But she would not marry him only because he had made a wedding night sound like the most desirable thing life had to offer, she thought, moving firmly away from him and turning slightly in order to shake the creases from the muslin dress she wore beneath her spencer. Or because she had enjoyed his kiss more than … Well, more than anything she could think of at the moment. Or because she wanted more and knew she would dream of more for a long time to come.

She was playing with fire, and she was getting burned.

What would it be like – a wedding night with the Earl of Sheringford?

And a lifetime as the wife of a confessed rogue? "We will almost certainly be late for tea," she said briskly, "if we do not leave immediately." "If your cheeks stay that rosy," he said, "my mother will be charmed even if we are very late." He offered his arm and she took it.

Miss Margaret Huxtable was prim and straitlaced and judgmental. Last evening she had even taken him to task for saying /good God/ as an exclamation. And she kissed like a novice. She had not held anything back, it was true, but then he had not demanded much. She had initiated nothing. Whatever her experience was, it was either so old that she had forgotten it or so minimal that there was nothing much to forget.

If he had to wager on it, he would bet that Miss Margaret Huxtable and Dew-of-the-weak-chin – with whom he had exchanged a few words in the park this morning – had rolled in the hay together once only, probably just before he marched off to war. She was very fortunate there had been no awkward consequences.

As they approached Curzon Street, not talking a great deal, Duncan asked himself if this really was the woman he wished to marry. It was a redundant question. /Of course/ she was not – but then neither was anyone else.

He had received a letter from Mrs. Harris this morning – she could read and write though Harris could not. Toby had fallen out of a tree last week and sprained an ankle and given himself a goose-egg of a lump on his forehead. Although he had made an almost miraculous recovery, Mrs.

Harris assured his lordship, they had nevertheless felt it wise to summon a physician, and the doctor had felt it wise to prescribe some medicine – all of which had cost money. And, of course, the fall had torn out the knees of his breeches so that they were quite beyond repair.

Old Tobe! He was as accident-prone as any other normal little boy. As accident-prone as he himself had been as a child.

There had been the time when Toby had insisted upon climbing over a stile unassisted though he had been warned that the wood was old and rough and the maneuver must be done very carefully. He had, of course, yelled out excitedly, "Watch me!" from his sitting position on the topmost bar and jumped. He had taken part of the bar with him in the form of a large splinter that had torn his breeches at the seat – not at the knee that time – and embedded itself in one tender buttock cheek. If Duncan had not caught him on the way down, he would also have smothered his entire person with the mud that lay in wait at the bottom. And there had been the time when he had sloshed into a late winter puddle of water after being told not to, only to discover that there was a layer of ice beneath the water. And the time when … Well, the reminiscences could go on forever. But there were other things to think about at the moment than a sore little bottom after the splinter had been pulled free and a wobbly lower lip and a valiant effort not to cry and a wheedling little voice saying they must not upset Mama by telling her. Or a wet, miserable little body huddled against him for warmth and comfort during the walk home from the ice puddle, his little arms about Duncan's neck, his child's voice suggesting that Duncan not tell Mama. Which, of course, was the last thing Duncan would have done anyway. "My mother," Duncan warned Miss Huxtable as they approached the house, "will wish to talk about our wedding." "I know," she said. "I will make it clear to her again that there may well /be/ no wedding." "Making things clear to my mother," he said, "is no easy task when she has once made up her mind on a point. She dreams of a happily-ever-after for me." "All mothers do it," she said. "So do all sisters who have acted as mothers to their siblings. I understand your mother's feelings perfectly. You must have caused her almost unbearable suffering during the past five years." He doubted it. His mother was vain and flighty and affectionate, but he did not believe her feelings ran deep. "You raise your eyebrows," she said, "as if to say that of course I am wrong. I do not suppose I am." "In which case," he said, "you had better not cause her more suffering, Miss Huxtable. You had better marry me." She opened her mouth to answer, but they had arrived. And someone must have been watching their approach. The front door swung open before Duncan had climbed the steps, to reveal first Sir Graham's butler and then Duncan's mother, who was smiling warmly at Miss Huxtable and holding out her arms to draw her into a hug.

He might as well have been invisible.

