"We are not married," she said. "Oh, thank God."

"Thank God?" He felt as if his stomach had performed a somersault inside him.

"Oh, do you not see?" she asked him, and she gripped the arms of her chair and leaned toward him. "We never should have married, but I was in shock after Papa's death and frightened too, and you were being loyal to him and chivalrous to me. But it was a dreadful mistake on both our parts. Even if we could have spent the rest of our lives with the regiment it would have been a mistake. Even there the gap between an officer and a sergeant's daughter would have been a huge one. I could not easily have been an officer's wife and mixed with the other wives. But here." With one sweep of an arm she seemed to indicate the whole of Newbury Abbey and everyone who lived within its house and park. "Here the gap is quite insurmountable. It is an impossible one. I have dreamed of escape, just as you must have done. And now by some miracle it has been granted us. We are not married."

It had never, even for one moment, occurred to him that she might be glad to hear the truth. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a terror he had had no chance of bracing himself against. He had lost her once, forever he had thought. And then, by some glorious miracle, she had been restored to him. Was he to lose her again even more cruelly than before? Was she going to leave him? No, no, no, she did not understand. He went down on his haunches before her chair and possessed himself of both her hands.

"Lily," he said, "there are some things more important than church or state. There is honor, for example. I promised your dying father that I would marry you. At our wedding I vowed before you and before God and witnesses to love and to cherish and keep you until my death. I had your virginity that night. We were together again last night. Even if we never go through the ceremony that will make all legal, I will always consider myself your husband. You are my wife."

"No." There was no vestige of color in her face, except for her blue eyes intent on his. She shook her head. "No, I am not. Not if everyone else says it is not so. And not if it ought not to be so and if we do not wish it to be so."

"It ought not to be? I have been inside your body, Lily." He squeezed her hands until she winced. Though it was more than just that—far more. He had been… united with her. Last night they had become one.

She looked back directly into his eyes. Her lips moved stiffly when she spoke. "So has Manuel," she said. "But he is not my husband either."

He recoiled almost as if she had slapped him. Manuel. Neville shut his eyes tightly and fought a wave of dizziness and nausea. The man now had a name. And she was putting the two of them on the same footing—men who had possessed her but had no marital claim on her. Was there really no difference in her mind? Had last night been nothing to her except sex? Except the exorcism of some of her demons? He would not believe it.

"Lily," he said, "after last night you may be with child. Have you thought of that? You must marry me." But that was not the reason. Not practical details like that. She was his love. He was hers.

"I am barren, sir," she said, her voice quite flat. "Have you not wondered how I could have been with Manuel for seven months without conceiving? We must not marry. You must marry someone who can be the Countess of Kilbourne as well as your wife. You will be able to marry Lauren after all. She is the one for you, I think. She is right in every way."

He squeezed her hands again before getting to his feet and running the fingers of one hand through his hair. This was madness. He must be in the throes of some bizarre nightmare. "I love you, Lily," he told her, recognizing the frustrating inadequacy of words even as he spoke. "I thought you loved me. I thought that was what last night was all about. And our wedding night too."

She was staring up at him with set, pale face and eyes brimming with tears. "Love has nothing to do with it," she said. "Can you not seel That I could be your mistress but not your wife? Not your countess?" Before he could draw breath to protest his outrage, she spoke again, her voice low and toneless. "But I will not be your mistress."

Lord God!

"What would you do?" He was whispering, he realized. He cleared his throat. He could not believe he was actually asking these questions. "Where would you go?"

Her lips moved without sound for a moment, and he felt a glimmer of hope. She had no alternative but to stay with him. She had no one else, nowhere else. But he had reckoned without Lily's indomitable spirit. Her quiet, sometimes almost childlike demeanor were as illusory now as they had always been.

"I shall go to London," she said, "if you will be so good as to lend me the fare for the stagecoach. I believe Mrs. Harris might be willing to help me find employment. Oh, if only I could have returned to Lisbon in time to find my father's pack. There might have been enough money there… But no matter." She stopped talking for a few moments. "You must not worry about me. You have been kind and honorable and would continue to be kind if I would allow it. But you are not responsible for me."

He leaned one arm against the mantel and stared unseeing down into the empty fireplace. "Don't insult me, Lily," he said. "Don't accuse me of acting toward you only out of compassion and honor." He fought panic. "You will not marry me, then? You have hardened your heart? There is nothing I can say to persuade you?"

"No, sir," she said softly.

It was the crudest blow of all. He wondered if she had deliberately addressed him as if he were still an officer and she still a mere enlisted man's daughter. She had called him "sir."

"Lily." He was on the verge of tears. He closed his eyes and waited until he was sure he had control of his voice. "Lily, promise me that you will not run away. Promise me you will stay here at least for tonight and allow me to send you in my own carriage to someone who may indeed help you. I do not know who yet or how. I had not considered this possibility. Give me until tomorrow morning. Promise me? Please?"

He thought she was going to refuse. There was a lengthy silence. But the tremor in her voice when she spoke proclaimed the reason for it. She was as close to breaking down as he.

