A Bird in Hand

Belgrave House www.belgravehouse.com Copyright ©1999 by Susan Ann Pace NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

A BIRD IN HAND Allison Lane

CHAPTER ONE "How can you refuse a dying man his last wish?” demanded the Duke of Whitfield in a hoarse whisper. Frail fingers plucked weakly at the coverlet, pulling it tighter around his shivering shoulders. "You are a long way from dying,” protested his grandson. “The doctor swears this is no more than a chill. You will continue plaguing us for many years to come." "Hah!” The snort turned into a rasping cough. “What does that quack know? A man who is nearly ninety cannot expect to survive even a simple malady." "Perhaps, but you must pass three more years before reaching that august mark, so cease this maudlin prattling.” He stilled his hand as it moved to tear off his jacket. He could hardly breathe in the stifling bedchamber, which increased his concern over the goose bumps covering the duke's hand. Fear raised a few on his own. Whitfield had never been prone to peevish complaint. "Quit pacing the floor,” grumbled the duke. “Sit down where I can see you. How can I rest when you prance about like one of those terriers the duchess used to keep?” He sighed, a tear glinting in each eye. “How I swore at those plagued little beasts. Now I miss the lot of them. Giving them away severed a tie to her memory.” He covered his eyes as if the light hurt, though draperies blocked the afternoon sun and only one candle augmented the glow of the fire. His pallor matched the white lace at the wrist of his bedgown, casting suspicion on the doctor's diagnosis, for he did indeed appear severely ill. George Edward Randolph Catherwood, by courtesy Earl of Symington, stifled his own sigh as he settled into the chair next to his grandfather's sickbed. Was the doctor hiding the truth to spare the family from useless fretting? He had to consider the possibility, for his father, Whitfield's only son, was incapable of attending a deathbed. Please, let it be a simple chill, he prayed fervently. He wasn't ready to deal with death—not because of the inevitable pain and grief, but because his life would undergo profound change when his father acceded to the title. He wanted to pursue his own interests for a few more years before taking on the duchy. The duke was being uncharacteristically sentimental today, but Symington did not have the heart to halt the memories that flowed from those ancient lips. And perhaps they were helping. Whitfield's voice grew stronger as he talked about his wife of fifty years. Theirs had been a love so powerful that everyone had commented on it. Year after year, generation after generation, their continuing passion and public affection had raised sighs in young girls and embarrassment in young men. As standards of behavior tightened and Society began to eschew honest shows of emotion, the sticklers viewed the Whitfields’ behavior as increasingly scandalous. Surely by their age, a couple should be past all that! Symington smiled as the reminiscences continued. He had never allowed anyone to criticize his grandparents to his face. Nor had he taken the comments seriously. Most of the mockery covered envy. And even some guilt. If more couples achieved such harmony, there would be little reason to pursue other liaisons. He could only pray that when it was time for him to wed, he could find a wife as loving and caring as his grandmother had been. Whitfield's voice weakened, his words slurring toward sleep. Symington rose to leave, then suddenly froze in his tracks.

"But at last I will see my darling Mary again,” the duke murmured. “I am coming, my sweet. I can no longer live without you." "You will not be joining her just yet,” Symington replied firmly. “Be patient. These past ten years are as nothing compared to an eternity together. Nor would twenty or even thirty matter. She would not want you to lay down your duties prematurely. You still have much to accomplish in this life." "Which is why I summoned you, George,” said the duke. Symington grimaced. He hated the name George and had insisted on using Randolph since childhood. Only his grandfather still refused. But the fear that he had just walked into a trap overrode his usual irritation. If this was a trap, he would not escape. Whitfield was the one man he had never bested—at anything. The duke released a heart-wrenching sigh. “How can I recover from this dratted chill when my mind frets constantly over the succession?" "There is nothing wrong with the succession,” Randolph insisted. "Not today, but what about tomorrow? You know how quickly lives can change. Look what happened to your father." Definitely a trap. It was Randolph's turn to sigh. Several months earlier, his father had fallen awkwardly across a wall. He would never walk again and had barely recovered enough to sit in a chair for an occasional hour. The duke's voice strengthened. “Richard is my only son, just as you are his only son. You know the Dukes of Whitfield have never been prolific breeders. What if something happens to you? The next in line is a third cousin! How would you get an heir if you were crippled, or worse?" "That is unlikely,” he protested. But tight bands constricted his chest, making breathing difficult. The overheated room didn't help. "At the moment, perhaps. But only because you lock yourself away at Orchards like some medieval monk. Yet you cannot hide much longer. Once I'm gone, you must oversee the estates, which will require frequent travel and expose you to accidents, illness, and this growing unrest in the lower classes. Richard can no longer manage it.” His voice choked, for he had long been proud of his son's grasp of agriculture and other ducal affairs. “You have a duty to the title, George. Before I die, you must marry and get an heir of your own. You are already one-and-thirty. How long were you planning to wait?" "I have yet to meet anyone suitable." "Because you never mingle with Society. Do you expect eligible ladies to break down your door?" Randolph bit back an angry retort. Eligible misses did indeed break down his door. Two suspicious accidents had happened near Orchards in the past year alone, though he would never consider wedding such scheming jades. Others accosted him whenever he left the estate, flirting outrageously or seeking to compromise him. Their antics were one reason he avoided London society, for the problem was worse in the ballrooms of the Marriage Mart. His friend Sedge had described the stratagems desperate chits employed to trap prized lords. Randolph wanted nothing to do with rapacious fortune hunters. Yet his prospects made it impossible to separate greed from genuine interest.

But trepidation was already creeping up his spine, for he was assuredly trapped. Pat on the thought came the words he had been dreading. "You must go to London, George. It is time." "What a bore,” Randolph muttered under his breath. "The Season is rapidly approaching. You will spend it in Town,” ordered the duke, his voice ringing with authority despite his illness. “You will participate fully in all social events, and you will announce a betrothal no later than July." Randolph shivered. Despite the stifling room, his sweat congealed into icy knives. Damn, but he hated Town! He hated the gatherings crowded with hopeful misses and fawning gentlemen, none of whom cared a whit for Randolph Catherwood, seeing him only as Lord Symington, heir to Whitfield's power and fortune. He hated London's narrow streets, its dirt, its stench, its hordes of importuning beggars— and not just the crippled, sick, and poor. Everyone begged. For pennies, for patronage, for favors, for marriage. But that wasn't the worst of it. London lacked the open spaces he loved. And it robbed him of control over his life. Social obligations filled every hour of the day and night, leaving him no time for reading or study. He could never ride for pleasure, for streets were crowded, parks had rules, and the heath was too distant. But worse, he could exercise little choice in thought, word, or deed, for Society's demands stripped away the last vestige of freedom. And London had another drawback. Formal clothes fit tightly, limiting his ability to move and raising the constant specter of danger, for their constriction would hamper him in a crisis. Could he escape a footpad, for instance, when a fanciful cravat prevented him from moving his head, when tight jackets restricted his arms, when form-fitting pantaloons made sitting impossible and walking difficult? Yet the duke would not allow him to appear in public in the loose-fitting clothes he preferred. Nor would his valet. Neither of them understood his need for freedom. Whitfield was staring at him, a calculating expression in his eyes. “You can avoid Town if you choose,” he said slyly. "Oh?” His tension rose another notch. "I know of a lady who might suit you quite well. She has the necessary breeding, her interests mirror your own, and she would be content to remain in the country year-round." "And who might this paragon be?” His chest tightened, forcing out the air. Only serious effort refilled his lungs. "The granddaughter of my dearest friend.” The duke paused while Randolph wracked his brains in a vain effort to identify the man. “I owe him a debt I've never been able to repay." "But you are wealthy." His brows snapped together. “Books don't teach you everything, George. Some debts cannot be satisfied with money, though I would gladly have done so. But despite his circumstances, Andrew wouldn't hear of it." "Circumstances?” This was growing curiouser every second. The duke sighed. “Andrew lost his inheritance, so neither his son nor his grandchildren made their bows