10

MARGARET found herself enveloped in soft warmth and the floral scent of some obviously expensive perfume. "Miss Huxtable – may I call you Margaret?" Lady Carling said, releasing Margaret and linking an arm through hers before drawing her in the direction of the staircase. "I cannot tell you how happy you have made me. I had scarce a wink of sleep last night. Ask Graham. Though he is not here, provoking man. He says I am making a cake of myself since you said quite clearly last evening that you are /not/ betrothed to Duncan, and why should you be since you are a sister of the Earl of Merton and everyone knows you to be a sensible and virtuous lady. It is only surprising that you would invite my son to sit in your brother-in-law's box with you, he said, but I pointed out that that is merely proof that in reality you are engaged to Duncan but have chosen to withhold the official announcement until you are ready to make it. But you can tell me. I am to be your mother." By the time she paused for breath they were outside the doors of what was presumably the drawing room, and a footman who had been waiting there opened them.

The Earl of Sheringford was coming behind them.

It was indeed the drawing room, and the tea had already been brought up.

A smartly dressed maid poured three cups as soon as she saw them enter and then left the room. "Indeed, ma'am," Margaret said, "I have not yet said that I will marry Lord Sheringford, and perhaps never will." "It is always wise," Lady Carling said, "not to appear too eager. I refused Duncan's father twice before I finally accepted him even though I was head-over-ears in love with him. And I refused Graham once, though that did not really count, as he /told/ me the first time that we would marry instead of asking me. Can you imagine such a thing, Margaret?

There are those who consider him a cold man, and no wonder when he talks and behaves in such a way. But of course he is not, as I know very well.

Oh, do sit down on that love seat, and do sit beside her, Duncan. I have loved you dearly and steadfastly throughout your life, but I did not realize quite how sensible you can be until now. Tell me why you chose Margaret." They did as they were bidden, and Margaret found her shoulder only inches from his. She could feel his body heat. "Because, Mama," he said, "I went to the Tindell ball to look for a bride and collided with Miss Huxtable in the doorway and decided to look no farther." His mother's cup paused halfway to her lips, and she looked suspiciously at her son. "Oh, very well," she said, "/don't/ tell me. It is sometimes very difficult, Margaret, to get sense out of Duncan. Why have you delayed the announcement of your betrothal? Is it because of his reputation, which is admittedly quite shocking? But it cannot be entirely that.

Certainly you have a great deal of courage, appearing with him in Hilda Tindell's ballroom and then at the theater. Not many ladies would risk their reputations in such a way." "I have been told, ma'am, by members of my own family," Margaret said, "that I am more than usually stubborn. I suppose that when I hear that other people would not do a certain thing, I feel an irresistible urge to do it myself." "I like you," Lady Carling announced. "Duncan, have you finished your tea? It would be a wonder if you have not, since you always drink it in great gulps instead of taking delicate sips as any civilized being does." "I have finished it, Mama," he said. "Then go and amuse yourself elsewhere," she said, waving one hand in the direction of the door, "and come back in half an hour to escort Margaret home. We have matters to discuss that would doubtless bore you." He got to his feet and bowed, the usual dark, inscrutable look on his face. "You will excuse me … Maggie?" he asked. "Of course." She inclined her head, though she did frown slightly too.

Was he trying to influence her by implying to his mother that there was a greater intimacy between them than there was?

But she had just allowed him to kiss her in Hyde Park, had she not? And it had not been just an innocent peck on the cheek or lips. Oh, goodness, his tongue had been inside her mouth.

