his chest. She responded by sliding her arms around his back, signaling without words that she didn’t dislike what he was doing to her.

What she was doing to him.

A kiss. A simple kiss. And yet his world was tilting on its axis. He prodded at her with his tongue, and she responded by opening her mouth to him, and the flame she had lit inside him the first time he’d seen her threatened to consume him.

He kissed her hair, her perfect shell-like ear, her throat. He heard her quick intake of breath as he moved his hands forward, to her rib cage … and then slowly slid them upward, to cup her firm breasts.

“John …” she breathed, but not in protest, as she still held him tightly, her head tipped back as he dared to press his lips against her bare flesh above the neckline of her gown.

Her mourning gown.

Christ!

He took her hands in his and raised her to her feet, not letting go of her as he looked deeply into her eyes. “I’m sorry. I had no right …”

“You were not lacking an invitation, Captain Alastair,” Emmaline told him quietly, shifting her gaze to the ground at her feet. “Shall we just put this down to an aging spinster feeling reckless, even desperate, on the event of her twenty-eighth birthday?”

“I don’t think so, no. Not unless we explain my behavior with the notion that I’ve been too long at sea, and haven’t seen a woman in months and months, so that any woman will do. You’re not that old, Emmaline, and I’m not that young.”

She smiled weakly and pulled one hand free, turning so that they could retrace their steps to the house. “You’ve quite the way with words, or else I’m eager to be convinced.”

She shivered then, only slightly, as the setting sun had slipped behind a blanket of thick clouds, and John slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer beside him as they walked along the path.

“I had an idea as I dressed for dinner,” he told her as they approached the doors to the main saloon. “I’ve remembered the name of the brother of Josiah Coates, my steward aboard ship. Phineas. Yes, I’m positive that’s it. Phineas Coates. He’s with the Bow Street Runners, but Josiah told me the man is unhappy with his position, so that he’s actively seeking employment as a valet. Josiah and his other brothers are all gentleman’s gentlemen, in one form or another, you understand.”

“Not really, not yet,” Emmaline admitted as they stepped inside the main saloon, to see that Grayson had already ordered the evening tea tray, a not-quite subtle hint that he believed her ladyship should soon be saying her good-night to the captain. “But you’ll explain?”

John availed himself of the well-stocked drinks table, pouring a glass of wine while Emmaline prepared a cup of tea for herself. He returned to the main seating area, but did not sit down.

“Josiah left for his home at the same time I was coming here, to Ashurst Hall. I know his direction, and I’m sure he’ll be there by the time a letter from me reaches London.” He didn’t add that Josiah had only gone to the city to visit his widowed mother before heading to Warrington Hall, as that was information best kept to himself for the moment.

“Ah, you’re thinking this Phineas Coates might be the man who can find Rafe for me.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking. You could go through the War Office, but the extremely busy people there might not consider the mission as important as you’d like.”

“And, since Mr. Coates is a Bow Street Runner, he should have no problem in running down Rafe if we tell him what we know, that my nephew is in Paris. He could even, considering the man’s desire to leave the Runners, offer his services as the new duke’s valet, and stay with him, accompany Rafe home to Ashurst Hall. All very neat and tidy.”

“Only if you’re agreeable. I don’t know Phineas, but I can vouch for Josiah.”

“Very well, then, that’s what we shall do. I’ll write to Rafe tonight, and you can include the letter along with your instructions? And, yes, I’d feel much more comfortable if this Mr. Phineas Coates stayed at Rafe’s side until he’s home safe. I might even suggest they stop in London for a few days, to do something about Rafe’s wardrobe. The boy has been in uniforms for half a dozen years. Now he has to dress himself as befits a duke. Oh, dear, I wonder if he’s going to like that. He left here a boy, but he’s a man now. I wonder if he’s going to like any part of this, to be truthful. He had no ambitions in this direction, and no training, when it comes to that.”

“Three hearts away from the title, two of them young and I’ll assume vital, I can see why your nephew might not have considered that such a day might arrive. The title, this estate and, I’m sure, several others? He’s inherited considerable responsibility. Is he up to it, do you think?”

Emmaline nodded. “Rafe is a good, sound person, boy or man, I’m sure. He may be somewhat discommoded to see how his sisters have blossomed in his absence, and I don’t envy him having to ride herd on his mother once she decides she is now the dowager duchess—but, no, I have no serious qualms for the title now that it is in Rafe’s hands.”

