She stood before her bedroom mirror for a moment and wondered whether Lord Philip would like her. So familiar was she with her own features that Jane could scarcely see their charm. She decided that she looked rather like a cat, though admittedly a sleeker creature than the mangy tom that patrolled their stables. Her face had lost all its childhood fat and was now almost triangular, tapering from wide-set hazel eyes to a pointed little chin. Her mother was always telling her that she had the Verey nose, a delicate little projection that always looked weak on the face of Jane’s male ancestors but suited her own proportions far better. The whole was framed by thick black hair as dark as night.

Jane sighed and started to undress for bed. She could see little to commend herself and did not recognise her own intriguing mixture of innocence and allure. She donned her cotton nightdress hastily, for the spring evenings were still chilly and Ambergate had many draughts. Her best dress of slightly faded white silk was laid carefully aside, looking as forlorn as Jane felt.

It was five minutes after Jane had slipped into her bed that the front door bell pealed, harsh and loud in the night. It rang once, then several more times, with irritable repetition.

A loud male voice shouted, ‘Deuce take it! Is the whole house asleep? Hello there! Wake up, I say!’

Jane slid out of bed and tiptoed along the corridor to the wide landing at the top of the stairs. She could see Bramson, the butler, hastily shrugging himself into his coat as he hurried to the door. The old man was almost visibly shaking at the shock of the sudden arrival and all the noise, and Jane could not but wish Lord Philip would leave the bell alone. The continuous jangling was giving her a headache.

Lady Verey herself now came running out of the parlour just as Bramson swung the door open. It was clear to Jane that her mother must have fallen asleep in front of the fire, for her coiffure had started to come down on one side and there was a vivid red mark on her cheek where it must have been pressed against the side of the chair. She had had no time to tidy herself and was straightening her dress with nervous fingers. Jane’s heart went out to her as she saw the anxious look that creased Lady Verey’s face. She was heartbreakingly eager for the visit to be a success.

‘What the devil do you mean by keeping me standing out there in the cold!’ The same loud, masculine voice demanded wrathfully, as Lord Philip stepped into the hall. ‘You!’ He pointed at Bramson. ‘See to the stabling of my horses! They are worn to the bone by these devilish bad roads! And you…’ he turned towards Lady Verey ‘…kindly take me to your mistress!’

With horror, Jane realised that he had mistaken her mother for the housekeeper. Fortunately, Lady Verey’s good manners, if not Lord Philip’s, were up to the occasion.

She dropped a slight curtsy.

‘How do you do, sir. I am Clarissa Verey. I am sorry to hear you have had so poor a journey. Would you care for some refreshment before you retire?’

Jane waited to hear Lord Philip apologise for his late arrival, his poor manners or perhaps both. Instead, he looked down his nose as though he could not quite believe that the fright who was addressing him could really be the mistress of the house. He gave a slight bow. ‘How do you do, ma’am. Some dinner would be excellent.’

‘The servants are all abed,’ Lady Verey said, colouring a little under Lord Philip’s critical scrutiny. ‘I hope a cold supper in your room will suit your lordship…’

Lord Philip gave a sigh. ‘I suppose that will suffice! What extraordinary hours you do keep in the country, ma’am! Why, if this were London, we would only now be sitting down to our second course! Quite extraordinary!’

Jane shrank back into the shadows as her mother steered their guest towards the staircase, but she had ample chance to see Lord Philip’s rather disparaging look as he took in the old-fashioned furnishings and the threadbare carpet. Something close to fury rose in her. She could see that Lady Verey was both offended and upset, but was bravely trying to maintain a flow of pleasantries as they mounted the stairs.

Lord Philip, however, was only concerned with the arrangements for his luggage and turned to shout over his shoulder at the footman, ‘See to it that someone brings my bags up carefully, man! The last time I stayed in the country some dolt of a servant managed to ruin half my cravats with his man-handling!’

For a moment Jane indulged in the satisfying thought of kicking Lord Philip’s bags straight down the stairs, then she dived for her bedroom door as her mother ushered him down the corridor. She huddled under her covers, knees drawn up to her chin, and thought about what she had just seen and heard. How could this be her intended husband, this arrogant, boorish man who had made his contempt for country manners and country living so obvious in the space of only a few minutes? How could he humiliate his hostess so? His rudeness and scorn were not to be tolerated!

Her thoughts were distracted by the rattle of a tray and the chink of china. Lady Verey had sent hotfoot to the kitchens and even now she was labouring along the corridor, weighed down with food. Jane slipped out of bed again, opened her door a crack and pressed her ear to the gap. She heard the door of the green bedroom open and Lord Philip drawl in a tone very different from the one last used,

‘Well, my pretty, what good fortune can have sent you to me?’

Jane pressed a hand to her mouth. Surely he could not be addressing Lady Verey! Then she realised that her mother must have left Lord Philip to the mercy of the servants and it was Betsey, the prettiest of the maids, who had run the errand. Betsey was giggling.

‘I’ve brought your supper, sir!’ There was a pertness in her tone that Jane had heard before when Betsey was flirting with the youngest footman, or Jack from the stables.

There was a crash and another giggle from the maid. ‘Oh, sir! And you come a-courting here, as well! Whatever will Miss Verey say?’

