"Don't be daft, girl," the laborer told her. "Though why ?e were wearing an 'ood over 'is 'ead on a morning like this, I don't know—unless 'e were a woman, that is, and she didn't want anyone seeing 'er riding astride and recognizing 'er. The quality is all queer in the upper works if you arsk me."

The merchant was more practically engaged in helping Lily to her feet and allowing her to cling to his arm for a few moments until she could be sure that her legs would hold her upright.

"Will you allow me to see you home, ma'am?" he asked her.

"Oh, thank you," she said. "But no. I am quite all right, if a little damp. Thank you all. I am very grateful to you."

"Well, if you are sure," the merchant said, ruining his gesture of gallantry by withdrawing a watch from an upper pocket, frowning, and remarking that it was just as well as he was late for an appointment.

Lily walked home alone and succeeded in getting into the house and up to her room without being seen by either Elizabeth or any of the servants. She stripped off her wet clothes before ringing for Dolly and then smiled beguilingly at her maid and told her that she had been to the park and slipped on the grass—but she would prefer that her escapade not be discovered by anyone else. Dolly entered gleefully into the conspiracy and promised that her lips would be tightly sealed—and then she proceeded, as she tended to Lily, to give an enthusiastic progress report on her budding relationship with Elizabeth's handsome coachman.

It had been an accident, Lily told herself, beginning to feel the painful effects of her bruises. A careless rider had strayed from the path and had not even noticed her.

He had been wearing a dark cloak—with the hood up.

Probably every gentleman in the nation owned at least one dark cloak. And the morning had been cool, even if not exactly cold.

And it was certainly possible that the he really had been a she.

It had been an accident.

But she feared it had not been.

Any more than the rock falling from the top of the cliff at Newbury had been.

***

Matters were progressing slowly—if at all. Neville had not even seen Lily every day since his arrival in town. And when he did see her, it was usually at some entertainment when she stayed close to Elizabeth's side and good manners kept him from trying to spend too much time with her.

They were still watched avidly wherever they appeared together. Joseph had told him that drawing room conversation was thriving on the topic. There were even said to be two items relating to them recorded in the betting book at White's Club. There were gentlemen who had placed their bets on the likelihood or otherwise of his marrying Lily again within the year. And there were others—or possibly the same ones—who had bet on the possibility of his marrying Lauren within the same time frame.

Joseph was privately amused by the whole business.

Publicly he considered it all a crashing bore—there was no one better able to show ennui than the Marquess of Attingsborough.

But Neville intended to throw caution to the wind during the Vauxhall evening. He intended to take full advantage of the setting. While he had reserved a private box and invited guests and made it his own party, he nevertheless planned to spend some time alone with Lily. He had been wooing her very gently and cautiously for almost two weeks. He intended to woo her in earnest at Vauxhall. He was not without hope of success. He remembered the afternoon at the jeweler's and Gunter's almost with bated breath. She had been relaxed and happy on that afternoon—happy to be with him.

He prayed for good weather.

And his prayers were granted. The day had been hot and sunny, if a little windy. The wind dropped as evening fell to create conditions that could not have been more favorable for Vauxhall if Neville had had the ordering of them.

They crossed the River Thames by boat—the slower but by far more picturesque way of approaching Vauxhall Gardens. Neville took a seat in the boat beside Lily while Elizabeth sat in front of them—Portfrey, who had been out of town for a few days, had been expected back today but had not yet put in an appearance. Joseph was sitting behind, flirting discreetly with Lady Selina Rawlings, his current lady love and present for the evening under Elizabeth's chaperonage. Captain Harris and his wife were seated in the stern of the boat. Colored lights from the gardens shivered across the water. Darkness had all but fallen.

"Well, Lily?" Neville bent his head closer to hers so that he could see her expression.

"It is magic," she said.

And it was too—magic to weave its spell about the two of them and not release them until the night was over, and perhaps not even then.

He took Lily on one arm, Elizabeth on the other as they entered Vauxhall Gardens and made their way to the box he had reserved, in an area with all the other boxes and the place where the orchestra members were tuning their instruments. It was one of the nights when there was to be dancing.

"Have you danced beneath the stars before, Lily?" he asked her after he had seated everyone in the box and ordered food and drinks.

"Of course I have," she said. "Do you not remember all the dancing we used to do?"

In the army? Yes, there had been a great deal of it. The officers had had dances of their own, better organized, more formal, not nearly as enjoyable, Neville had always thought, as the ones that took place about the campfires or in some rude barn. He had used to stand and watch sometimes. He had never dampened the spirits of his men by trying to join in and claim a partner when there were not nearly enough women to go around.

"Yes, I do." He smiled at her. "But have you waltzed beneath the stars? Do you know the steps of the waltz?"

"I am not allowed to dance it," she told him. "I have to be approved by one of the patronesses of Almack's first—though I daresay that will never happen."

He moved his head a little closer and spoke for her ears only. "But this is not a formal ball, Lily. The rules do not apply here. Tonight you will waltz—with me."

Her eyes told him that she wanted to do so. And her eyes told him other things too. There was a certain depth of yearning in them—he was sure he did not mistake the expression.