She put down her cup. “John … about what happened in the gardens …”

He shook his head slowly. “No, let’s not talk about that now. You’ve had a long and extremely trying day, one way or another, and I certainly wasn’t any great help to you.”

“I feel as if I’ve just been told to take myself off to bed,” she said to him, smiling. “All right. And I’ll have that letter for you in the morning. Oh, and I suppose there are others I’ll need to write. To some distant aunts … perhaps the newspapers?”

“Tomorrow, Emmaline. There is nothing you can do anymore tonight that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Do I look that exhausted?”

“No, Emmaline. You look that vulnerable. And I’m not as strong as I thought myself. Not since I kissed you, at any rate.”

He watched as hot color invaded her cheeks once again. “Oh. Well, then, all right. It has been a long day.”

“Until tomorrow, which is already much too far away,” he told her, not daring to kiss her hand because he knew neither of them would be able to stop with such a simple, formal gesture.

He watched her walk, chin held high, toward the foyer, and then drank the rest of his wine, resisting the temptation to then fling the glass into the fireplace.

What in bloody hell had he done out there in the gardens? The woman had just had a terrible shock. Had he really believed that seducing her was the answer to all her problems?

And lying to her? How was that helping her?

His deception had begun easily enough, but there had been ample opportunity for him to correct her when she addressed him as captain.

She’d been impressed to hear he was a captain in the Royal Navy, that he had, like her nephew, gone to war to defend his country. And all of that was true enough.

She’d also felt comfortable with him, possibly because he was, to her mind, a relatively simple man. She’d felt free with him. Free to tell him the truth, bare her troubled soul to him. Free to lean on him in her time of need.

Free to let him kiss her.

She was Lady Emmaline Daughtry, daughter of a duke, sister of a duke, aunt to a duke. There would be no real social consequences for her if she kissed a captain in the Royal Navy. Kissed him … or more.

John poured himself a second glass of wine, preparing to settle himself in for at least another few hours of thinking, and most probably drinking. He had to tell her. He couldn’t put off telling her.

How would he tell her?

“Your Grace?”

John’s head turned toward the door before he could stop himself, and he watched as Grayson entered the main saloon, to bow in front of him.

“Excuse me, Grayson? That’s Captain, not Your Grace.”

“No, Your Grace, it’s not. I took it upon myself to personally unpack your bag. There were letters inside. I left them tied as they were, but could not avoid reading what few lines I saw. You are His Grace, Captain Jonathan Alastair, Duke of Warrington. I’ve taken the liberty of removing your belongings to the large bedchamber just to the left at the top of the landing, Your Grace.”

“Lady Emmaline?”

“Doesn’t know, no, Your Grace. May I ask why?”

“I was just sitting here asking myself the same question, Grayson. She seemed … she seemed pleased that I served in the Navy.”

Grayson nodded, transformed from the stiff and stern butler to the sort of old family retainer who had come to look upon his employers as well-loved children. “Her ladyship is very admiring of those who chose to defend this country from that rascal Bonaparte, yes, Your Grace.” The butler bowed, turned to leave, and then turned back to look at John, his expression stern once more. “She is also, begging Your Grace’s pardon, quite fond of honesty and truthfulness.”

“Yes, thank you, Grayson. Lady Emmaline is, indeed, a very truthful, forthright person. She deserves nothing less in return.” Grayson bowed again. “As you say, Your Grace.”

CHAPTER FIVE

… SUCH SAD AND shocking news. I imagine you reading this wherever you are, and marveling at how quickly lives can change. In truth, I have been thinking much the same thing ever since Captain Alastair walked into the gardens of Ashurst Hall this afternoon.

Emmaline lifted her pen and stared at her words. Why had she written them? She should tear up this letter, as well, and put it with the other discarded efforts she had begun and then abandoned. But it would make no difference if she began again; no matter how she tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, John Alastair kept creeping back into her thoughts, and onto the page of the letter to her nephew.

She dipped the pen once more and continued:

You are, of course, needed home as soon as you are able, but I understand the demands of your service, and wish to assure you that we are all quite safe here, and capable of holding things together until you find it possible to return. I ask only that you write to us as often as you can, and that you allow Mr. Coates to be of any and all assistance to you.

Rafe, you will make an exemplary Duke of Ashurst. You hold my deepest confidence and blessings.

