just before Christmas. Surely he was not normally surly and irritable but the most placid and genial of souls.

Surely he was not normally inclined to being besotted with lady schoolteachers either.

Why the devil could his grandfather not live forever?

Or why could he not have had a dozen brothers—all older than himself?

The quadrille seemed to go on forever. He was ready for tea.

Tea, for God’s sake!

Mr. Blake was a tolerably accomplished dancer. He was also an amiable partner and complimented Frances on both her appearance and her dancing skills. He expressed again his pleasure at seeing her at the assembly.

“If I had known you were able to attend such events, Miss Allard,” he said, “I would have invited you myself, since I have come with my sister and brother-in-law. Perhaps you would care to join us at the theater one evening?”

“That would be very agreeable, sir.” She smiled. “If I can be excused from my evening duties at the school as I have been this evening, that is. It is kind of you to think of me.”

“It is certainly no hard task to think of you, Miss Allard,” he assured her, bending his head a little closer to hers. “Indeed, I find myself doing so rather frequently these days.”

She was glad the figures of the dance separated them at that moment. All sorts of emotions were still churning around inside her after the last set, and she felt quite inadequate to the task of dealing with an ardor she was not yet ready to entertain. She concentrated instead upon enjoying the quadrille that they danced together. She tried briefly to recapture the pleasure she had felt in Mr. Blake’s interest just a week ago but just could not seem to do it. Viscount Sinclair was right, she realized suddenly—the words pleasant and pleasure really were rather bland.

She noticed the viscount’s absence from the ballroom far more than she noticed Mr. Blake’s presence—not a promising sign at all. The whole atmosphere of the ball had suddenly fallen flat.

Why could one’s heart not be commanded as easily as one’s head? she wondered. Why could one not choose which man to love—though love was not quite the appropriate word for the emotions that churned about inside her head and her body. But whatever the right word was, one ought to be able to choose which man would stir one’s blood and quicken one’s heartbeat and fill one’s world with the power of his presence.

She was going to have to try harder after this evening was over, she decided—after she had seen Viscount Sinclair for the last time.

She so wished to form an attachment to Mr. Blake. His interest in her really ought to be a blessing in her life.

“I am sorry,” she said when the set ended and he asked her if she would do him the honor of taking refreshments with him and his relatives, “but I have already agreed to join the Earl of Edgecombe’s party for tea. He really did invite me here tonight because he felt Miss Marshall needed an older lady as a chaperone—or companion, if you like.”

“Oh, but not very much older, Miss Allard,” he said gallantly, bowing over her hand. “I understand perfectly, though, and honor you for putting a perceived obligation before what might be your personal inclination. I shall do myself the honor of calling upon you at Miss Martin’s school one day soon, then, if I may.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him again. And yet for some unfathomable reason she felt she had been dishonest with him—or maybe it was not so unfathomable. She was going to have to be very careful not simply to use him in the coming days in order to hide from her bruised heart.

How foolish beyond words that she was allowing her heart to be bruised again!

She enjoyed the half hour spent in the tearoom. It was because the Earl of Edgecombe and Amy Marshall again treated her as a favored guest, she told herself, and because the conversation was lively and full of laughter and her surroundings were a feast for the senses. She was going to have much with which to regale her friends tomorrow. And she would, she knew, always remember tonight.

But deep down she knew that she would not have felt half the exhilaration she did feel if Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair, had not been there at the table too. He might be horribly annoying at times, and he had a habit of saying things deliberately to discompose her—or of remaining silent with the same motive—but he was always exciting company, and being in his presence again brought back memories of an episode in her life that she had tried hard to forget but now admitted she would not have missed for all the consideration in the world.

Those days had brought her vividly alive.

And she felt vividly alive again this evening.

She was going to suffer again after tonight was over, she knew, perhaps almost as much as she had suffered back then, but there was nothing she could do to prevent that now, was there? Life just had a habit of doing such things to people. There was no hiding from suffering, no matter how hard one tried to cultivate a tranquil life in which the highs and lows of emotion were leveled off.

The highs would insist upon forcing their way into one’s life when one least expected them. Who, after all, could have predicted such a severe snowstorm on just the day she had chosen for travel? Who could have predicted its glorious aftermath?

And who could have predicted that her seemingly innocent decision to accept the invitation to sing at the Reynolds soiree three evenings ago would lead her to meet Lucius again, and that doing so would bring her to this moment?

And because the highs insisted upon invading one’s life, then so did the lows. It was inevitable—the two were inextricably bound together.

There was no point in anticipating the latter, though, since they were inevitable anyway. And so she allowed herself openly to enjoy what remained of the evening and anticipated the pleasure she would have in telling Claudia, Anne, and Susanna all about it tomorrow—though the pain would be with her by then.

She danced every remaining set after tea, including one more country dance—the last of the evening—with Viscount Sinclair. She was sorry when the assembly ended, but all good things did end. There was no holding back time.

The low to follow the high began far sooner than she had expected, though.

