The Season had presented a dizzying number of activities. Rachel could not remember when she had last had an hour in which to do nothing but relax. She could also not remember an evening in which she had been in bed before midnight, except for Sundays, of course, when Papa would allow nothing more than church-going, quiet family walks or drives, and evenings devoted to reading aloud to one another from some edifying book, usually the Bible. Even in London that pattern was not to change, as Rachel had learned with a sigh of resignation within one week of their arrival in town.

Mornings, of course, could be a time of relaxation. Almost all her friends did not even rise until noon each day and were horrified to learn that Rachel was invariably up for breakfast and some vigorous morning exercise. But it was not in Rachel's nature to be idle. Sometimes she felt almost as if some demon drove her, though whether it drove her toward some goal or away from a contemplation of her own thoughts, she was not at all sure. She only knew that the pleasures of town, which had so delighted her for weeks, threatened to be not enough to distract her very restless mind.

She was very thankful for the presence of Celia, a dear friend from school days whom Papa had permitted her to invite to stay with them during the Season and even to return with them to the country afterward. Celia was a quiet and placid young lady. It had always been a matter of puzzlement to their school friends, and indeed to the girls themselves, just why they loved each other so dearly. It must simply be a classic case of the attraction of opposites, they concluded.

Celia had a calming influence on Rachel. She perhaps prevented her friend's activities during the Season from becoming too frenzied. For her part, Rachel tried to draw Celia out of a shell of quiet, always decorous behavior. Celia had been brought up in a strict household, where money was scarce and careful management a prime virtue. She found it hard to relax and enjoy herself. Rachel had set herself to seeing that her friend dressed becomingly and met eligible gentlemen. Left to herself, Celia did not have good taste in clothes, favoring safe pastel shades that did nothing for her rather pale hair and complexion.

Celia did sometimes find it difficult to keep up with the energy of her friend. On rare occasions she had refused outright to join an outing. But usually she would exert herself to follow wherever Rachel wished to lead, knowing that in the mornings at least her friend had little choice of companion. Lady Edgeley did not indulge in morning outings.

On this particular morning Celia had protested that there was absolutely nothing she needed to purchase, and even Rachel had admitted that she could do little more than look, since she had already overspent her allowance once and Papa would be in a rage if she asked him for a second advance on her next month's pin money. But go to Bond Street they must. No one interesting ever went to the park in the morning, and if they stayed at home, what would they do to fill in the empty hours until luncheon time? Celia had protested no further, but had gone in search of their pelisses while Rachel ordered the carriage to be sent around.

And so they had met Algie, as Rachel had been secretly hoping they would. She simply had to make certain that he would be at the Simpson ball that night, since he was the only gentleman of her acquaintance who really knew how to waltz. Algie twirled her and twirled her until she was dizzy. She always loved the sensation of being utterly dependent for support on the shoulder beneath one hand and the large masculine hand that clasped her other. She had forgotten to ask him two evenings before at the Ripleys' soiree if he were to attend the ball.

But Algie had not been alone. Rachel had hardly noticed his companion at first, so delighted was she to see the familiar, imposing figure of her neighbor and friend. But then she did look at the other man, and a strange thing happened. Nothing like it had ever happened to Rachel before. She had never expected or looked for such a thing. She was a very sensible young lady who enjoyed the adoration of men and who was contemplating marriage at some future date with someone of suitable rank and fortune.

She fell in love with Algie's companion.

That was an absurd way to describe her reactions, of course, she told herself later in the carriage. She did not believe in falling in love. That was for those giddy girls who always stood in groups in the ballroom, giggling behind their fans and ogling the more handsome men, who almost invariably paid them the compliment of ignoring them. And to speak of falling in love with a man whom one had just that moment set one's eyes upon for the first time was too preposterous even to be absurd.

What exactly had happened, then? She had moved her eyes to look at the man with Algie, only to find that he was studying her. There was nothing unusual about that. Rachel was quite accustomed to drawing the glances of young men-and some not so young too. In that first glance, she did not notice his tall, athletic body. She could not swear that she had even seen his thick, dark hair at first. She could not have seen it in all its shining glory, anyway, until he removed his hat when Algie introduced him. What had caused that feeling, then, of a merciless fist punching the air out of her stomach?

His mouth. Had she noticed his mouth in that first glance? Yes, she rather thought she had. A wide, good-humored mouth, which looked as if it were in the habit of smiling. A mouth that looked as if it would be interesting to kiss. And that was a shocking thought. Rachel had kissed a man only once in her life and that had been Algie in broad daylight in the middle of a field of sheep and sheep droppings when she had asked him to kiss her. She had found it somewhat disappointing, not with a stirring of a sinful feeling to make it exciting. She had very sensibly given up kissing as a desirable pastime from that moment on.

And his eyes. Oh, yes, his eyes! Definitely. Yes, they were what she had seen first. It was his eyes with which she had fallen in love. Blue eyes. Many men had blue eyes. She could recall three from among her regular followers without any effort of thought. But eyes that looked at one very directly as if they had nothing whatever to hide? Eyes that held no anxiety, no uncertainty? Eyes that somehow smiled at one even when his face was grave? No, she did not know anyone else with eyes like his.