to Society. He died two years ago, still lamenting the effect of his folly on his oldest granddaughter. Without a dowry, Elizabeth is unlikely to contract a suitable marriage. But she might interest you. Why don't you pay her a visit?" "You know that I cannot do so. Calling at her home would raise expectations, forcing an offer even if she proves less than suitable. What do you really know of her?" "Only what Andrew wrote,” he admitted. “I last saw her when she was a babe. He did not leave Ravenswood for the final fifty years of his life, and you know that I have remained here for the last twenty. But a visit commits you to nothing. The current Earl of Fosdale wishes to sell an original Chaucer manuscript. We have exchanged several letters on the subject. You will authenticate it, then negotiate its purchase. If Lady Elizabeth does not suit, you can leave with a clear conscience and deliver the manuscript here on your way to London. I will make Whitfield House available for the Season." "Very well.” He was neatly boxed in. The duke was ornery enough to die if his wishes were ignored. “But I must know more about the family. How many daughters are there?" "Fosdale has three children. The son is away at school. You needn't bother with the younger girl, for she would never suit. But do consider Lady Elizabeth. She is not your typical miss—in fact, she is four-and-twenty." He grimaced, for the girl was already on the shelf. Yet that wasn't her fault. Her situation alone would discourage serious suitors. He wanted more information, but Whitfield's compressed lips proclaimed that he would learn nothing here. The duke loved being enigmatic. “Where is Ravenswood?" "Cumberland." "Good God! It will take more than a week just to get there." "When shall I tell Fosdale to expect you?” His voice was implacable. Randolph shoved the hair off his forehead and resumed his restless pacing. “I did not bring sufficient clothing for a journey of such magnitude. Nor did I spend more than a few hours checking Father's estate on my way here. Neither Orchards nor Wyndport are ready for a Season's absence. I must—" "When?” demanded the duke. He sighed. “Early March, if all goes well.” He would be hard-pressed to make it, for he must call at both estates before leaving. But the trip to Cumberland was unlikely to produce a bride, so he must also allow time to revisit them before going to London. He accepted a packet of information on the Chaucer and took leave of his grandfather, but his mind was already focused on all the things be must do to comply with these unexpected demands. Several years had passed since he'd last made the social rounds, so he needed a new wardrobe. But that was a minor problem. His valet could place the order, and Weston would have everything ready for final fittings when he arrived. His father's steward represented a more pressing issue. Randolph had known since the accident that he would have to replace Jackson, but the man had been a loyal employee for years, so he must find him a good position elsewhere. Yet how was he to manage that? Given Whitfield's frailty and his father's infirmity, he could not install Jackson on any of the duchy's estates. **** Whitfield waited until his grandson was gone, then summoned his valet.

"Help me out of these infernal rugs,” he grumbled, all trace of hoarseness gone. He scrubbed off the rice powder that had enhanced his pallor. “There is much to be done if we are to see George wed by summer." And he would, he added to himself. Andrew had been his closest friend since they'd met eighty years ago. Ten years had passed since he'd promised to find Elizabeth a husband. They had both known that her father would never do so. The man was a nip-farthing who lacked any trace of family-feeling, loyalty, or conscience. Unless he could sell the chit, he would let her dwindle into spinsterhood. She was nearly there already. The casement creaked as his valet opened the window to release the stifling heat. Whitfield fished out the block of ice that had raised all those goose bumps, recoiling when he rolled onto the wet spot it left behind. The plan was in place, and no one could discern his real motives, he decided as his valet helped him into a dry bedgown. George's expertise was recognized by everyone who knew rare books. This wasn't the first time he had investigated a manuscript. Thus the Chaucer provided an admirable excuse to introduce George and Elizabeth. And an excuse was necessary, for despite what many people thought, he would never coerce the boy. If George was uninterested, he would settle Elizabeth elsewhere. But he had little doubt that George would find Elizabeth intriguing. Andrew's descriptions made her sound very much like Mary, so she would bring the same joy into George's life as Mary had brought to his. George had crawled too firmly into his library. He needed a change, and Richard's accident added a new urgency to the question of the succession. And perhaps securing Elizabeth's future would finally atone for the disaster he had precipitated all those years ago. **** "Lady Luck is finally smiling on us,” exclaimed the Earl of Fosdale to his wife. “Whitfield is sending his grandson George—Lord Symington—to buy that manuscript Father claimed was so valuable. The boy will call here on his way to London. He remains unwed, so we must see that he chooses Elizabeth. It is long past time that she married." "She will not agree. And what do you know about him?” asked Lady Fosdale weakly. "He is wealthy and will one day be a duke. What else need we know?” And the boy was young, he added to himself. Negotiating an advantageous price for the Chaucer would be easier than if he faced Whitfield or a hardheaded man of business. An untried boy would not even recognize his manipulation. But this was not the time for such planning. His wife was looking mulish—a trait she should have abandoned after all these years. “Elizabeth is nearly on the shelf,” he pointed out. “I can give her neither a Season nor a decent dowry, thanks to Father's idiocy. Do you wish her to dwindle into an old maid?" "Of course not,” she protested. “But a duke's heir will hardly be interested in a penniless wife, especially one who lacks impeccable bloodlines. Nor can she claim either beauty or accomplishments. Besides, she has shown no interest in marriage and will likely balk at the idea." "I have been far too lenient with the chit,” he growled, pacing his study. And too lenient with his wife. She should know better than to mention bloodlines. Who did she think she was? A loyal wife would help him instead of raising objections. “This is the best opportunity we will ever have. If we arrange the meeting properly, he will pay for the privilege of wedding her."

"You cannot use force.” Her voice rose to a squeak, then died under his glare. But she again demonstrated a woeful faithlessness. “Would it not be easier to interest him in Cecilia? She is beautiful, accomplished, and vivacious—far more likely to draw the eyes of a powerful lord. Once she is wed, she can find a match for Elizabeth. Symington might even provide a dowry." "No. This is our best chance to get Elizabeth off our hands. Cecilia is already settled. Sir Lewis offered for her a month ago. We will sign the contract as soon as he returns from Carlisle." "Why have you said nothing?” gasped Lady Fosdale. "Are you questioning my authority to arrange matters?” he demanded softly. "Of course not." "Nor will you.” He glared until she cowered in her chair. Good. The woman finally remembered her place. “You will enjoy having her nearby. In the meantime, you will not mention this to either of them,” he ordered firmly. “If you are tempted to chatter, recall the advantages of obedience. We will have a wealthy son-in-law; one with a luxurious town house, who will invite us to London for the Season.” He flashed a guileless smile. She would never accept such an invitation, of course. Her continued intransigence did not entitle her to such a reward. The real goal was to attach a man with bottomless coffers, who would be embarrassed by his father-in-law's penury. A man with access to the most powerful gentlemen in the country. “He will arrive tomorrow, or possibly the next day,” he added, noting that the rain continued. Travel would be difficult. **** Lady Elizabeth Walton gritted her teeth to control her outrage. How could even Fosdale hate his own children? But why are you surprised? asked a voice in her head. You know he cares for nothing but himself. Yet his attitude went far beyond selfishness. His antagonism was so overt that she could no longer even think of him as her father. He had become an enemy. A stranger. Fosdale. Childish, perhaps, but she could no longer acknowledge the blood tie. She and Cecilia had been in the morning room when their mother entered the study across the hall. The study door had not latched, allowing them to overhear the entire exchange. Now they stood out of sight on either side of the doorway, their horrified eyes meeting across the opening. Lady Fosdale quietly closed the study door, slinking away like an abused dog. It was her typical reaction to orders from her husband. She was miserably unhappy in her marriage but lacked the backbone to stand up to Fosdale. Sometimes Elizabeth suspected that his sole purpose for denying her wishes was to break any hint of spirit that might have survived five-and-twenty years under his thumb. Cecilia silently closed the door to the morning room. “How can he accept Sir Lewis without even consulting me?” she hissed. "A rather silly question, don't you think?” Elizabeth paced the floor. “He wants us off his hands and out of his purse as quickly as possible. Sir Lewis is available and genuinely cares for you. You are unlikely to find another suitor. You heard Fosdale. He will never take us to Town." "I cannot wed Sir Lewis!"