The Earl of Edgecombe did not need a carriage to take him back home as his house on

Brock Street

was very close. And since there was such a press of carriages about the Upper Rooms, Viscount Sinclair had directed his own to wait outside the house. Frances strolled back there with Amy, the girl’s arm linked through her own, while the two gentlemen came some distance behind.

“I have never had a more wonderful time in my life,” Amy said with a heartfelt sigh as they walked down onto the Circus. “Have you, Miss Allard?”

“Indeed,” Frances said, “I do not believe I have.”

“Everyone wanted to dance with me,” the girl said naively. “And with you too. You did not miss a single set, did you? I was delighted to see Luce dancing with you a second time. He drives Mama to distraction because he never dances.”

“Then I must consider myself honored,” Frances said.

“Of course,” Amy continued, “he will have to dance any number of times this Season, I daresay. He promised Grandpapa at Christmas that he would take a bride this year, and I suppose she will be Miss Hunt, who has been waiting for him forever. She is in town already with her mama and papa and the Marquess of Godsworthy, her grandfather, a particular friend of my grandpapa. But I will not be able to dance again until next year, when I am to make my come-out. It is most provoking.”

Frances’s heart was hammering against her ribs. She had very sensibly sent him on his way after Christmas, and she certainly had not been foolish enough during the last few days to expect any renewal of his attentions. She did not want their renewal. But of course knowing that he was about to marry, that he had already chosen his bride, in fact, did hurt. Quite unreasonably so. But then reason had nothing to say to affairs of the heart. She had once spent the night with him. He was the only man with whom she had had sexual relations. It was understandable, then, that she should feel hurt—or if not hurt, then . . . depressed.

“Having to wait for something one desires greatly is provoking,” Frances said. “But your come-out will be glorious when the time finally comes, and it will be even more so because you have waited so long. But those are sensible words you have doubtless heard a dozen times. In your place, I would be very inclined to throw a noisy tantrum.”

Amy laughed with delight and squeezed her arm.

“Oh, I do like you,” she said. “And when I return to Bath—though I do not know when that will be—I shall write and tell you so and come to the school to see you. I wish we did not have to leave Bath so soon as I feel just like a grown-up here, away from my sisters. But Luce says we must return to London tomorrow or the next day.”

Ah! Another blow. Though in reality it was no such thing, of course. She must not make any grand tragedy out of the events of the past four days. She had not expected to see any of them after tonight—at least, with her intellect she had not expected it.

“I shall look forward to seeing you again at some time in the future, then,” Frances said as they came to a stop outside the house on

Brock Street

. Viscount Sinclair’s carriage waited there, Peters up on the box. She wondered if she could suggest riding alone back to the school, but she knew it would not be allowed. Besides . . .

Well, besides, she could not deprive herself of the last few minutes of agony in his company, could she?

Agony?

What sentimental drivel!

She drew her borrowed shawl more tightly about her shoulders. It was still only springtime and the air was cool.

Amy hugged her as the gentlemen came up to them. The earl held out his right hand and, when Frances set her own in it, covered it with his other hand.

“Miss Allard,” he said, “I thank you most sincerely for coming with us tonight. Your company has meant a great deal to Amy, I know. I will be going to London with my grandchildren within the next day or two. But when I return, I shall invite you to sing for me. I hope you will agree to do it.”

“I would be delighted, my lord,” she said.

“Lucius will take you home now,” he said. “Good night, Miss Allard.”

“Good night, my lord,” she said. “Good night, Amy.”

She was back inside the carriage with Viscount Sinclair again a minute later, and it was proceeding on its way. The journey would take ten minutes, she estimated. She had ten minutes left.

How foolish to feel panic at the thought.

“Tell me you enjoyed yourself tonight,” he said abruptly after the first minute or so had passed in silence.

“Oh, I did,” she assured him. “It was very—”

“If you say pleasant,” he said, “I shall throttle you, Frances.”

“—delightful,” she said, and smiled in the darkness.

“Tell me you found it delightful because I was there,” he said. “Tell me you would not have enjoyed it nearly as much if I had not been.”

The inside of the carriage was very dark. She could not see his face when she turned her head to look at him.

“I will tell you no such thing,” she said indignantly. “The very idea! The arrogance of it! Of course I would have enjoyed the evening just as much—better!—if you had not been there.”

“Liar!” he said softly.

“You appear to be under the delusion, Lord Sinclair,” she said, “that you are God’s gift to women.”

“A cliché unworthy of you,” he said. “Tell me you have regretted rejecting me after Christmas.”

“I have not!” she cried.

“Not even one tiny little bit?” he asked.

“Not even half that much,” she said.

“A quarter, then?” He laughed softly. “You are a terrible liar, Frances.”

“And you,” she said, “are more conceited than any man I have ever met in my life.”

“Is it conceited of me,” he asked her, “to have met someone and felt an overwhelming attraction to her, to have felt her equal attraction to me, to have consummated that attraction, and then to believe that she must have felt some twinge of regret at saying good-bye to me, especially when she did not need to do so?”

“It was better to suffer that little twinge,” she said tartly, “than to become your mistress.”

“Aha!” he said. “So you do admit to some twinge, do you?”