Yrs. In Greatest Affection,

Emmaline

Before she could change her mind, Emmaline sanded the page, folded it and then used the Ashurst seal to press the warmed wax onto the folded page. There, it was done. She’d arrange for funds to be given to Mr. Coates, who would carry them with him to Paris, so that Rafe would not feel penny-pinched as he made arrangements for his transport back to England.

She kept the letter separate from the small stack that would go out with the morning post, informing a few distant aunts of Charlton’s death, and then reluctantly added the letter to Helen, Rafe’s mother, to them. She could not in good conscience delay sending that particular letter, especially since the London newspapers were bound to make a huge announcement in the next few days.

After all, it wasn’t every day that a duke and both his heirs drowned in the Channel thanks to their own utter stupidity.

“Stop it,” Emmaline muttered under her breath as she rose from the small writing desk in her bedchamber and turned to contemplate the mantel clock. She was surprised to see that it had only gone past midnight. She’d hoped for more, perhaps that it was already after three, or even four.

How long before she would see John again at the breakfast table? Knowing she would not sleep, could not sleep, she believed the hours between now and then could be more easily measured in months.

In any event, it was no longer her birthday, although she could still consider it such until the sun rose in the morning. The next time she marked her birthday, it would also mark the day she’d learned that her brother and nephews had died. How odd. Which was worse, she wondered: to grow older every year, or to be reminded how many years it had been since those deaths?

“If they were going to die, anyway, they could have been just a little bit more considerate,” Emmaline told her reflection in the dressing table mirror as she pinched at her cheeks to bring color into them and then checked the neckline of her ridiculously virginal white night rail and dressing gown.

And then, before her better self, her saner self, could talk her out of it, Emmaline headed for the door to the hallway, intent on spending her twenty-ninth birthday thinking back over a much nicer memory of her twenty-eighth.

She headed for the west wing, hoping her courage wouldn’t desert her, but halted before she got to the center staircase, having seen light peeking out from beneath the double doors to the bedchamber reserved for their highest-ranking guests. The prince regent himself had stayed in the chamber twice, this last time breaking a fine antique chair just by sitting his bulk in it.

Why would Grayson put John in this chamber? It wasn’t like the butler to stray from the strict rules of social protocol that made up such things. Captain Alastair should have been put in the west wing, and probably at the end of the corridor at that, right next to the servant stairs.

Perhaps Grayson had taken a liking to John. Although Grayson rarely took a liking to anyone.

And what did it matter where Grayson had put John, or why? She told herself that all she was doing now was standing in a drafty hallway, possibly to be seen by any servant who might be up and about for some reason. Either she was going to do something for herself or she was going to die old and dry and with a regret that had her sighing into her teacup while her relatives murmured behind her back: “Poor old Emmy, unlucky in love, you know.”

She raised her hand, hesitated as she took one last, deep steadying breath, and then closed her fist and rapped her knuckles on one of the doors.

Emmaline winced as the sound of that knock seemed to fill the quiet night like cannon shot woke the world to mark a dawn battle.

“You wanted something, Emmaline?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling about to see John standing almost directly behind her.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked, saying the first thing that came into her head.

“I should perhaps ask you the same thing,” he responded, his magnificent eyes slipping lazily up and down her dressing-gown-clad body.

Her toes curled in her slippers.

“I didn’t hear you come down the hallway.”

“Or up the stairs, either, I’d imagine,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps, next time, I should have one of the footmen lead the way, blowing on a trumpet.”

“Now you’re making sport of me.”

“No,” he said, his tone serious as he stepped closer to her. “I’d never do that. For one thing, I’m too grateful to see you. It has been hours and hours.”

“Yes, it has,” Emmaline told him, daring to look straight into his eyes. “And it’s just as you said, John. Tomorrow is much too far away …”

He put his hands around her upper arms and then leaned in ever so slowly, touching his mouth to hers with a gentleness that brought her closer to tears than she had felt all day.

At first she thought she was floating, but quickly realized John had picked her up, lifting her high against his chest, even as he went on kissing her. She sensed his knees bending slightly as he tried to manage the brass latch. She was about to tell him that romance was lovely but perhaps they were both a few years too old for such gallantry when the door opened and he walked her inside, kicking it closed behind him.

By now she had her face buried against the side of his neck. “That was quite … impressive,” she whispered, keeping her eyes shut as he carried her across the large chamber and toward the bed that had housed kings, queens and rotund princes.