"Why? You get along well with him." "Don't you understand?” Her voice was rising, but a gesture dropped it back to a fierce whisper. “I will die if I stay in this godforsaken valley. I must see London. I must! I need Society's excitement, its vivacity, its approval. I need to be with people of my own class. But Sir Lewis leaves his estate only to visit his mother in Carlisle. How can I survive even one more year of stultifying boredom, let alone a lifetime? Look at how we pass our days—skulking about the house with nothing to do, or drinking tea with village women who barely qualify as gentry. Even their conversation is boring, for they repeat the same stories over and over again. Merciful heavens! They still chatter about Peter Finchley eloping with Flora Matthews, and that happened two years ago!" Elizabeth had read enough London newspapers to know that visiting and gossip were the mainstay of Society everywhere. “London is no different,” she pointed out, hoping Cecilia would listen this time. Her complaints were old ones, but escaping the valley would change nothing. “From what I have read, ladies gossip in Town as well." "Fustian! Who would waste time telling trite tales when there is so much to do? I must escape, Elizabeth. My beauty is wasted here. What good does it do to play the harpsichord like an angel or paint delightful watercolors when there is no one capable of appreciating my skill? In London, I would be a diamond, with gentlemen falling at my feet in droves. They would write poetry in my honor, overwhelm me with gifts, vie day and night for my favors. I would have at least three escorts to every party, dance until dawn in luxurious ballrooms, attend the races, ascend in balloons, drive with royalty. I would wed a handsome prince and live happily ever after, dashing the hopes of hundreds of beaux." Her eyes had taken on a faraway expression that was all too familiar. Elizabeth bit back exasperation. She had heard this recital too often, but nothing could convince Cecilia that it was naught but imagination embroidering wishful thinking. “Pull your head out of the clouds, Cecilia. Reality rarely matches expectations, as you should know merely from watching Mother. She was just as beautiful as you, and her accomplishments were quite as spectacular. But like us, she lacked money and prestige. Has she ever attained a single dream?" Cecilia glared, unwilling to admit the truth, so Elizabeth did it for her. "Of course not. Nor will you if you do not pursue more realistic goals. London's standards of behavior are far more rigid than we adhere to in the country. You would never be allowed to attend a race or risk your life in a balloon. Not that it matters. Fosdale will never take us to London, and if he has already accepted Sir Lewis's offer, you will have no choice. Unless you agree, you will have to endure his wrath for the rest of your life." She shuddered as she said the words, for it was precisely what she feared for her own future. So far, she had avoided a forced marriage. It had not been difficult, for poverty tied them to Ravenswood, and she had discouraged every eligible male in the area. No one was willing to put up with her. "Lewis hasn't signed anything,” Cecilia reminded her, rebellion sparking in her eyes. “And Mama is right. I stand a far better chance of attracting Symington's interest than you do. Why would a duke's heir look at a bluestocking spinster whose countenance is so plain she would be considered an antidote in Town? I can offer beauty, charm, and every female accomplishment he could ever want. Thank God for Lady Mitchell's illness. Lewis cannot return for at least a fortnight. By then I will be promised to another." Elizabeth started to object, but Cecilia swept on. "It is perfect, Elizabeth! We will live in London and never see Cumberland again. You heard Papa.

Symington is wealthy and heir to a great title. No more unfashionable gowns. No more antiquated carriages. No more pitying looks from merchants’ daughters whose wardrobes are newer than mine. I will be a duchess, with all the world at my feet! Imagine the power—and the good I could do for the less fortunate,” she added, abandoning her baser motives for the moment. Oddly enough, her generous gestures were every bit as genuine as her selfishness and blind stubbornness. "I see nothing wrong with flirting with him,” agreed Elizabeth. “He may fall madly in love with you." "Of course he will!” She was back to her usual self. “Every gentleman I meet is smitten by my beauty. Symington will be no different." "We all know that you are the local diamond. But be careful. Fawning will likely disgust him. London gentlemen dislike girls who are too coming. The heir to a duchy will be accustomed to girls who throw themselves at his title. If you act like every other scheming miss, he will brush you aside without a second look." Cecilia frowned. "And you had best not let Fosdale suspect your plans, or he will lock you in the attic until Symington leaves,” Elizabeth added. For once Cecilia did not protest the warning. They had both heard the determination in his voice. “I will wed him,” she vowed, grasping the door handle. “And you will do nothing to stop me. You have to admit that you don't want him." Elizabeth gave up. “As you wish. But at least take the time to honestly consider the future. You have always liked Sir Lewis. He cares about your happiness and will make a devoted husband. Symington might prove to be an ogre, no matter how dazzling his wealth and status." Anger flared, but Cecilia suppressed it. “Very well." Elizabeth grimaced. Calculation had remained in Cecilia's eyes. But it really wasn't her affair. She had done her best to point out the difference between fantasy and reality, but Cecilia's dreams were too deeply embedded. As was her skepticism. Since neither of them had traveled beyond Cumberland, Elizabeth's voice carried no more authority than if they had been discussing the exact population of heaven or the fashions currently popular in China. And Cecilia considered herself irresistible. Elizabeth could only pray that the girl would do nothing stupid. Trickery would lead to the same barren existence that plagued their mother. She sighed. Cecilia considered London a glittering paradise. Her imagination had woven twisted images of Society into a vision of opulence, frivolity, and male adoration that could not possibly be true. Her success with area beaux made her think she was a modern Helen of Troy, capable of inciting wars—or at least duels —and winning the devotion of every gentleman she met. Rejected suitors would dedicate their lives to mourning their loss. Such improbable fantasies were absurd, of course, but Elizabeth did not have time to tilt at Cecilia's delusions today. Her own problems were too critical. Fosdale was not stupid. Tying her to Symington would require a compromise and could only be accomplished within minutes of the guest's arrival, for he must know that she would be on her guard as soon as she recognized his motives.

She had no intention of marrying anyone. Her mother was miserable—reason enough to distrust so permanent a union. The fact that a wife had no control over any aspect of her life merely confirmed her antipathy. Marriage was not for her. Let Cecilia have Symington. She had already planned her own future, for remaining under Fosdale's control was equally repugnant. Yet she needed more time to escape. She had not yet amassed the wherewithal to support herself. She paced the floor as she considered her dilemma. The suggestion that Fosdale might lock Cecilia up so he could foist Elizabeth on Symington was no joke. He would never allow interference with his schemes —especially by a female. With Cecilia around, no gentleman would even look at Elizabeth, which was another reason he would strike the instant Symington appeared. She wouldn't put it past him to lock them in a room together, then cry rape. So how was she to escape? She took another turn about the room. Symington was calling to buy the Chaucer, so he would not stay long. She stifled a shudder at the loss, for she had no chance of preventing its sale. Fosdale had no interest in books. Keep your mind on business! The situation was too critical to permit sidetracking. Idiot! Her feet came to an abrupt halt. The solution was so obvious that she swore at herself for not seeing it sooner. If she was not here, then no one could trap her, and Fosdale would not object to Cecilia's flirting. She need only stay away for a week. By then, Symington would either be gone or in love with Cecilia. Her great-aunt lived on her uncle's estate in the next valley. Uncle Jason's family was in Carlisle for the winter, and no one had checked on Aunt Constance in nearly a month. How was the woman enduring this endless rain? Calling would raise no questions, particularly if she left without discussing it first. It was perfect. More than perfect, she realized when she noted that the rain had actually stopped falling. Dry skies would explain her precipitous departure, for sunshine was becoming a rare sight. Her mother would shut herself in her sitting room for the remainder of the day, as she always did after a confrontation with Fosdale. He would stay in his study, plotting to rid himself of an unwanted daughter. Cecilia would be perusing her wardrobe, planning her own campaign. It would be hours before anyone missed her. Satisfied, she packed a bandbox and called for her horse.

CHAPTER TWO A fortnight later, Elizabeth pulled her hood lower as Aster picked a careful way along the path. Little had gone right since she'd fled Ravenswood. Today it was the weather. It had seemed to be clearing when she'd left Bornhill Park. Instead, the storm had roared back in, stronger than ever, with freezing gales and heavy rain. She shivered, resisting the urge to hurry lest Aster slip on this steep slope. Heather and gorse covered the mountainside, offering no shelter, though once she reached the valley, trees would protect her from the coldest air. Maybe. Wind screamed through the pines below, whipping their supple tops as if they were stalks of grain, sending waves rippling across the stand that made it resemble a lake. The path dropped into a fold. Birches shook their bare branches, rattling like the bony fingers that figured so prominently in Uncle Jason's ghost stories. Or like the clicking needles of a thousand demented knitters fashioning a shroud around her living body. Don't be so fanciful. It was the scent that had raised that last image. The air was ripe with rotting leaves and damp soil, just as it had been the day they had buried her grandfather. The premonition of danger that had assailed her for the past hour was merely the product of the same vivid imagination that had cursed her for years, she reminded herself, hunching deeper into her cloak. Sights. Sounds. Smells. All arose from the storm. It was annoying, of course, for the cold wind cut through her clothing as if it did not exist. But it could not harm her. She had been away longer than she'd originally planned, but that was good. Even if this relentless weather had delayed Symington's arrival, he would be long gone by now. She would have heard if Cecilia had snared him. Fosdale had been incensed at her escape, of course, sending a strongly worded command that she return home immediately. She had refused. And fate had smiled on her, for he could hardly chastise her decision. When she'd arrived at Bornhill Park's dower house, she had found Aunt Constance abed with a debilitating chill. The superstitious staff had been dosing her with concoctions that were worsening her condition. Elizabeth had sent the footman back to Ravenswood with a note that described Constance's illness and hinted that the lady had summoned her niece to provide proper care. No doctor served this remote part of Cumberland, so Elizabeth's knowledge of herbs and her skill in treating injuries made her the logical person to call on in times of need. She had even helped the midwife on occasion, though Fosdale remained ignorant of that last activity. Since innocent maidens were not supposed to know about such earthy subjects, her expertise was another means of discouraging unwanted suitors. Proper food and the discontinuance of buckbeans and cobweb pills had eased Constance's nausea. Bark teas, licorice, and a well-heated room soon had her back on her feet. With no further excuse for staying, Elizabeth had headed home, acutely conscious that time was pressing. If she had known the visit would last this long, she would have brought some of her work with her. She shivered as another gust of wind raced down the mountain to slam into her side. Aster staggered. If only it would stop raining. But the clouds showed no sign of dissipating. Incessant rain was not uncommon, particularly in spring, but this year the storms had been longer and stronger than ever before. Even the oldest of the village residents could recall nothing like it. Streams that