Yes, it was when she had looked into his eyes that she had fallen in love with David Gower. The Reverend David Gower. Algie might have knocked her flat with a feather when he had said that, with some emphasis on the Reverend. Goodness, this was the man who was to take old Vicar Ferney's place? His was the face she would gaze at each Sunday for almost the rest of her life or at least until she married and was removed to a different home.

It was almost impossible to imagine. She could not picture him reading the Bible for a pastime, even on Sundays as Papa did. She could not imagine him composing and delivering lengthy sermons from the high stone pulpit of the village church. She certainly could not see him established in the solid but inelegant vicarage beside the church. The man was handsome and athletic, framed for elegant and idle pastimes.

He was a younger son, of course. Rachel had always pitied gentlemen who had had the misfortue to be born second or third in the family. Unless there was some independent fortune for them to inherit, they really had little choice but to seek careers for themselves in the church or the army. She wondered why David Gower had not chosen the latter. He seemed physically more suited to life as a soldier. Of course, as a soldier one also had to exert oneself and even face danger not infrequently. Life in the church offered more luxury and ease, especially if one had a generous patron.

Algie was his cousin. And Algie had the church living in his possession, Singleton Hall being his principal residence, whereas Oakland was not Papa's main seat, though it was his favorite and most frequent place of residence. The Reverend David Gower would have an easy life. Algie was always generous and could be expected to be even more so with his own cousin. The vicar would doubtless be a very frequent visitor at the Hall. Perhaps he would even live there.

Rachel had not intended to fall in love with a clergyman. Indeed she had not intended to fall in love with anyone. She had prattled horribly there on the pavement. She had even asked the new vicar if he would have the second waltz with her that evening. Had she really done that? Yes, she really had. Mortifying thought. She had never asked a man to dance with her or walk with her or drive with her. Where was the need, when gentlemen fell all over themselves and one another to be granted the privilege of engaging her in one of those activities? She sometimes asked Algie, of course, but that was a different matter entirely. They had been friends for as far back as she could remember. She had asked the Reverend Gower to dance with her!

David! What a beautiful name. She had always imagined the hero of the David-and-Goliath story as just such a handsome man. This man, of course, would hardly fit into that story with his height. But then the biblical David had grown into King David, had he not?

By the time the Edgeley carriage drew to a halt outside the house on Grosvenor Square and set down the two young ladies, Celia Barnes was wondering if all the late nights and fairly early mornings were finally catching up on her friend. Rachel had gone for almost ten whole minutes without uttering a single word. She had been sitting in the carriage, holding on to the leather strap, a glazed look in her eyes and an almost foolish half-smile on her lips.

"Do you think the Brussels lace will be just a little too fussy for this evening, Celia?" she asked anxiously as she turned to wait for the footman to help her friend out of the carriage. "I do not wish to appear overdressed."

Celia knew that Rachel was back in the land of the conscious again.

Chapter 2

David Gower was seated in Lord Rivers' very comfortable carriage later that evening on his way to the Simpson ball, his cousin opposite him. He was still feeling rather amused at the way Algie's feelings had been ruffled when he had teased him about the magnificent folds of his neckcloth.

"How many neckcloths did your poor valet wreck before he could come up with this piece of sheer artistry?" he had asked.

"Only four," Algie had replied, turning the whole upper part of his body in David's direction in order not to have his cheeks punctured by the sharp points of his shirt collar. "He was more careful than usual tonight."

David had shouted with laughter. "Perhaps if you could train yourself to sleep absolutely motionless on your back all through the night," he had said, "you could make the same creation serve for a whole week, Algie. It seems a shame to waste all that artistic effort on one evening's entertainment. Perhaps someone of some significance will be absent this evening and not even see it."

That was when Algie's feelings had become ruffled. He had pretended to take offense, anyway. David would not have been feeling so cheerful if he thought he had seriously hurt his cousin. He turned his thoughts to the evening ahead. It had been a long time since he had attended anything quite so frivolous as a ball. And a London ball at that. He quite looked forward to the experience. He would be no match for the splendor of the other guests, of course. His gray knee breeches, silver waistcoat, and blue evening coat had served him for all formal occasions during the previous two years. And he had not even tried to coax his neckcloth into anything but the simplest of knots. His coat was not particularly tight across his shoulders. He knew for a fact that Algie's valet had had to summon a footman to help him squeeze Algie into his.

But he did not particularly care about his slightly unfashionable appearance. After being away from society for some time, he viewed with amusement the more extravagant and impractical trends of fashion. Why look as if one had been poured into one's coat when afterward one was quite incapable of moving? Why view the world languidly through a quizzing glass when one had perfectly good eyesight? Why wear corsets and make every indrawn breath a torture? And if he considered the ladies, he could feel even greater amusement. Tiny lacy parasols that did nothing to keep the sun away from the complexion. Saucy little bonnets that were certainly not designed to keep the elements away from the head. He could go on and on.