“Thank you. I thought so, too,” John told her as he laid her on the already turned-down bed. Bless Grayson, he was nothing if not efficient.

Standing next to the bed, John stripped off his uniform jacket before joining her on the lush satin sheets, pulling her once more into his arms. His mouth mere inches from hers, he said, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Emmaline thought that a lovely thing to say. “We barely know each other.”

“No. We’ve known each other forever, my dearest one, always known the other of us was out there somewhere in the world, waiting. We only just happened to meet today.”

They made love slowly, because it was her first time, because they had the rest of their lives, because to rush something this beautiful, this perfect, would be tantamount to a crime.

He kissed away her silent tears when the lovemaking threatened to undo her; the unexpected intensity of her arousal, the tenderness of his every intimate touch, swelling her heart and wordlessly telling her she was cherished, she was beautiful to him, she was desirable.

But there was more. She hadn’t expected what she’d felt so far, what he’d caused her to feel, and her surprise manifested itself in a rather startled gasp as he found the very heart of her most intimate place and touched it, teased and stroked it, doing amazing things to her suddenly eager body.

She lifted her hips to him, wanting to know more, wanting to learn her feelings even as he was learning her body. A new tension invaded her every muscle, urging her forward, telling him without words that, yes, yes … there. And again, there. Do that … please do that. Don’t stop doing that … right there … please …

And when he mounted her, when her body relieved her of the responsibility to think and just reacted to his, when he settled himself deep inside her, Emmaline knew that every word he’d said to her was true. She’d been waiting for him all of her life.

Their bodies had become one, their hearts and minds, as well. He whispered sweet words in her ear, urging her to move with him, feel with him, fly with him.

Emmaline had already waved goodbye to all of her misgivings and inhibitions of eight and twenty long years. She lifted her hips to him, met his every thrust as she held on tight, pulling him deeper, deeper inside her. She felt her most secret parts bud, unfurl, bursting into the full flower of her womanhood.

And then more. Just when she felt she had nothing more to give, to take, to feel, her body began to throb around him, sending stunning sensations through her, glories both wonderful and frightening.

“John!”

And he knew, somehow he knew. His hold tightened on her and he thrust one more time as he held her close, his mouth on hers, taking in her frantic breaths, her wondrous sighs.

She felt his body clench. Clench, and then release. Again and again and again, until he seemed to collapse bonelessly against her, his warm breath audible next to her ear.

“I will never … leave your side. Never. At last I’m alive …” he whispered, and her tears fell once more as he kissed her hair, her eyelids, even the tip of her nose, before settling once more against her mouth. “Neither of us will ever be alone again.”

EMMALINE ALLOWED herself to be convinced another black gown she’d always loathed would be extremely fine for the morning, especially since she would have to meet with the vicar at some point, and headed down the stairs to see if John was already at breakfast in the morning room.

He’d proposed to her an hour before dawn, promising her his love and all of his worldly goods. He’d gone down on his knees; he’d held both her hands in his as he looked so deeply into her eyes. Had she said yes before he’d kissed her, before they’d fallen onto the bed once more?

And did it matter? He had to know her answer was yes.

She would still have a personal maid when she was John’s wife, as well as a cook and housekeeper, if not a butler. Her dowry was such as to make them both comfortable, and to support any children that might come of their union.

Children. Emmaline stopped on the bottom stair and smiled into the middle distance. She’d never thought she would have children, and now she wanted a houseful. And she and John would never neglect them, never treat them as if they were a nuisance.

No. They’d live in a lovely thatched cottage, possibly near the sea—John loved the sea—and they would spend their lives quietly, happily. Watching their children grow, together. The two of them growing old, together.

After all, being the daughter of a duke had gained her nothing. She had no qualms about exchanging that role for that of wife and mother.

There was a knock on the door and one of the footmen hastened to open it, stepping back quickly as Helen Daughtry swept (Helen swept better than most anyone else in the world) into the foyer.

“Emmaline!” she called out, already drawing off her black gloves and untying the smallest wisp of a black bonnet that must have cost the earth. And if the bonnet had cost the earth, the black cashmere shawl tipped with ermine and the black mourning gown covered in lace and edged with pearls had cost the remainder of the universe. “I came as soon as I heard. Oh, the horror!” And then her eyelids narrowed. “Has my son been notified? He’s the duke now, you know.”