"Forgive me," she said at last. "I did not mean an insult. Ah, I did not mean to hurt you. Neville? I did not. But I must go. Surely you understand that. I cannot stay. I promise. I will wait until tomorrow."

***

Sir Samuel Wollston and Lady Mary had come the five miles to Newbury Abbey with their four sons in order to dine one more time with the family members who were planning to leave the following day. Lauren and Gwendoline had come from the dower house. The Duke and Duchess of Anburey, Joseph and Wilma, the dowager countess, and Elizabeth were with them in the drawing room when Neville entered and made Lily's excuses. She had a headache, he told them all.

"The poor dear," Aunt Mary said. "I am a martyr to the migraines myself and know how she must suffer."

"It is a dashed shame, Nev," Hal Wollston said. "I was looking forward to seeing Lily again. She is a good sport."

"I am sorry, Neville," Lauren told him. "Will you give her my best wishes for her recovery when you see her later?"

Neville bowed to her.

"She was very sensible not to come down if she has a headache," Elizabeth said.

The dowager was not quite so kind. She spoke in a quiet aside to Neville. "This is the sort of family event," she said, "at which it is important that your countess appear at your side, Neville. Are these headaches to become regular occurrences? I wonder. Lily does not strike me as the type of woman to suffer from nervous indispositions."

"She has a headache, Mama," he said firmly, "and is to be excused."

The truth could not be kept from them for long, of course. It might have been if Lily had fallen in with his plans as he had fully expected her to do. Indeed, his mind could still not quite grasp the reality of the fact that he was not married to Lily and was not going to be. That he had no claim on her. That she was leaving him. That he would not see her again after tomorrow.

Yet there had been last night…

But there was an evening to be lived through. At first he intended to live out to the end of it the charade he had begun with the announcement of Lily's illness. Everyone else appeared to be in a cheerful mood, perhaps because of the presence of several young people. Even young Derek Wollston, who was only fifteen years old, had been allowed to dine with the adults. But Neville changed his mind. There were going to be enough letters of explanation to write as it was. This evening offered the perfect opportunity to break the news to at least a number of those most nearly concerned.

And so when his mother gave the signal after the last cover had been removed from the table for the ladies to adjourn to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their port, he spoke up.

"I beg that you will stay for a while, Mama," he said, raising his voice so that it could be heard the length of the table. "And all the ladies, please. I have something to say."

His mother sat down again with a smile and all eyes turned his way. He toyed for a moment with the one spoon left on the table before him. He had not planned what he would say. He had always considered rehearsed speeches an abomination. He raised his eyes and looked about at the various members of his family. Most were looking at him with polite interest—perhaps they expected a speech of farewell to those who were leaving. A few smiled. Joseph winked. Elizabeth looked at him alertly, as if she read something in his countenance that the others had not yet seen there.

"Lily does not have a headache," he said.

The silence took on a note of decided discomfort. Uncle Samuel cleared his throat. Aunt Sadie fingered her pearls.

"She discovered this afternoon," he said, "that she is not my wife. Not legally, at least."

The silence first became tense and then was lost as everyone, it appeared, tried to question him at once. Neville held up a hand and they all stopped as abruptly as they had started.

"I suspected that it might be so on the day she arrived here," he said, and he proceeded to give them the same explanation he had given Lily earlier. It was not enough that the marriage ceremony really had occurred and that a properly ordained minister had conducted it. It was not enough that he and Lily had made vows to each other and that one of the witnesses was still alive to attest to the fact. There were formalities to be observed before a marriage was valid in the eyes of church and state. And those formalities had not been completed in their case because the Reverend Parker-Rowe had died and the papers had been lost. One of the witnesses had died at Ciudad Rodrigo a month later.

"So Lily is not your wife," the Duke of Anburey said redundantly when Neville had finished speaking. "You never were married to her."

"I say!" Hal exclaimed, sounding dismayed.

"Lily is not the Countess of Kilbourne after all," Aunt Mary said, shaking her head and looking somewhat dazed. "I do not wonder that she has the migraines, the poor dear. You still have the title, Clara."

Most of those gathered about the table had something to add—except the countess, who stared at him in silence, and Joseph, who looked at him with knitted brows, and Lauren, who gazed expressionlessly down at the table.

"But, Neville." Elizabeth had leaned forward, and as often happened when she spoke, everyone stopped to listen. "You are surely intending to satisfy the proprieties by marrying Lily again, are you not?"

All eyes turned Neville's way. He tried to smile and failed miserably. "She will not have me," he said. "She has refused me and will not be moved."

" What ? " The countess spoke for the first time.

"I planned to leave for London with her tomorrow morning, Mama," he told her. "We would have married quietly there by special license and no one but the two of us would have been any the wiser. But she will not do it. She will not marry me."

Unexpectedly Elizabeth smiled as she sat back in her chair. "No, she would not," she said more to herself than to anyone else.

It was Gwendoline who vocalized one of the implications of what they had all heard. She clasped her hands to her bosom and her eyes lit up.