usually bubbled now roared, racing with frightening power down the slopes. Rivulets appeared in new places, waterfalls thundered, wind-whipped trees dropped branches or toppled altogether. She had already passed several places where rock and mud had broken loose from hillsides, blocking paths or sweeping them away. She reached the pines that clustered along the river, then turned downstream. Aster's hoof sank fetlock-deep in mud. Before setting out, she should have made sure that the clouds were really thinning, but she had been too anxious to reach Ravenswood. Another blast of wind made her shiver. She had been foolish to believe that she would come to no harm outdoors. The storm's fury was building to new heights. Could she safely continue, or should she seek shelter? Urging Aster onto stonier ground, she mulled her options. No one lived on this side of the river, though Sadie Deacon had a cottage on the other side a mile below the bridge. But that was a mile out of her way. Ravenswood's park was opposite where she stood, with the house only two miles beyond the bridge. The park wall would protect her from the wind for half that distance. She couldn't stay here. The only shelter she had passed since cresting the ridge was an empty shepherd's hut half an hour ago, but it was uphill, exposed to the full fury of the wind. In the worsening storm, it would take nearly an hour to reach it—if she could at all. Away from the trees, even Aster might make no headway. So Ravenswood must be her goal. A tree crashed somewhere to her left, reminding her that the forest presented its own dangers. Aster readily broke into a trot. He was a steady mount, but the storm was making him nervous. If only it hadn't rained so long. The house was barely half a mile from where she rode. She had often forded the river along here, for it usually spread across a thirty-foot bed as it picked its way around myriad boulders. But today, water topped the high bank, raging far beyond its usual bounds in its race to the sea. By the time she reached the last bend before the bridge, the path was gone. The flood had picked up speed, gouging away the bank and devouring the path, part of a meadow, and everything else in its way. She retreated toward the trees, choosing the rockiest ground to improve Aster's footing. "Damnation!" A boulder toppled into the torrent as rapacious water consumed another chunk of land. Even as she swerved farther from the river, ten feet of ground collapsed beneath Aster's hooves. He screamed. For once, she ignored his predicament, fighting to free herself from the sidesaddle. Too many ladies suffered injuries from being trapped when a horse went down. And she might become one of them, she admitted grimly, ripping at her habit skirt, which was caught on the leg rest. Aster plunged and twisted in a frantic attempt to regain his footing. The motion threw her hard to the right, freeing her leg. But her shout of relief was lost as muddy water closed over her head. She sent up a brief prayer of thanks that poverty had prevented her from trying that newfangled leaping head—which would have locked both legs in place—then struck out for the surface. **** Randolph cursed his grandfather as he stared out the carriage window. Why couldn't he have proposed this journey during the summer when the weather would be reasonable? Nothing had gone right since

he'd left the duke's bedroom. In his haste to get this errand behind him as quickly as possible, he'd overstepped on the stairs and fallen. The resulting bruises kept him in bed for three days. But at least the delay had set his immediate fears for Whitfield's health to rest. The duke had appeared to be much better when he had taken his final leave. So the doctor had been right—not that it would release him from his promise. He sighed. His brief stop at Wyndport had stretched into more than a week. Ever since the accident, the marquess had suffered one ailment after another. This time it was a fever that kept him muttering deliriously about ghosts and other spirits he alone could see. So Randolph had stepped in to approve plans for the spring planting. And he had remained at Wyndport until the worst of the fever had passed. But the illness had postponed their inevitable confrontation over replacing Jackson. He stared at the steadily falling rain. When he got back, he must have a serious talk with his father. The man had long had a keen interest in agricultural reform, assuming a leading role in the management of Wyndport, adopting Coke's successes, and devising experiments that led to his own. But his failing health would no longer permit him to monitor daily operations. He needed help. Jackson was excellent at carrying out instructions, but he lacked the understanding and the decisiveness necessary to run a large estate on his own. His dithering would aggravate the situation if a crisis arose while the marquess was too ill to issue orders. Randolph had enough to do on his own estate. He didn't have time to run Wyndport, especially if he must spend the Season in London. So they must replace Jackson. The new steward would also have to oversee the manor staff and Wyndport's other concerns. It would leave the marquess with nothing to do, but too many decisions had been delayed in recent months because Wyndport was ill and Randolph wasn't available. At least the delay at Wyndport had allowed him to spend time with Lord Sedgewick Wylie, who had been visiting his own father's estate nearby. Sedge had been his closest friend since childhood, though they saw each other infrequently these days. Sedge had not only commiserated with him over Whitfield's demands, but he'd volunteered to accompany him to Cumberland and provide moral support. Randolph absently fingered his card case as a gust of wind shook the carriage. Sedge's presence had made the journey bearable despite frequent delays. In fact, it was the only thing keeping him sane. He couldn't remember a wetter year. Even the turnpikes were muddy morasses, and side roads like this one were nearly impassable. The one-week trip had already stretched into two. He never wanted to see another raindrop. Or another mud-filled ditch. Or another ramshackle inn with poor service and worse food. Even the best room last night had offered poorer accommodations than his stable boys enjoyed at home. Every new delay and every fresh discomfort had increased his trepidation. What if Whitfield or his father suffered a relapse while he was out of touch? Could he ever forgive himself if he was unavailable when needed? But those were fears he carried with him wherever he went. It was the new ones that bothered him now. Whitfield's insistence had raised a premonition of disaster that he had firmly ignored. But it lurked in a

corner of his mind, prodding him each day and bursting into fresh dread when he had awakened this morning to the realization that it was the Ides of March. He snorted at himself. Shakespeare aside, this day was no less propitious than any other. It was only the ceaseless rain that played on his nerves—and an aggravating suspicion that Whitfield had been less than forthright. "What do you think happened to the baggage coach?” asked Sedge, abandoning his own perusal of the soggy countryside. They were climbing a gorse-covered ridge that afforded no protection from the wind, and they'd already squeezed past one mud flow that nearly closed the road. There was no way of knowing if worse lay ahead. He shrugged. “Perhaps they passed us.” The suggestion was unlikely, of course, though he wanted to believe it. “They wouldn't have expected to find us at the Swan and Garter. That was the worst inn yet." "Too true. There wasn't even a wench to warm my bed.” Sedge laughed at the expression on Randolph's face. “I do love to make you blush. But you need not chastise me. I wouldn't have trusted anyone in that place anyway." "Nor I.” He sighed. “I hope the baggage coach was not cut off by that bridge problem." It was the first time either of them had uttered the fear they had shared since breakfast. A harness strap on the baggage coach had broken while changing horses the day before. That sort of repair usually took less than an hour, so Randolph had continued on, knowing their valets would catch up by evening. But they had not. At breakfast, they had learned that a bridge had collapsed the previous afternoon—a bridge they had crossed after leaving the baggage coach. It was unlikely that anyone had been on it when floodwaters swept it away. But this corner of Cumberland was so inaccessible that negotiating the detour would take days, even if the weather cooperated. "At least we have a change of clothing with us,” said Sedge, ever the optimist. "Any idea which trunks are in the boot?” Rather than strap trunks onto the roof, they had split them between the boots of both coaches, again because of the weather. He hadn't bothered unloading them last night. A small valise holding his razor and a fresh cravat had been all he'd needed. Sedge shook his head. "The way my luck has been running lately, mine will hold nothing but evening coats,” muttered Randolph, returning his gaze to the window. "Or boots.” Sedge grinned. “Or a dozen shirts but no cravats." "Waistcoats and handkerchiefs." "Court dress and night caps." "Why would I pack court dress for a trip to Cumberland?" "Books, then. You take those everywhere.” He shuddered delicately. "Don't turn that vacuous façade on me,” warned Randolph. “I know you too well. Your own trunk is just as likely to be crammed with books."

