He had known all this very soon after leaving her, and he had felt the necessity of apologizing, of doing something to make her life more livable than it could be in that bleak and shabby place that he could never quite think of as home. The trouble at first was that he could not face seeing her again. He remembered the plump figure, the round and childish face, the plain features, the lifeless hair, the apparent lack of personality. The fact that he had found her unexpectedly exciting in bed he had conveniently forgotten. He could not-he would not-live with her as his wife. So he had put off the moment of doing something for her. He would go down to Redlands in the spring, he had promised himself at first. Then it was to be during the summer, when the Season was over. When summer had drawn to a close, he had admitted to himself that he was too embarrassed to make the journey. The moment had passed.

He had tried in small ways to salve his conscience. Whenever she wrote to him to ask for something- once, he gathered, it was some flowers, and another time something else for the garden-he would immediately write to assure her that she could continue with her plans. Sometimes he wished that she might demand more so that he could give more. But he became more and more incapable of meeting her. He had spent a sleepless night a few months before after denying her the chance to visit a friend of hers for a week. He would have been only too glad to let her go if the friend had lived anywhere but in London. But how could he let her come to the capital, where he would risk the embarrassment of meeting her and where it would quickly become known that the Viscountess Merrick was in town but not at her husband's residence?

Merrick eased his horse to a walk as a country inn came into view just ahead. He dismounted and turned his mount over to an ostler while he entered the taproom and ordered a mug of ale. The taproom was empty. It was obviously too early in the day for the local people to be relaxing in the inn, and it was not the sort of place where carriages would often stop. He exchanged pleasantries and comments on the weather with the innkeeper and moved into the chimney corner with his ale.

He almost wished now that he had told Anne that she might accept his grandmother's invitation. It might have proved a good opportunity to meet her again and to settle her into a more desirable way of life. The presence of all the other members of the family was one fact that had made him react so negatively when he had first read her letter. He had not wanted the whole tribe to witness the awkwardness of their meeting. But now, on second thoughts, he wondered if the presence of other people would not rather have eased the tension and helped them to communicate as sensible adults.

It was too late, anyway. He had said a very positive no, and she had not written again to argue the point. It was just as well. It would be very depressing to have to spend two weeks in the company of such a dull creature, being civil to her for the sake of appearances. He would enjoy these two weeks for what they were worth, catch up on the news of all the cousins and uncles and aunts, resist any attempts on the part of Grandmamma to order his life, and then return to face the Season that would soon be in full swing. He would have Eleanor to help keep him from brooding. It really was most satisfactory to have a married woman as mistress. She offered everything he could desire in company and sensual gratification without any of the demands on his time and emotions that he had found so wearing with other women. Lorraine would probably be back by the time he returned, too. Her honeymoon would be over. But he had to admit to himself that he had felt no more than a pang of nostalgia when he had read her betrothal announcement in the Gazette.

Merrick put the empty mug down on the stone hearth and got to his feet. His horse had been fed and watered and was waiting for him at the door when he went outside. He swung himself into the saddle and was on his way again. Perhaps he would pay his wife a visit during the summer. He really should look over the estate in person again, anyway.

Chapter 6

Freddie Lynwood arrived a day early, much to the annoyance of the Duchess of Portland. But as she said to Anne when her grandson finally allowed himself to be led up to his bedchamber after three cups of tea, five cucumber sandwiches, and four currant cakes, she might have expected as much. Dear Freddie did not have as many wits in his attic as might be deemed his fair share, and as a result, he had developed a keen sense of anxiety. He knew that he was forgetful and that his brain frequently became addled. Consequently, he kept important appointments as soon as he remembered them, and honored invitations in the same way. One of her favorite stories was of his arriving at a London home for a ball, only to find that the family were on their way out to the theater. The ball was scheduled for two days hence. Freddie had been quite undaunted, but had announced that he would stay.

"Only forget if I go back home," he had said. "Won't mind if I make m'self comfortable, will you? Don't need to put yourselves out on my account. Will send home for a change of clothes. Don't let me stop you going to the play."

And he had bowed them off the premises with punctilious courtesy and proceeded to make himself comfortable in the best chair in the drawing room, clad all in lace and silks. He had made himself indispensable on the day of the ball, balanced at the top of a ladder held by two footmen, fitting dozens of new candles into the chandeliers.

The duchess chuckled as she finished the story. "I must confess, though," she said, "that it is far more diverting to have such a thing happen to someone else than it is to have one's own plans thrown into upheaval. I had wanted to spend the whole of today getting to know you, my dear. You were so tired after your journey last night that the evening was quite wasted."

Anne smiled and sipped on her own second cup of tea. "But I have greatly enjoyed today, Your Grace," she said. "I thank you so much for spending time showing me the house. I had no idea that such a magnificent mansion existed outside the pages of a book. And the gardens are lovely. The rose arbor, in particular, has given me ideas for Redlands. I love the gardens there, but they are very open. They need a more secluded area where one can sit quietly during the afternoon."

The duchess rested her chin in the palm of her hand and regarded Anne steadily. "You are very different from what I expected, my dear," she said. "I must confess that my motive for inviting you here two days before the rest of the family was only partly to get to know you. I also planned to use the extra time to try to make you more fashionable. I assumed that after so long in the country, your appearance would be sadly out of date. I was mistaken, I see. And about other things, too."

