Indoors he could escape her no less. The house was cold, as it always had been. He spent his indoor hours almost exclusively in the room he had made into a library. And when he read the songs of Robert Burns, which he loved, hearing the melodies with his mind as his eyes read, he thought of her. She would love these songs, and she could be the subject of many of them. Many times his hands strayed, almost against his will, to his volume of Lyrical Ballads, and he would read all the poems he had meant to read aloud to her. He had read her only one very short one, and there were so many that he would like to have shared with her. He regretted that he had not had the opportunity to do so.

He felt heavyhearted whenever he thought of her, his little wood nymph. Had he made her unhappy by his desertion? Did she grieve for him still? Had he done the wrong thing to leave without a word? Would it have been kinder to have met her again, to have explained as gently as he could why they could not continue seeing each other?

He found that he missed her. Frequently he would find himself storing some little observation or small anecdote in his mind to share with her, only to realize almost immediately that he would not be seeing her again. Sometimes he would lie down in the heather on the hills, allowing his horse to graze unshackled beside him. He would clasp his hands behind his head and gaze up at the sky and find himself wondering, as she had done on one occasion, why the clouds seemed to move at such speed across the sky, though there was no wind on the ground. And he would find himself wanting her with a yearning that brought an ache to his throat.

He even thought of going back to her. Surely he could make a marriage with her work. He had a great deal to offer her-not so much material things as his friendship and his ability to teach her and to open to her the world of books and of art. And he had a great deal to gain. She would be a sweet and a cheerful companion and always full of vitality and a fresh originality, he believed. And she could bring him great sensual satisfaction. He could not imagine ever growing tired of making love to her, or caressing her to that peak of ecstasy that she had reached during their second time together, and of burying in her sweet, soft depths all his own needs.

But always he would dash the thoughts ruthlessly from his mind. He was being selfish to think in that. He was not thinking of what was best for her. The truth was that he could not offer himself to her unless he had all of himself to offer. And he could never offer that to any woman except one. Marry he must. He recognized the need in himself for a wife, for the companionship and the sense of belonging that marriage would bring. He recognized his need for children, who would give him a sense of his own identity. But his wife must be a woman who would not expect his love. He must choose for himself a woman whom he could respect and esteem and one whom he could not hurt. And she must be a woman of his own class, one who would not have to adjust painfully to his way of life.

So William Mainwaring traveled toward London, knowing that it was that it was the only course open to him if he was to make anything meaningful out of his life. But he felt no eagerness, no impatience to be there. In a few days' time he would see Elizabeth again, and he would see her child. And the wound would be raw and painful again. A man does not willingly hasten toward certain pain.


***

The Countess of Claymore and her three daughters were all in the drawing room of the rather shabby but undoubtedly imposing mansion they had rented on Charles Street when the earl arrived home late in the afternoon. His wife was all aflutter, he noticed as soon as he let himself into the room, and the older girls, too, were looking more animated than they had appeared in the three days since their arrival in town.

How provoking that you have been away until now," the countess said by way of greeting. "We have but now bade farewell to Lady Medbourne and her daughter. Charlotte Hinton that was. my love. Do you remember her? She made her come-out the same year as I did. We all felt quite sorry for her at the time -such a scrawny little thing, you know, and almost nothing for a dowry. But she did quite well for herself after all. Married Lord Medbourne the year after you took me north."

"Medbourne?" the earl said, brow furrowed in thought. "Old fellow, was he? Red-faced and always wheezing?"

"Yes, indeed," his wife agreed. "I would not have considered him much of a catch myself. He must have been close to his sixties at least, and not at all an imposing figure. But he had the title, you know, and a not inconsiderable fortune, it seems. Charlotte did quite well. She has been a widow these fifteen years, and she has a son and daughter who accompanied her this afternoon. Pasty girl. Rather like poor Charlotte was as a girl."

"Lady Medbourne has invited us to dinner tomorrow sennight, Papa," Emily said in a matter-of-fact voice. She believed in getting to the important point. "Mama says that she must have suitable connections. Soon, it would appear, we will have a circle of acquaintances suitable to our station."

"Lady Bridgemoor left her card this morning too while we were out," the countess added. "Celia Thompson that was, you will recall."

"Well, I do hope that invitations begin to arrive soon," Melissa added petulantly. "It is too provoking to be in London at last and have nothing to do."

"Nonsense, my love," her mother said. "Of course, we will be on everyone's invitation lists once it is known that we are here. But it must take a few days. Papa and I have been absent for so long, you see."

"You are very quiet, child," the earl said, turning to his youngest daughter, who was sitting very upright in the window seat, her hands clasped in her lap. He was finding himself becoming as irritated with the girl's listlessness as he had used to be with her restlessness. “And are you longing for the parties to begin too?"

Helen looked up with an expressionless face. "I shall be happy with whatever you and Mama plan," she said. "I am in no hurry, Papa."