"How dare you impugn my reputation as a care-for-naught?” Sedge demanded theatrically. “It will more likely be stuffed with quizzing glasses and an assortment of hats." "Or cravat pins and watch fobs.” Sedge had become the quintessential dandy in recent years, his style copied by half the young bucks in Town—along with his gestures, his apparent interests, and his bored drawl. Even long-established fribbles turned to him for leadership now that Brummell was gone. "I would rather it held jewelry than a stack of nightshirts." "Or a collection of evening shoes.” Randolph's light tone was suddenly forced. They had reached a narrow pass. Too narrow. Rocky cliffs squeezed the carriage between them, their crumbling surfaces barely a yard away. A stand of pines clustered near the crest, entangling their branches overhead to plunge the coach into darkness. He suppressed a shudder, fingering the card case to keep the breathlessness at bay. Normally, carriage travel did not bother him, for his sported oversized windows that offered spectacular views of the countryside. But this pass closed them in as tightly as if they had driven into a cave. The card case slid smoothly across his skin, twisting, turning, its jeweled surface cool under his stroking fingers. Its style was one he had seen nowhere else, so his grandmother must have commissioned it from her own design. She had presented it on his twenty-first birthday—her last gift, for she'd died only a month later, plunging the duke into a melancholy that had lasted nearly three years. Randolph shifted his gaze to the other window. Nothing but rock. She had been the one person who had understood how much he hated being closed in. When they were together, her calm acceptance had helped hold his panic at bay. So the case had become a talisman, linking him with her calm, reminding him that one person had not considered him a freak. Over the years, the case had become his good luck piece, a charm that protected him from harm. He needed it now. Rain whipped through the pass, propelled by swirling winds that threatened to slam them into a cliff wall. Lightning crackled, followed immediately by crashing thunder. The horses snorted in terror. His thumb traced the jeweled design as John Coachman shouted encouragement to the team. He closed his eyes, visualizing how sunlight glinted on the bright colors that formed the Symington crest, recalling the love that had blazed in his grandmother's eyes whenever she looked at him. "We should have stopped when the rain worsened,” he said, hoping Sedge would attribute his nervousness to concern over the weather. This creeping terror was unmanly, but no matter how hard he'd tried, he had never found a way to defeat it. "But we are nearly there,” Sedge reminded him. “If that last ostler was right, it should only be a few more miles." "Which will take well over an hour. Longer if we have to dig the coach out of another ditch or clear mud from the roadway." Sedge laughed. “It has certainly been an instructive journey. How many ditches have we landed in?"

"Six,” he replied after a quick calculation. “These boots will never be the same." Another laugh. “I thought I was the dandy." "Unlike you, I only brought one other pair. And your imitators would be appalled if they could see you now.” Yet despite lacking both valet and a change of clothes, Sedge somehow contrived to look elegant. His own appearance would never compare. Even in the best of times, he preferred comfort to fashion. At the moment, between mud, rain, and this endless journey, he could easily be mistaken for a vagrant. "Do you think Lady Elizabeth will do?” asked Sedge, changing the subject. "I hope so, especially after we've put up with so much to get here. And she would spare me a miserable Season in Town.” He relaxed as the cliffs receded. They were heading downhill into a valley. Thick forest edged the road on this side of the ridge, but trees had never bothered him. He spared a thought for John, who must be freezing despite having two cloaks, one of them made of nearly waterproof leather. And this latest team of job horses must be near exhaustion. They had already traveled four miles through rain and mire, most of it uphill. "Don't offer for the chit just to salvage a wretched journey,” warned Sedge, his usual undertone of laughter missing. “I guarantee I can find you a suitable bride in Town. Not everyone is hungry for a title." "I know, and my reasons for making this trip have nothing to do with Lady Elizabeth." "Ah, yes. The manuscript." "It is supposedly Chaucer's original of ‘The Monk's Tale’ from Canterbury Tales. Not even one of the first copies, but in his own hand." "How can you recognize his hand?” asked Sedge curiously. "I have seen it before, on a letter with provenance back to the day he wrote it. And I've studied a page from ‘The Knight's Tale'." "So you can talk to her without raising expectations." "Maybe.” He had not pointed out the flaw in Whitfield's plot. How was he to learn anything about Lady Elizabeth without encouraging her to throw herself at his prospects? “How much can we converse without risk? She has lived here her entire life, isolated from Society. What will she do when faced with a high-ranking gentleman? Most girls would rather die than allow such an opportunity to slip through their fingers." "I will stay close,” promised Sedge. “Why else am I here?" "To provide company on this interminable journey.” He met Sedge's guileless grin. “Don't think to fool me. You will stay close to protect your own hide." "Why would anyone look at a younger son when a future duke is at hand?" "Fosdale has two daughters. And you are noted for your charm—to say nothing of possessing looks that cause even the most sophisticated chits to swoon, style copied by half of London, and a fortune nearly as large as mine.” He grinned as he repeated the litany he had heard more than one female utter. “And you are only one step removed from a marquessate. Reggie seems in no hurry to wed." Sedge frowned at the mention of his older brother, but turned the subject. “How much do you know

about Fosdale?" "Very little. Whitfield's friend was the previous lord. I looked up the family while I was at Wyndport. The title dates back to Edward III. Fosdales have remained out of politics since the sixth earl lost favor with the crown for opposing Henry VIII's divorce. The current earl is impoverished. He has not left Ravenswood since failing to attach an heiress back in ‘93. He wed the daughter of a minor baron two months later." "It does not sound promising. What makes Whitfield believe Lady Elizabeth would suit?" "He didn't say. But there is always London." "Just stay clear of my mother and aunt until you get your bearings, though they will likely focus on me." "Don't tell me you're under pressure, too." Sedge released an exaggerated sigh that was nearly drowned when an enormous gust of wind hit the carriage as they emerged from the pine forest. “For years now. They are determined to set up someone's nursery, but Reggie is not cooperating." Another blast of wind skidded the coach sideways. The stiff arms of a rowan scraped one window. John Coachman cursed. "Are you all right?” Randolph opened the trapdoor. A torrent of rain slammed into his face. "Just a scratch, my lord,” said John, adding more curses as another crash of thunder startled the horses. “The bridge is up ahead. Once we cross, the road is more open." "Which means worse wind,” grumbled Randolph, fastening the trap. "Perhaps not,” countered Sedge as new gusts rattled the carriage. He was peering out the window. “It looks like an estate wall shelters the road." "Ravenswood?" "One could hope.” Sedge's hand clenched. “But can we make it across?" "What now?” He shifted to look out Sedge's window. Wind lashed at the carriage. A loud crack announced that a tree had snapped nearby. But his eyes remained on the bridge as his fingers twisted the card case. A triple arch of stone spanned the river. But the water was high—very high—and streaming across the approach in a foot-deep flood. The horses slowed to a tentative walk. He swore. "Is it safe?” asked Sedge, opening his window for a better view. "I think so.” Randolph leaned out his own side, heedless of the wet. “It appears that the roadbed is also stone at this point. Perhaps flooding is common." "Steady, lads,” called the coachman. The leaders hesitated as they reached the water. But Randolph's attention was no longer fixed on the bridge. A horsewoman had appeared upstream,

gingerly picking her way along the edge of the flood. What was she doing out in this storm? He had hardly formed the question when a wide section of bank collapsed, tossing her and the horse into the river. He threw open the door and leaped from the coach. "Where are you going?” demanded Sedge. "A lady just fell in the water. If she is caught in the sidesaddle, she will drown. She might anyway if I cannot pull her out.” He tossed his card case back into the coach. “Keep that safe." Sedge was scrambling after him. "Idiot!” hissed Randolph, his eyes riveted on the struggling woman. He nearly lost sight of her when the horse scrambled toward the bank. At least she was free of the saddle. “I can swim. You can't. Fetch help.” Racing onto the bridge, he gauged the current, then dove in.

CHAPTER THREE As the river closed over her head, Elizabeth fought down panic. She was free of the saddle and had learned to swim in childhood. Granted, her sole experience had been in the shallow lake at Ravenswood, but a river should not be that different. Within one minute, she knew she was wrong. Struggling to the surface required every ounce of energy she could muster. The water was icy, numbing fingers and toes. Gasping for breath, she flailed toward the bank, but she could make no headway across the current. Nor could she catch any of the boulders strewn along the riverbed, she admitted grimly as her shoulder crashed into one, bouncing her toward the center of the stream. Her heavy clothing dragged her under. This time she came up retching. Panic clawed at her mind. Her heart battered against her ribs. Submerged rocks created churning swirls that plucked at her woolen habit, pulling her down. Releasing her cloak helped, but not enough. Where was Aster? Had he also landed in the river, or had he regained solid ground? Not that it mattered beyond wondering if she must fear flailing hooves as well as sharp rocks. Steady! Take a moment to plan. Don't waste any energy. You're going to need it all. Blinking the water from her eyes, she looked around. The bridge loomed ahead. Reaching the bank was impossible, but perhaps she could catch one of the piers. She kicked toward her right, but the river was deeper here, with no rocks or even a bottom that she could push against. The current tugged at her skirts, dragging her toward the center arch even as it tried to suck her into its deadly embrace. Yet she fought on. Lightning split the clouds. Thunder crashed an instant later, startling her even through the water clogging her ears. The instinctive recoil drove her closer to a pier. Lunging, she scrabbled for a hold as something dark flashed past the corner of her eye. Then the greater darkness of the arched shadows blurred her vision. Barely a foot of clearance remained. Stupid! She should have grabbed for the arch itself. Now it was too late, and she had missed the pier. Her hands scraped rock and mortar, searching for a knob or crack that might slow her progress and give her a chance to escape, but she could gain no purchase. Shadow gave way to light. The bridge was behind her. Cold, exhausted, and despairing, she ceased kicking. Water again closed over her head. Fool! You aren't dead yet! She was fighting back toward the surface when something caught on her arm. Panicked, she twisted, clawing to escape. Swallowing water brought on a new bout of gagging and coughing. It took a moment to realize she was again sucking air. "Relax!” barked a voice into her ear. Her eyes flew open, meeting others of rich, chocolate brown. "Catch your breath,” urged the gentleman. His hand gripped her arm. “I've got you safe." Another spasm of coughs bent her double. Before he could react, her habit dragged them both under.