‘A pox on Miss Verey!’ Jane heard Lord Philip say lazily. ‘What do I care for her? And a pox on this paltry dish! Here’s one much more to my liking! You’re a cosy armful-come and give me a kiss…’

The door swung closed. Jane, burning with a mixture of embarrassment and fury, slammed her own door, careless of the noise. How dared he! First to arrive so late that he missed dinner, then to scorn Lady Verey’s hospitality and show his contempt for her home, and finally to seduce one of the maids before he was barely across the threshold! Jane knew that she would never accept Lord Philip now, even if he went down on bended knee.

Surely…surely Lady Verey would not insist on the match now…Jane shivered in the draught from the door. If only she could be that sure, but their situation was so perilous. With Simon missing, they had no one to protect them. The estate needed firm management and a great deal of hard work. Lord Verey’s entire fortune was left to Simon, but for Lady Verey’s widow’s jointure and Jane’s small dowry. It seemed inevitable that her mother would wish her to marry well and marry soon, perhaps so soon that she would be prepared to overlook Lord Philip’s crass bad manners.

There was a crash in the corridor as Lord Philip ejected both the supper tray, contents scattered all over the floor, and a snivelling Betsey, who had evidently not received the reward she had expected for her services. Jane gritted her teeth as she heard the sobbing maid rush away downstairs. Enough was enough. She took a candle and crept through the adjoining door into the old nursery.

The nursery was cold and dark, the pale candle flame reflected in the window panes. Shivering, Jane tiptoed across to the huge Armada chest tucked into a corner, neglected for years since the Verey children had grown too old for dressing up. She dragged it out and threw back the lid. She was sure she remembered…Yes, there it was, the dress her governess, Miss Tring, had worn as the Wicked-and fat-Stepmother to Sophia’s Cinderella. Sophia had made a lovely heroine, but Jane had preferred to play one of the Ugly Sisters, for she found the part more interesting. But Miss Tring’s dress was perfect for her purpose. It had huge cushions sewn on the inside and had made her look outrageously obese. Then there were the little pads to fatten out the cheeks and the brown crayon for freckles. Jane gathered everything up into a hasty bundle and hurried back into her room. She had great deal to do before morning.

Lord Philip Delahaye was woken at some ungodly hour of the morning by a cock crowing outside his window. He groaned and turned over to bury his head in the pillow but the noise seemed to go on and on, skewering his brain. He vaguely remembered a pretty little maidservant and a large bottle of port…Groaning, he turned on to his back and flinched as the bed-curtains were flung wide and the light struck across his eyes.

‘Good morning, my lord!’ A voice trilled in his ear. ‘Why, I declare you are quite a slug-a-bed! My mama said to let you sleep, but I declare you must be up and about and out riding with me before breakfast!’

Lord Philip opened his eyes very gingerly. Before him stood an apparition that seemed to have come straight from his feverish dreams. His incredulous gaze took in the mob-cap, perched on a frizz of black curls, the hugely fat figure and the mottled face. He goggled at her.

‘Who the devil are you?’

‘I am your affianced bride, my lord!’ The apparition moved slightly so that the morning sun was directly behind her and gave a little simpering giggle. Lord Philip could see little more than a monstrous, dark shape menacing him from the side of the bed. He shrank back against the pillows.

‘Beg you to retire, ma’am!’ he stuttered. ‘Whatever can your mama be thinking to allow you to visit a gentleman’s chamber so early-’

‘It is past six,’ his future bride scolded, wagging a finger. ‘What a shocking lazybones! Breakfast is served at seven and then we must be about to help with the milking and feed the pigs! This is a working farm, my lord, and there is much to be done!’

Lord Philip winced. The thought of breakfast brought on a rush of nausea and the sight of his bobbing, tittering bride made it much worse. He desperately tried to remember what his elder brother had told him about Miss Jane Verey. Alex had been very persuasive about the match, convincing him that it was the only way that he would have his debts paid and be given an increase in his allowance. Philip had reluctantly considered that a wife, provided that she was biddable and presentable, need not hamper his activities too much. Besides, the money had been the deciding factor.

He shuddered. He spent as little time as possible in the country and even its sporting pursuits did not interest him. He was a creature of the city, in thrall to the gaming tables and the clubs, shuddering at country taste and country manners. No wonder Alex had skated adroitly over the Vereys’ situation! They were hardly in the first stare of fashion and he had known nothing of them before Miss Verey’s name had been put forward as his potential bride. Now he could see why. Poor as church mice…working a farm to make ends meet…a shabby house, no food, a barely drinkable port…They evidently needed Alex’s money as much as he did!

Miss Verey was hovering about his bed now, plumping his pillows, smoothing his sheets and all the while chattering on in a way that made his head ache abominably. Philip tried to concentrate on Alex’s fortune and the improvements in his life when his brother deigned to grant him a small share in it. A wife could be made to look presentable, but he shuddered to think of the cruel amusement of the ton when he escorted Miss Verey to one of the exquisite Bond Street couturiers in the hope that they could work a miracle. Pride and appearance were everything in his circle. He would be a laughing-stock. He closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the money, but Miss Verey’s chatter distracted him.

‘Pray, ma’am, will you be quiet!’ he snapped. ‘All I require from you is that you summon my valet! Immediately!’ Six in the morning-he knew that Gibson would be furious for, like his master, he was a late riser. Nevertheless, that could not be given consideration. Lord Philip knew that he simply had to get away from Ambergate.

Lady Verey did not wake until ten, for she had been exhausted by the events of the previous night and Jane had given the servants orders not to disturb her. The first thing she saw was her daughter, perched demurely on the end of her bed, face scrubbed and pale, black hair freshly washed and curling about her face.