Margaret lifted her cup to her lips and realized too late that her hand was shaking ever so slightly. "Margaret," Lady Carling said when they were alone. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap. She looked instantly different – more serious, less frivolous. "Tell me why you are spending time with my son. Tell me why you hesitate to marry him." Margaret drew a slow breath and set down her cup and saucer on the small table at her elbow. "I suppose that like most people," she said, "I rush to judgment when I meet a stranger. And there are many judgments to rush to in Lord Sheringford's case. He does not even deny that he did dreadful things five years ago. But I am also aware that no one is defined by one set of actions – especially when those actions are well in the past. I suppose I am curious. I want to know more about him. I want to know if I would be misjudging him by spurning his acquaintance. And we really did collide with each other at the ball, you know. And I really did – very rashly – introduce him to another gentleman as my betrothed simply because that gentleman was a suitor of mine many years ago and was being patronizing when he discovered me this year still unmarried at thirty years old. Because Lord Sheringford was in active search of a bride, he encouraged the lie and offered to make it the truth. Neither of us expected that Major Dew would mention what I had told him to a few of his friends, and that they would tell it to a few of theirs. I had told him that no one knew of the betrothal yet, including my own family." Lady Carling had listened to her without even trying to interrupt. "I daresay," she said, "Duncan hopes that if he marries well his grandfather will relent and restore Woodbine Park to him." Margaret looked sharply at her. She did not /know/? "The Marquess of Claverbrook has promised to do just that," she said, "provided Lord Sheringford is married to a lady of whom he approves before the Marquess's eightieth birthday. Otherwise he will grant possession of Woodbine Park to the next heir." "To Norman?" Lady Carling said. "Oh, dear. He is a very worthy young man. I was always fond of him. But he is the sort of man who has never put a foot wrong his whole life – just the sort of man who is despised and even hated by his less virtuous brothers and cousins. Duncan could never abide him. And yet he was good enough to marry Caroline Turner." "Yes," Margaret said. "But how like that cantankerous old man to play such games," Lady Carling said, bridling. "And when is his eightieth birthday, pray? I take it it must be soon." "In less than two weeks," Margaret said.

Lady Carling raised her eyebrows. "Poor Duncan," she said. "It would not be only the money, you know, though he must be desperate even for that. His funds have been completely cut, and he has refused to take anything from me. Men and their silly pride! But Woodbine Park was his childhood home. All his memories are there. It is true that he did not spend much time there from the age of eighteen or nineteen until he ran off with Mrs. Turner, but one does not expect a healthy, energetic young man to incarcerate himself in the country. He was busy sowing his wild oats, though I never heard that they were so very wild – merely normal for a man his age. He planned to settle in the country after he married Caroline Turner. And then he did something very impulsive and very foolish and is like to suffer for it the rest of his life." "When Lord Sheringford came to make me a formal offer yesterday afternoon," Margaret said, "I explained to him that I needed time to get to know him better, even if two weeks was all the time I could have in which to decide. I pointed out to him that it was unfair of me to ask for that time, since he would have no chance to find a different bride if my final answer is no. He has taken the risk and given me the time." Lady Carling looked at her silently for such a long while that Margaret began to feel uncomfortable. But she spoke at last. "I know something of you, Margaret," she said. "I know you lost your mother early and your father when you were still only a girl. I know that you took it upon yourself to hold your home together and raise your younger sisters and brother – even though at the time you did not know that your brother would inherit the Merton title and fortune and eventually make all your lives considerably easier. I daresay you feel for your siblings as a mother as well as a sister." "In some ways, yes, ma'am," Margaret agreed. "Most people see me as a careless, empty-headed creature," Lady Carling said. "And it is as I wish. Other people, especially men, are more easily manipulated that way. It might appear that I am incapable of deep feeling. But I have suffered during the past five years. I tell myself that I have suffered less than if Duncan had died, but sometimes it has been hard to convince myself. If he had died, he would be at peace even if I was not. He has lost everything, Margaret, for a foolish whim that could not be reversed even before Mrs. Turner died. He has lost his youth, his character and reputation, his home, his livelihood, his happiness, his peace. And I am his mother. I do not ask you to try to put yourself in my place. It is too painful a place to be." Margaret did not attempt a reply. "He was a happy, mischievous, active, very normal boy," Lady Carling continued. "He loved animals and championed every one he felt was being mistreated – as well as every servant and child in the village too. He suffered dreadfully when his father died so suddenly – we both did. But suffering is part of life for everyone and of course he recovered. He was carefree and wild and active and very normal as a young man. And then, as you yourself just put it, his life was defined for all time by one utterly foolish act. Why he did it I suppose I will never know, but he did it. And so in a sense his life ended. I doubt the past five years have been happy ones for him. His face is not that of a man who has been happy. He has aged at least ten years in the past five. He was a handsome boy. But perhaps, Margaret, his life can resume after all.