Her feet hit a boulder, so she pushed upward. "Hold on,” he gasped, twisting her behind him. “I need my arms for swimming." She grabbed his slender waist and finally found her voice. “Which way? I'll help kick." "Left is closer." But the river wouldn't allow it. Every time they progressed, the churning water swept them back, or they hit a rock or were dragged under. She was ready to discard her unwieldy skirt, when the river whipped around a sharp bend, flinging them near the right bank. Recognition sent a burst of energy jolting through her system. Sadie lived nearby. Were they really more than a mile downstream? A quarter mile further was... "Waterfall!” she shouted, twisting to kick toward the right. The river would tumble over rocky cascades until it shot down a twenty-foot fall. He renewed his efforts. One lunge. Two. His right hand grabbed an exposed tree root where the river had eroded the bank. Anchoring her left hand in his waistcoat, she managed to catch a second root, though without her split-leather riding gloves to provide purchase, she never would have succeeded. Only desperation bent her icy fingers. "Gra—" His voice turned to a grunt of pain as a branch brushed past her shoulder to slam into his, right where her head had rested seconds before. His grip loosened, but her hand in his waistcoat kept him from being swept away. "Don't swoon!” she screamed. His weight nearly jerked her arm from its socket as the water twisted him around. The branch must also have grazed his head, for his eyes had crossed. Her foot found purchase on a deeper root, and she pulled him closer to the bank. He shook his head as if trying to realign his brains, then gritted his teeth and caught a root. But his left arm refused to move. He stared at it in a daze of incomprehension. She managed to hook her arm through the jumble of roots so she could hold him with both hands. “Can you climb up there?” she asked, afraid she knew the answer. The bank extended two feet above the water at this point. "I don't—” His woozy voice confirmed her fears. "Concentrate!” She pulled him nearer the bank and shook him. “Wedge your feet in somewhere." One leg moved, proving he was still conscious. "Good,” she said when his foot found a hold. “Now hook your right arm through here.” It was the left that was injured. “I will tie it down while I crawl out,” she continued. “Don't you dare swoon because I can't lift you. This cold will kill us both if we don't find shelter." She used his cravat to bind his arm in place, terror overcoming her stiff fingers enough to untie its knot— though not until she'd loosened it with her teeth. Climbing out was no easy matter. The river sucked at her

skirts and more than one root broke when she rested her weight on it. She considered fetching Sadie but dared not leave him alone. Between cold and injury, he might lose consciousness. Shivers already interfered with her own abilities as the wind sliced through her wet clothes. Every minute made it harder to work. And delay could prove disastrous in other ways. The bank was rapidly eroding under this tree. How much longer would it remain upright? Anchoring her foot, she leaned over the side. "Are you ready?” She had to repeat the question twice before he responded. His head tilted, and he stared at her. “What—" "You must climb up here. I will help as much as I can, but there is no way I can lift you.” She checked to make sure his arm was still securely hooked around the root, then untied his cravat. “Can you raise your left arm?" She watched him assimilate the question, then fight to move. Pain etched deep creases across his face, but he managed to drag the arm up until she could grasp the hand. "Now pull yourself up until you can get both feet anchored.” She hoped he could do it without her assistance, for pulling on the injured arm would increase his pain. But in the end she had to help. He was gasping for breath by the time he stood against the bank with his shoulders at ground level. She switched her hold to his good hand. "Help me!” she demanded, bracing against the tree to pull. His foot found a higher root and pushed upward. The combined forces catapulted him onto the bank "Ouch,” he moaned as he hit the ground. "Just a little more,” she urged, dragging him forward until his feet had also cleared the edge. “Good. Now stand up. You'll die if you stay out here. There is a cottage just beyond those trees." "Cottage,” he muttered, but he must have understood because he lurched to his feet. “Cottage,” he repeated, swaying dangerously. "Lean on me.” She draped his good arm over her shoulders to take some of his weight. They were nearly of a height, which made the job easier. But Sadie's cottage was a hundred yards away. More than once, she despaired of making it. His weight sagged more heavily with every step. Her teeth chattered so badly, she couldn't shout. When no one answered her knock, she thrust propriety aside and pushed her way in. The gentleman collapsed two steps beyond the threshold. The fire had burned down to ashes. Obviously Sadie was not home, but Elizabeth had no time to wonder where she'd gone. They had to get warm. She was chilled to the bone, and he could be no better. Shifting his legs, she slammed the door, then shakily built a fire, piling on peat to heat the room as fast as possible. Tearing off her clothes, she dried herself, then borrowed Sadie's oldest gown. Her rescuer lay where she'd left him, no longer shaking. But one touch proved he was far from warm. Even her numb hands could feel his icy skin. "Let's take a look at you,” she murmured, turning him onto his back and wiping his face with his sodden

cravat. He was truly unconscious, though the scrape extending upward from his left ear did not appear serious. But blood seeped through the shoulder of his jacket, staining the water collecting beneath him. How had he held himself together long enough to reach the cottage? It was a question she didn't have time to contemplate, so she shoved it aside with all the others—his identity, his reason for being in the river, Sadie's whereabouts... The chill was dissipating, but his lips had taken on a bluish tinge she could not ignore. Cold could kill. As could damp. He was afflicted with severe applications of both. She hesitated another moment, but the facts were clear. Unless she got him warm and dry, he would die. And the impropriety of stripping him was no worse than helping the midwife. She started with his jacket, rolling him onto his stomach so she could remove it more easily. Tugging on his injured arm made her cringe. Yet he was no dandy. The jacket slid off without protest. The waistcoat was more difficult, for she had to turn him over to unbutton it, then turn him back to remove it. She paused to catch her breath. His shoulder was still bleeding, so she had to remove his shirt. But its neck opened only far enough to provide clearance for his head. The only way to get it off was to raise his arms. She briefly considered cutting it, but there was no replacement until he reached his destination. He must be a traveler, for she had never seen him before. But while a search of his pockets turned up a well-filled purse, she could find no card case. As she slid off the shirt, a spasm of pain twisted his face, accompanied by a wrenching groan. He was still conscious on some level, though he did not respond to her voice. Rolling him onto his stomach, she examined his wound. Thank God she had moved her head before the branch hit. It had struck him end-on, its broken splinters driving deep into his flesh. Some had pulled out. Others remained. At least he had not broken anything or dislocated the shoulder. She had seen such an injury when a rider fell on a jump, and had watched as another rider popped it back into place. But she lacked the strength to perform such a maneuver. "You've amassed quite a collection, sir,” she told him, pulling out splinters. “You are fortunate that it is not worse." She didn't have any of her salves—nor could she find Sadie's—but a cupboard yielded a partial bottle of brandy, which she poured over the wound. Then she wrapped the shoulder in a strip of linen. Arranging more peat on the fire, she turned back to her patient. Relief weakened her as she washed away the mud and blood. His head was even less injured than she'd thought, being mostly scrapes. Again, she doused them in brandy. "You will be quite presentable once that swelling goes down,” she murmured, noting that his brown hair was nearly the same color as those chocolate brown eyes. While not conventionally handsome, his features were even, and faint lines near his eyes hinted that he smiled regularly. She considered wrapping him in a sheet, but he was shuddering again, his teeth clattering together. Water