“Yes, Helen, I know,” Emmaline said, descending the last few stairs and allowing herself to be lightly embraced by her sister-in-law’s scent as the woman pursed her lips and kissed the air about an inch from Emmaline’s ear. “And you are now the dowager duchess.”

Helen Daughtry’s eyes widened in horror. “Dowager? Oh, no. Oh, no, no. I think not! We’ll have to do something about that. But for now,” she said, taking Emmaline’s hand and leading her down the hallway, “I’m famished. Ah, Grayson, there you are.”

“Your Grace,” the butler said, his bow stiff, as if it was restricted by a rusty hinge rather than a spine. “I’ll have someone see to your luggage, and that your usual chamber is prepared.”

“Oh, no, don’t do that. I’m staying only a few miles away with Lord Edmunds—dearest Ferdie—marvelous house party. You weren’t invited, Emmaline? Shame on them! Just because you said your last prayers years ago doesn’t mean you couldn’t be included, at least for the tamer entertainments. At any rate, I heard the news, and knew I must have someone drive me over here for a few hours,” Helen said with a wave of her hand.

“How fortunate you managed to pack that gown,” Emmaline said without inflection.

“Yes, isn’t it, darling? I had to borrow the bonnet, but I wear black quite often in the evening, as it shows off my hair so well. Strange that we’re both blonde, and yet black … well, perhaps a little visit to the paint pots, hmm? At any rate, I’m only here to make certain my son is being installed as he should be … and to lend you my support of course, my dearest Emmaline. So alone in the world now. How difficult it must be to be a spinster. Being a widow is much more fun! Why, only Rafe’s charity will keep a roof over your head now, won’t it? But not to worry—I’m sure he’ll find someplace to put you.”

Grayson and Emmaline exchanged looks as Helen wandered off ahead of them. “As my late brother said, Grayson, the woman has a tongue that runs on wheels, but only rarely engages with her brain box. She means well.”

“As you say, my lady. His … that is, your guest awaits you in the morning room.”

Emmaline hastened down the hallway, realizing that putting Helen within fifty yards of any young, handsome man was akin to setting a plate of sugar cookies within easy reach of a precocious child.

She stopped to take a settling breath, and then turned the corner and entered the morning room, just in time to see John bowing over Helen’s hand.

Her sister-in-law turned to her with a wink and a smile. “Well, now, aren’t you the naughty one? While the cat’s away the mice will dance, hmm? Or did Charlton know about this … houseguest of yours?”

“Captain Alastair was there on the scene, just after the yacht sank, Helen. It is he who brought me the sad news.”

“And then decided to stay for the funerals? How accommodating of you, Captain. I may have to attend the services myself, after all,” Helen said, once more turning her back on Emmaline. “Alastair? John Alastair. Now why is that name so familiar to me, hmm?”

John shot a quick look past Helen, to where Emmaline stood. “John is a fairly common name, Your Grace.”

“Common as dirt, yes. But Alastair? No, I think I … oh, wait! I think I remember now. Not John Alastair. Jonathan Alastair. You’re William’s son. The sailor. How he loathed that you’d put the line in jeopardy, haring about on the high seas and all of that nonsense. Poor William, although Dame Rumor has it that he died quite happily.” Helen sank into a graceful curtsy. “It is so delightful, again, to meet you, Your Grace.”

Emmaline found that she couldn’t breathe.

And Helen, who always noticed such things, noticed. “Emmaline, dearest? Are you quite all right? How could you have forgotten to tell me that the Duke of Warrington is your houseguest? Your Grace, you simply must return to River’s Edge with me, as there is nothing quite so dull and dreary as a house of mourning. So sorry you won’t be able to join us, Emmaline. What with your brother so newly dead and all.”

“Emmaline, I—Emmaline, wait!”

But Emmaline was gone, turning about so quickly she nearly tripped over the hem of her gown before running out of the room.

He caught up with her in the large foyer, before she could mount the stairs and lock herself in her bedchamber, where she would remain for the next hundred years, if possible.

“Grayson,” he said, his eyes on Emmaline, his hand holding tight to her arm, “if you’d be so kind as to keep Her Grace occupied elsewhere.”

“But … but how should I do that, sir?”

“I don’t care if you tie her to a chair. And it wouldn’t depress me if you included a gag. The woman is a feather-witted menace. Go, and everyone else—leave.”

“John, you cannot just go ordering the servants to—and let go of my arm.”

“I was going to tell you, Emmaline, I swear I was. This morning. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you immediately … but it all just seemed … easier if you thought me a more … a more simple man.”