And then he noticed her locket.

"Is this the first time you have worn it?" he asked, touching it briefly.

"Yes," she said.

"Is this the special occasion, then, Lily?" He looked up into her eyes.

"Yes, Neville."

Strange, he thought, how his name on her lips became the most intimate of endearments.

There was no more chance for personal discourse for a while. The food and drink had arrived, the orchestra had begun playing, and conversation became general.

When the dancing began, Neville led Elizabeth out onto the dancing area and then Mrs. Harris. But the third dance was a waltz, and the time for general socializing was at an end. The time for romance had begun.

"You cannot know," Lily said, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other in his as the orchestra started to play, "how I have longed to waltz—perhaps because I thought I never would."

"With me, Lily?" he murmured. "Have you dreamed of waltzing with me?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes," she said. "Oh, yes. With you."

He did not attempt to converse after that. There was a time for words and there was a time for simply experiencing. The air was cool and the moon and stars above them were bright. But nature at Vauxhall was in happy communion with the man-made beauty of the sounds of the orchestra and the colors of the lanterns nodding gently in the trees.

And there was the woman in his arms, small and shapely and dainty, and smiling into his eyes through the whole dance without embarrassment and without any pretense of indifference.

"Well?" he asked when the waltz was almost at an end. "Is it as wicked a dance as it is said to be, Lily?"

"Oh," she said. "Wickeder."

He laughed softly and she joined him.

"Come walking?" he asked.

She nodded.

"We must take everyone with us," he said, leading her back to the box. "But with a little ingenuity, Lily, I believe we can lose them before we have gone too far."

She did not voice any objection.

***

She had not been mistaken. Oh, she had not. He had married her out of a sense of obligation. He had treated her with kindness after her arrival in England because he was a kind man. He had made love to her because he would make the best of any situation in which he found himself. He had offered for her again even after he knew they were not legally married because he had felt obligated, honor-bound to do so. There had been some love too, of course—he had said so, and she had not doubted him.

But now it was love pure and simple. There was no obligation left. She had freed him, and since then she had made a life for herself and learned the skills that would help her to live independently of anyone's charity and earn her own living.

He was wooing her now—simply because he loved her.

She would no longer entertain even a vestige of doubt. And she would no longer erect obstacles between them that just did not need to be there. She might never be his equal in the eyes of the world, but she knew now that she could live in his world with some comfort and with a good deal of self-respect. The thought of Newbury Abbey no longer filled her with despair.

She was going to allow it to happen.

And so when they strolled along the tree-lined, lantern-lighted avenue with the marquess and Lady Selina, she made no protest at the almost comical maneuverings of both gentlemen to arrange matters that the two couples part company. Neither did Lady Selina.

"You see, Lily," Neville said after the two of them had turned down one of the narrower, darker, quieter paths, "there are these areas that were made for lovers."

"Yes," she said. "How wonderfully convenient."

"And they were made narrow enough," he said, "that two people must walk single file or else with their arms about each other."

"We cannot talk if we walk single file," she said, smiling at the darkness ahead.

"Precisely." He set an arm about her shoulders and drew her close to his side. There was nowhere to put her arm then except about his waist. And then she found that her head was most comfortable against his shoulder.

There was a strange feeling of seclusion even while the sounds of the orchestra and of voices shouting and laughing were still quite audible. There was an occasional lantern in a tree, but in the main the path was lighted by moonlight. If it was romance she had been hoping for, Lily thought, then she had surely found it in abundance.

Their footsteps inevitably lagged when they had walked a distance along the path, and then they stopped altogether. He turned her, and she found her back resting comfortably against the broad trunk of a tree.

"Lily," he said, bracketing her head with his hands pressed against the trunk, "you must say no now, my dear, if you want this to go no farther."

She reached up one hand and traced his facial scar with one fingertip. "I am not saying no," she whispered to him.

He kissed her, touching her at first only with his mouth. It was a kiss of love, she thought before setting her hands on his shoulders and then sliding her arms about his neck.

There could be no other motive on either side. Just love. She parted her lips and kissed him back with love.

He lifted his head as his arms came about her and arched her in against him. She could scarcely see his face with the moonlight behind him, but she thought he was smiling.

"This," he said, his lips brushing hers as he spoke, "was meant to be, Lily, from the very first moment."

She did not ask to what first moment he referred—the moment they had first met? The moment she had walked into the church at Newbury? The first moment of time at the dawn of the world? Perhaps he meant all those moments. And he was right. This had always been meant to be.

He kissed her mouth, her eyes, her temples. He feathered kisses along her jaw to her chin. He kissed her throat. And he kissed her mouth again, murmuring endearments.

The sense of romance faded. She could feel the familiar hard planes of his body pressed against her own. She could smell his cologne and the male essence of him. She could taste the wine he had drunk earlier on his lips and his tongue, inside his mouth. She could hear his breath quicken and could feel his growingly urgent desire pressing against her abdomen. Her own body responded—had done since the first touch of his lips. There was a throbbing ache in her womb and down along her inner thighs as she pressed herself to him in a blind urge to be close—closer. Neville. She wanted him. She wanted him there. Here. Now.