pooled under his boots and pantaloons. "I do wish you could do this yourself,” she grumbled. But she had no choice. He must get dry. The boots would never be the same, but cutting them off would leave him barefoot. Yet tugging did not budge them, for they fit like a second skin. She finally braced her foot against one sole for leverage, then jerked as hard as she could on the other. The boot came loose without warning, slamming her into the wall. "Dratted men with their dratted fashions,” she grumbled, rubbing her backside. “Why couldn't he have been wearing shoes?" She was more careful with the next one, but it made no difference. When it finally popped loose, she again slammed into the wall. "How do their valets manage this every day? No wonder Sheldon always looks so dour,” she muttered. Sheldon attended Fosdale. Keeping the image of flying valets firmly in mind, she quickly unbuttoned his pantaloons and tugged them down. They were knit almost like stockings, so they came off easily. She reached for the tie of his drawers, then shook her head. This was far enough. Drying him off as best she could, she rolled him onto a rug and dragged him nearer the fire, tucking another rug around him. By the time she had arranged their clothing near the hearth, she was again exhausted. But her mind had already leaped ahead to the consequences of this day. The situation was frightfully compromising—something Fosdale would never ignore. He would demand marriage. And her rescuer's circumstances were good enough that he could not refuse. She couldn't gauge his wealth from his purse—a traveler would naturally carry money—but his boots were better made than any Fosdale or her brother wore, and they fit perfectly. His jacket was ruined, but the fabric had been tightly woven with a smooth finish. Even his shirt was softer than any linen she had encountered in her four-and-twenty years. He was a gentleman, and a chivalrous one at that. He must have seen her fall and jumped in after her, which made him more than chivalrous. It would take a most unusual man to risk his life for a stranger. But such a one would demand marriage. She swore. Much as she appreciated his help, he deserved more than being tied to an independent bluestocking who could never make him happy. She owed him her life, for without his help she would never have stayed afloat long enough to escape the river. But the best way to repay his kindness was to leave. She nodded. As soon as her clothing dried, she would walk to the village. Sadie was probably visiting Mrs. Harper. The two were close friends, and Sadie often stayed over if poor weather made walking home difficult. Sadie could tend this man. Her age and status would make it unexceptionable. When he woke, he would assume that Sadie had cared for both of them. The subject of marriage would never enter his mind. It would work. She would walk to Ravenswood and claim to have been thrown when Aster shied at a falling tree. She needn't worry that the horse would arrive home first. Even if he survived the flood, he would remain on the other side of the river. He refused to cross bridges without a very firm hand on the reins.

But it was doubtful that anyone would question her. Despite the loss of her cloak, the storm would explain the state of her clothing. And nobody much cared what she did anyway. Rising, she turned the clothes, then sighed. The heavy wool would take at least two hours to dry enough that she could stand donning it. In the meantime, she could only pray that the rain would cease. Sadie did not have an extra cloak she could borrow, and the air was growing colder. She added peat to the fire, then set her mind to imagining how a scene like this might play out in a novel. It was an exercise she often used to pass the time without appearing bored, like when the vicar's wife called. But this time, it failed her. The exertions of the day had left her wearier than she thought. Within five minutes, she was asleep. **** A moan awakened her. When she realized that dawn light peeped through the east window, she swore and jumped to her feet. A wave of dizziness nearly knocked her down. Her muscles protested further movement. Every joint was stiff, reminding her of yesterday's exertions. Pain exploded through her shoulder where rocks and debris had left their marks. First things first, she decided grimly, refueling the fire. Her habit was dry, so she could change clothes. And she could still carry out her plan if she hurried. Even if Sadie didn't return before he awoke, he would have no way to identify her. He could not have seen her clearly. She was separating her apparel from his when his eyes opened. He grimaced. "Are you in pain?” she asked, then mentally kicked herself for the stupidity of the question. If she was stiff and sore, he had to be worse. He merely blinked, as if the words made little sense. She checked his forehead for fever, sliding her hand beneath the bandage. Thankfully, it was cool. “What is your name, sir?" His mouth moved twice before sound emerged. “Randolph." "Don't try to move, Mr. Randolph,” she warned as he started to turn. “You need to rest that shoulder." "Who—" "Who am I?” she interrupted. “Anne." "Anne,” he repeated, closing his eyes. She sighed in relief. He was certainly well enough that she could leave him. And using her second name would protect her from exposure. If she could coax him back to sleep, he might not remember her at all. "Rest, Mr. Randolph,” she crooned. “Sadie will return shortly." **** Randolph gingerly opened his eyes. The room was unfamiliar, its ceiling so low that he could probably touch it if he were standing. Heat beat uncomfortably against his right side. He tossed away the rug someone had tucked close about him, then winced as pain stabbed through his left shoulder.

"Damn,” he muttered as memory returned. Forcing himself to sit up, he took in his state of undress, the clothing hanging over benches near the fire, and the bandages wrapping his shoulder and head. He remembered jumping into the river. The lady had been valiant, but her riding habit had made rescue nearly impossible. He recalled grabbing a tree, but little after that. His impulse might easily have killed him. The current had been far stronger than he had anticipated, and the water had chilled him until every movement required Herculean effort. All in all, he had been a prime fool, as Whitfield would say. Had his mission been successful, or had someone else fished him out? Sedge. Dear God, he hoped Sedge had followed orders! But Sedge was no fool. He would already be leading a search party along the riverbank. Surely they would check any dwellings, which meant that they had not yet reached this point. Struggling to his feet, he began the painful process of forcing his battered body into the remains of his clothes. He was buttoning his waistcoat when a lady emerged from the next room. "You shouldn't be up, Mr. Randolph,” she scolded. “I already told you that Sadie will see after your wounds." Now that she mentioned it, he vaguely recalled speaking with her. “Who are you?” he demanded, reaching for his boots. Linden would shudder when he saw them. "You may call me Anne." "Are you all right?” He was fairly certain that she was the lady from the river—she was wearing a mud-stained habit. But her brown hair was dry, the scratch on her face was scabbed over, and she looked remarkably alert for someone who had nearly drowned. "Of course, and I appreciate your assistance, though it is unfortunate you were injured. I will always remember you kindly." He touched the bandage around his head. “What happened?" "Don't you recall?" He shook his head. "A branch struck you just as we reached the riverbank. You managed to stagger this far before you collapsed." "Is Sadie in there?” he nodded toward the room she had just emerged from. "She's in the village, but should return shortly.” Her face had taken on a haunted expression. "What time is it?” He had a gnawing feeling that it had been much longer than he'd thought. Even his boots were dry. His premonitions surged back. This trip had been a disaster from the beginning, every day worse than the last. Would the Ides of March deal him a death blow as it had done to Caesar? "Morning, sir." "We've been here all night? Alone?” She was at least gentry, if not higher. No one else in the country could afford a riding habit or a dedicated saddle horse. Most did not even ride aside, if they rode at all. So she was a lady. And he had badly compromised her.

"You were unconscious. I fell asleep waiting for my clothes to dry, but there is nothing to fear. No one will ever learn of this." "And just how will you keep it a secret? Sadie knows we were here. Your family will have missed you. You are naïve to believe they won't notice your condition.” He nodded toward her disheveled habit. "No one will miss me because they did not expect me to return yesterday. The storm will adequately explain the state of my clothing. Sadie remained in the village last night, so she will know nothing of this. Besides, she is a friend who would never betray me. Would you like some breakfast before I leave, or would you prefer to wait for Sadie?" "You aren't going anywhere without giving me your direction. Honor demands mar—" "No,” she interrupted, glaring at him. “Honor demands nothing. I have no intention of wedding anyone, and certainly not for such a ridiculous reason. Byron said it best—Wedlock's the devil." "I would hardly recommend him as an authority on anything." "All right. If you prefer someone less controversial, how about Shakespeare? What is wedlock forced but a hell? I'll not be locked in a cage, sir. I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed, nor have you. We will drop the subject." "But—" Again she ignored his protest. “Good-bye, sir. If you wish to remain here, Sadie will look after you. You needn't fear her, for she is a widow long past fifty and quite content with her life. If you choose to leave, the center path will take you to the village." Without another word, she walked out, closing the door decisively behind her. By the time he finished dressing, she was out of sight. He had not even seen which of the three paths she had followed. Who was this girl anyway? He had never met anyone with even remote claims to gentility who did not cast a covetous eye on his tit— She was unaware of his title, he realized abruptly. He must still be half-asleep. Only now did he realize that she had been calling him Mister Randolph. So he must not have introduced himself very coherently. But that did not explain her adamant refusal. If she had been married or betrothed, she would have said so. So why had a single young lady of good family refused to take advantage of him? An educated young lady, he added as he returned to the cottage to clean up before heading for the village. Familiarity with Byron and Shakespeare was common enough, but her quote had come from Byron's first collection of poems, published in 1806 to so cold a reception that few people had even heard of it. And Henry VI was not usually taught to females. His cravat was a mess, so he knotted it loosely the way John Coachman wore his, then headed for the village. Where was Sedge? He had removed the bandage from his head. Most of the scrapes were hidden by his hair, and he did not wish to draw more attention than his muddy clothes already claimed. Until he could honorably deal with Anne, it served no purpose to advertise that he had met anyone. He would hardly have bandaged himself with clean linen if he were dressed like this.