The earl smiled and turned to the rest of his family. He rubbed his hands together. "I have made a few connections of my own today," he said. "I spent a few hours at White's."

And whom did you meet there?" his wife asked. “Anyone I know, my dear?"

"Yes, indeed," he replied, "and I do not know whether to be pleased or not. I believe I might have cut the man, had he been alone."

"Whomever do you mean?" his wife asked, her interest piqued.

"Mainwaring," he said. "He is not in Scotland after all. He has been here for more than a week apparently and intends to stay for the winter."

"Mr. Mainwaring?" the countess said indignantly. "He would surely not have the gall to present himself here. We really have no need of the acquaintance of the likes of him in London."

"Papa?" Melissa had turned pale and clutched the skirt of her gown. "You surely have not invited him here, have you? I could not bear the humiliation of seeing him again."

"It seemed only mannerly to do so," Claymore replied, "especially when his companion was so very civil. Hetherington, my love," he added, turning to his wife.

"The marquess?" she asked. "A very distinguished gentleman, I remember. How comes Mr. Mainwaring to know him, I wonder."

"This is young Hetherington," the earl explained. "The father died a number of years ago, I gather, along with his elder son."

"And he is a marquess, Papa?" Emily asked sharply.

"No less," her father replied. "And he has agreed to call upon us with his wife, tomorrow afternoon, my love." The earl beamed with triumph at his mate.

The countess clasped her hands against her breast. "You see, Emily?" she said. "I told you it must be just a matter of time before we will be accepted into the very best society. The Marquess of Hetherington! But what a pity that he is married already."

Emily said nothing, but resumed the needlework that she had put down on her father's arrival.

Helen continued to sit in the window seat, as apparently listless as she had been since their arrival in London and, indeed, for some time before that. Inwardly she was in turmoil, the blood hammering in her head so that she was totally unaware of the movement and conversation taking place in the room. William was in London! She was in grave danger of meeting him again, especially if her family became acquainted with his friend the Marquess of Hetherington. She could not. It must not happen. It was bad enough that she could not banish him from her thoughts, that she knew him to have completely ruined her life. She could not see him again. She would die if she were forced to do so.

She watched unseeing the hands that were clasped in her lap. How could she possibly avoid the meeting? Papa had said he was here for the winter. So were they. And it was inevitable that they would move in much the same social circles. Helen had none of her sisters' anxieties that perhaps they would be ignored by the ton. Her father was an earl, after all, and he and Mama had connections, neglected as they had been for several years. Sooner or later she would come face to face with William. It had been a sheer miracle that she had escaped him at home. She could not hope to do so for a whole winter here.

He would know the truth. Not that that mattered longer. She could even feel a sort of satisfaction in thinking of how surprised he would be and how uncomfortable to remember the summer. No, it did not bother her at all that the truth would be known. She felt too much contempt and hatred for Mr. William Mainwaring to be at all concerned about a little embarrassment. She could keep the anger and the deep dislike locked inside her as long as she did not see him again. But how could she come face to face with him, probably many times over the next few months, and not reveal to the whole world how strong her feelings about him were? And how could she face having to acknowledge again her own feelings of guilt and inadequacy?

How would she ever be able to be in his presence without being constantly aware of the fact that there would always be that bond between them, unwanted now by either? Had she merely loved him, she might have turned defiantly from him and lived a full life despite him. But he had possessed her, he still possessed her, and she would forever be bound by what had happened between them. She would never be free, but she certainly did not need his physical presence to remind her constantly of how foolish and how deceitful she had been. She had given herself to a shallow, unfeeling man, a man she had surely deserved at the time, and now she would have to watch him mingle with the ton as if he had every moral right to do so. Perhaps he did. She was not at all sure that his behavior was unusual for one of his class.


***

The Marquess and Marchioness of Hetherington did indeed make the promised visit the following afternoon. They were not accompanied by William Mainwaring, to the satisfaction or relief of most of the family of the Earl of Claymore. As they left, the regulation half-hour after their arrival, the marchioness placed in the hands of her hostess an invitation to a ball they were to hold the following week.

"It is not to be a large affair, ma'am," she said. "This Is not the Season, and London is not as heavily-populated as it will be then. But our mutual friend, Mr. Mainwaring, is newly arrived and we have planned the ball as a welcome to him. I am sure he would be delighted, as we would be, to see some of his neighbors there. I do hope you will be able to come." She followed her husband from the room after smiling warmly at the countess.

"Robert," she said as she sank into the warm velvet upholstery of their coach and made room for him beside her, "I am so glad you suggested that we visit the earl and his family this afternoon. They seemed almost pathetically grateful to see us."

“I could hardly say no, my love," the marquess said, turning to her with a grin, "when the man himself suggested it at White's yesterday. William had a previous engagement but I had none. But you are right. They have rusticated so long, I believe, that London is like a foreign city to them. You see the dangers of staying in the country for too long, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, well and good," she said, "but you know that once John is past babyhood I wish to spend most of our time in the country, Robert."