“I thought we’d live in a cottage. And … and raise our children. I thought … I thought I would be your helpmeet, your companion.”

“And how does my being a duke change any of that? Granted, Warrington Hall is not a cottage, but as for the rest of it? Being duke and duchess does not preclude us from being loving parents. From loving each other, staying true to each other. We won’t ever have to go to London at all, if you don’t want to go. Is that it? Have you taken a firm dislike to London, to Society?”

She shook off his hand. “I’m not a recluse, John. Charlton refused to take me, that’s all. I adore London, at least most of it.”

“Oh, good,” he said, relaxing slightly. “Because I really think we need to go there from time to time. That is, if you can love a duke even half as much as you could love a simple sea captain?”

Emmaline looked down at the floor. “I’m being silly, aren’t I? I saw us as being so simple, our lives so uncomplicated. Being Charlton’s sister was … very complicated.” She turned her gaze on the man she loved. “How did you know I felt that way?”

“I don’t know. I felt that if I told you who I am, about the damned title, then you’d not relax your guard around me, tell me the sorts of things you told me yesterday. About your family, about your life.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have, you’re correct about that. I don’t think I would have worried about how you’d pay for your room at the inn, either.”

“Darling, do you remember when I said we can’t choose who we love, but we can choose who we like?”

“Yes,” she said, allowing him to take her hands in his.

“I knew I loved you the moment I first saw you. That was the easy part. But then I knew I liked you when you showed such concern for my welfare, when you were more worried for me than concerned with the suddenly altered circumstances of your life. Now, am I forgiven?”

“I don’t know,” she said coyly—imagine, a twenty-eight-year-old almost-virgin, being coy! “I really believe I may have had my heart set on a thatched cottage near the sea.”

He slipped his arms more fully around her and brought his mouth down to nearly meet hers. “We’ll work on that …”

EPILOGUE

THERE WERE TWO musty old aunts in the second pew, a quiet and reserved-looking Charlotte Seavers and her father in the third, and only Emmaline and John sitting in the first pew as the vicar looked uncomfortable in the small chapel hung in black crepe but glaringly absent of coffins.

Helen Daughtry had not only sent her regrets, but had forbidden her twin daughters from attending the service. “Much too depressing for the young dears,” she’d insisted, which was, Emmaline knew, another way of saying, “If they’re there, then I have to be there, and I don’t want to be there.”

Last night, while the two of them were in bed together after the rest of the household was asleep, John had proposed a wine toast to Helen’s absence. If it were possible to love him even more, she did, because he was so impervious to Helen’s beauty and wiles.

The quickness of the memorial ceremony and the absence of the trio who would provide raucous entertainment for them had kept Charlton’s friends firmly in London. As for George and Harold, they were the sort who had acquaintances, men to whom they either owed money or were owed money. Not friends.

It was a sad statement about three wasted lives, lives that could have been so rich as well as privileged.

Now Rafael Daughtry was the Duke of Ashurst, even if he was probably still unaware of his new title. His mother would drive Grayson and the other servants to distraction when she was in residence, and Nicole and Lydia would make them happy again, as all the staff adored the twins.

But Emmaline, who had thought she’d never leave Ashurst Hall, would be departing in the next few weeks to become the Duchess of Warrington. It was obscene, unheard of, for a woman in mourning to wed so hastily, but when she and John had realized that neither cared what Society thought, Emmaline had set her maid to bringing down trunks from the attic so that they could begin packing up her belongings.

“We mourn our brothers, Charlton, George, Harold,” Vicar Wooten droned on—he’d been droning on for nearly an hour and even he seemed fatigued. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes … um, well, not perhaps in this particular case, begging your pardon.”

One of the aunts stifled a giggle and, for some reason she would never understand, that caused Emmaline to shed her very first tears for her brother and nephews.

Not in this case. No, nothing was quite like this case. The deaths had been senseless, unnecessary and much too soon.

She dabbed at her moist eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, knowing her tears now were for what might have been, for the past that could never be changed.

And then John slipped his hand into hers, squeezed it, and she turned to look at this man she loved. Every question she’d ever had, any answer she’d ever sought. They were all there, in his eyes. She smiled through her tears as she saw her future.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

TANGLED REINS

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

CHapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

THE SECRETS OF A COURTESAN

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

HOW TO WOO A SPINSTER

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Epilogue