"I have Bella to thank for my appearance," Anne said. "She scolds and bullies me until I allow her to style my hair and design my clothes according to her directions."

"And very glad I am to hear it," the duchess said. "I really cannot think what Alex has been about all this time. I shall have to have a good talk with him. Better still, I shall turn His Grace loose on him."

Anne's face lost its smile. "Please do not, Your Grace," she said. "He will be angry enough that I am here. I would not wish him to think that I have been complaining to you. Indeed, he has been quite a generous husband."

"Balderdash!" the duchess said. "The boy needs a good set-down. And call me Grandmamma, child."

Anne was much in awe of the duke. She had met him the night before in the drawing room soon after her arrival. He had sat in his chair by the fire, a great mountain of a man, his legs set apart, a large hand spread on each knee. His great neck had bulged over his neckcloth, and bushy eyebrows of a surprisingly dark shade of brown had jutted over sharp eyes. He had coughed and wheezed all the time she had been there, until the duchess had released her by announcing that she must be tired and should retire to bed. But he had said nothing after his first apology for not getting up.

"It's my gout," he had said, glaring at her fiercely, as if she were directly responsible for the state of his health.

She had taken an instant liking to the duchess, a diminutive bundle of energy who appeared to rule her household with a rod of iron. Perhaps the liking came because the duchess was everything she was not, Anne thought. She had perfect self-confidence. And she had done her best to welcome the estranged wife of her grandson. She had herself taken Anne to her room the night before, where Bella had already unpacked her belongings and turned down the bed. And she had hardly left her side during this day, but had shown Anne almost every room in the house, pointing out the remaining signs of the original Tudor manor, most noticeable in the high wooden beams of the dining-room ceiling, as well as the most recent additions, such as the grand marble chimneypiece in one of the state rooms.

Anne had particularly enjoyed the visit to the picture gallery, where were displayed portraits of the Stewart family for generations back. She listened attentively to all the names and relationships, realizing only then how strange her situation was. She had been married for well over a year, yet she knew almost nothing of her husband's family. It had been a very difficult moment, though, when they had stopped before Alexander's portrait. It had been a long time since Anne had been able to remember clearly what he looked like. She retained only a general memory of height and athletic build, of dark hair and blue eyes and overall beauty. Her heart seemed to stop altogether as she looked on him once more and then started again with a painful thud. Yes, of course, that was he. How could she ever have forgotten? She could not linger as she would have wished because the duchess chattered at her side and proceeded to the next picture almost immediately.

The newly arrived member of the family had won Anne's heart almost immediately. She did not share the duchess's annoyance at his early arrival. When Freddie had been introduced to her, he had bowed over her hand with courtly grace and kissed it.

"Alex's wife?" he had said, brows knit in concentration. "When did he tie the knot? Don't remember to have met you before. But, damme, yes, if I didn't hear something of the kind from Jack. Now what did he say?" Freddie had retained his hold on Anne's hand while the frown on his face indicated that he was deep in slow thought. "Damme if I can remember," he had said, "but whatever it was, he was dead wrong. Dead wrong," he had repeated, wringing her hand until she thought she would have to bite her lip from the pain of it.

"Your hand, Freddie," the duchess had said bluntly. "It belongs at your side, dear boy."

"Forgot," he had said, smiling affably at Anne. "I like you. Damme if Alex hasn't done an intelligent thing. Always was intelligent, you know, Alex. A real sharper. Saw him read a book once. Didn't even have to move his lips. I might have a wife like you, you know, if I had some of Alex's brains. Lucky dog." He had flashed her a smile of boyish charm.

"Your hand, Freddie," the duchess had reminded him, and finally he had relinquished his hold on Anne.

If only the other members of the family could be as unthreatening to her self-confidence as Freddie, Anne thought, she would endure any number of painful finger squeezes. But she spent an uncomfortable portion of that night wondering if she had done a foolish thing in coming to face them all in one splash. There would be no backing out of the ordeal, either. Tomorrow they would all arrive-a large number of them, to judge from the duchess's conversation today-and she would be forced to meet them and mingle with them for two whole weeks.

That, of course, was not her only, or even her chief, worry. Tomorrow Alexander would come. She would see him again. She would know him, at least; her sight of his portrait that afternoon had ensured that. But she did not know at all how she would behave. Would she be able to retain her poise, or would she blush and stammer and lose all control of her reactions? She did not know. And she did not know how many other people would be present during that meeting. It could all prove to be a great embarrassment both to her and to him.

Most of all, Anne was afraid of his reaction. He did not know that she would be here. She had not written to tell him that she had accepted the invitation. She had been too afraid that he would again send instructions forbidding her to do so. She was, if she really paused to admit the truth, feeling sick with fear. She had disobeyed one of his express commands. And it was no private matter, which he could have dealt with in his own way. She had flouted his authority before his whole family. She dreaded to imagine what he might say to her or what he might do. Perhaps she was foolish to worry about having to mingle with the guests for two weeks. This time tomorrow night she might well be on her way back to Redlands. But no! She reminded herself that the duke would surely not allow any such thing. It was at his direct bidding that she was here, and he was the head of the family.