He had left both hat and greatcoat in the carriage, so the crisp morning air bit through his jacket. His boots had dried into hard creases that rubbed against his feet and legs. Within a quarter mile, he was limping. How was he to discover Anne's direction? Perhaps she had been truthful. Or perhaps she had her eye on someone else. If she cared for another, he would wish her well and turn his attention to Lady Elizabeth. But first he must make sure that no harm befell her over this escapade. If the truth came out, they would have to marry. He had never ruined a reputation, and he wasn't about to start now. What had happened to Sedge? The cottage was well downstream from the bridge, but surely searchers would have reached it long since. It was in clear sight of the river. He shivered, then shivered again as the village came into view. The inn looked even worse than the last one he had stayed in.

CHAPTER FOUR Sedge's shout died as Randolph disappeared into the raging water. He had never known his friend to be so reckless. Since childhood, Randolph had been quiet, responsible, and studious, preferring country to city, eschewing the frivolity most of his friends enjoyed, locking himself away with his books and manuscripts. What maggot had eaten into his brain that made jumping into a flooded river seem reasonable? But it was too late to stop him. "We must fetch help,” he shouted to John Coachman as he vaulted back inside. “Spring ‘em!" The carriage lurched forward. The horses splashed through the water and onto the bridge. Sedge fingered Randolph's card case as he squinted at the river. No heads dotted its surface. No arms struck out for the bank. Had Randolph hit a rock with that reckless plunge? He shuddered. How was he to face Wyndport if Randolph perished? How could he face Whitfield? Fool! Such thinking was unproductive. He tucked the card case into his pocket for safekeeping. Randolph was a strong swimmer who would easily rescue whoever had fallen into the water. But he would need dry clothing when he emerged. An inflammation of the lungs could kill him. Yet finding him would require help if they were to manage it quickly. It was anyone's guess how far downstream he would land. The carriage bucked wildly as it raced along the uneven road. Mud sucked at the wheels. Rain battered the roof, though he had been right about the estate wall. It kept the wind away. A sudden swerve sent them into a skid. Sedge caught a glimpse of gates flashing past the windows, their posts topped by huge stone birds. Ravenswood. The gatehouse was a tumbled ruin, so he would find no help there, but the manor was visible in the distance, perched on a rise across the valley. And seeking assistance from an estate was better than in a village. Lord Fosdale could command the servants to help, so Sedge would be spared enlisting the cooperation of strangers. He had no doubt Fosdale would do it. Allowing harm to befall a duke's heir would create a scandal that would cling to him for life. John slowed the team. Away from the sheltering wall, the wind slammed into them. Trees might have offered protection, but few dotted the park grounds. Gusting gales whipped those few into frenzied dances that bowed the smaller ones to the ground and back in an orgy of curtsying lit by flash after flash of lightning. Pines shivered, their heavy foliage fighting blasts that sought to strip them bare. Leaves and twigs battered the windows. Sedge grimaced. How was John faring under this onslaught? Or the horses? A loud crack boomed outside, sharper and more immediate than the ubiquitous thunder. Ripping sounds filled the air. The horses screamed. "Hell and damnation!"

A huge pine toppled, swooping straight for him. Sedge lunged across the carriage, but there was no escape. His shouts joined John's curses. The moment stretched endlessly, punctuated by rending, cracking, and dizziness. Then silence. Sedge opened his eyes. He was alive. The wind continued to wail, though his thudding heart dulled its sound. Pine needles and splintered wood nearly buried a wad of fabric an inch from his face. His greatcoat. The remains of Randolph's hat peeked out nearby. It took him a moment to realize that he was hanging headfirst off the seat. "Aayaahh!” Pushing himself up stabbed pain through his left arm. His shout trailed away into curses. A new blast of wind shook the coach. Water spattered the back of his head. Gritting his teeth, he fumbled about until his right hand found a sturdy hold, though he was shaking so badly he could barely hang on. Fierce effort pulled him upright, but not without painful contortions that more than once threatened him with unconsciousness. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, swallowing nausea as he took stock of his narrow escape. The coach sat on a slant, skewered by a tree limb that entered through the roof and continued through the floor. Jagged splinters stuck out at intervals. Broken branches and wet foliage filled much of the interior, leaving only this cramped corner where he had landed. Rain battered the wreckage. He needed to escape, but the door was blocked. The window was broken, but another limb speared the ground inches beyond it. The pine was suspended overhead, its thick trunk held up by splayed branches. "John!” he shouted, repeating the call several times. Was the coachman unconscious, or worse? A horse whinnied in fear, so something still lived. He gave up, concentrating on his injuries. His left arm was broken a handspan above the wrist, but the skin was intact, so it could have been worse. Fighting pain, he wrenched loose a short branch and a piece of the roof, then used his cravat to bind the makeshift splint in place. The bone was not set, but at least jarring would not damage it further. Jarring was inevitable. He couldn't stay here. Scrapes and cuts testified to the violence of flying splinters and glass. Bruises had already formed on hip, shoulder, and head. Wind blew into the carriage, lowering the temperature alarmingly. He shook away the creeping lethargy and concentrated on escaping his prison. Using another stick, he broke out the remaining window glass. But he could not squeeze past the branch. He tried pulling down more of the roof, but once he worked a hand outside, he discovered a tangle of branches he had no hope of penetrating. Cold water leaked onto his head. Kicking at the coach wall did nothing beyond hurting his foot. The interior was too cramped to put any force behind the blows.

The window offered his only escape. Wrapping his coat around the largest glass shard, he attacked the wooden frame, shaving it away strip by strip. Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he reached the carriage wall. Randolph needed help. John Coachman needed help. He needed help. The reminders circled his brain, prodding him on, forcing action even as cold and shock urged him to rest. When his shard broke, he found another. When slivers sliced through the coat into his hand, he shifted his grip and doggedly continued. But his progress grew slower. The heat of exertion no longer countered the chill from wind and rain. Determination could not hold pain at bay. By the time the third shard shattered, his voice was hoarse from shouting, his hand was bloody where glass had penetrated the mangled coat, and his body rebelled against cold, shock, and terror with shudders that destroyed his control. His fingers wouldn't grip. Pain deadened all thought. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to gather the strength to continue. Another six inches should allow him to slip past that branch. Only a little more... Creeping lethargy blanketed his mind until everything went blank. **** "Yes, Wendell?” Lord Fosdale closed his account book when the butler appeared in the study doorway. Only an emergency would prompt Wendell to interrupt him this late at night. "A tree is down across the drive, my lord. There is a carriage pinned beneath it." Symington! Fosdale's heart stalled. Whitfield's heir should have arrived a fortnight ago, but he had yet to appear— hardly surprising, given the weather this last month. But what would possess the boy to drive through a gale? "When did the tree fall?” A glance out the window confirmed that this latest storm was gone. "It could have been as early as noon." As much as ten hours ago. He grimaced. And the temperature was falling rapidly. What was he to tell Whitfield if the boy was dead? "Summon all the male servants,” he ordered, already striding toward the hall. “We will need axes and shovels. A wagon. Plenty of lanterns. And tell Mrs. Hughes to warm the best guest chamber.” He prayed they would need it. The tree had gone down a mile from the house, just inside the gates. At first glance, the results appeared shockingly fatal. One horse was down, pierced through the heart. Another seemed crushed by a heavy branch, but its eyes blinked in the flickering light. "Get him out of there,” he ordered. Grooms sprang into action, unhitching the two leaders, who were shivering with cold and fright, then

cutting loose the third horse. "Over here!” shouted a footman. The coachman was in the ditch, unconscious, though he was still breathing. But he burned with fever from prolonged exposure. The carriage must have been here since early afternoon. They loaded him onto the wagon. There was no sign of Symington, who must be trapped inside. Branches had cloven the carriage roof. Others blocked any approach to the crested door. "My lord? Symington?” he shouted. "He survived the impact,” a groom called from the other side. “He was trying to break out." "Get this branch out of the way,” ordered Fosdale when he reached the window. Two groundskeepers with axes soon severed the limb. The inky interior seemed full of pine. "Symington?" No answer. A footman climbed inside, breaking off branches as he went. “He's breathing,” he reported. "Toss a rug over those sharp edges,” ordered Fosdale. Two men rushed to comply as the footman grunted from trying to shift Symington's body. "Do you need another hand in there?” Fosdale called. "There's no room." One foot appeared in the opening. Then a second. "Easy, lads,” warned the head groom. “Lift before you pull. Don't slash his backside." They eased Symington from the carriage and loaded him into the wagon. A footman retrieved two trunks from the remains of the boot. Fosdale climbed onto the wagon seat, twisting to examine his visitor. Symington was a well-set young lord who seemed to aspire to dandyism. Such gentlemen were often ignorant and easily led. If he lived. The boy had roughly set his own arm. Blood covered his right hand. He was soaked to the skin. Several tears in his jacket showed where detritus had caught him. Crusting around the wounds proved that he had been there for some time. Stars glittered in the clearing sky, making the night feel colder than ever. Fosdale's face was grim as he led the procession into the house. Mrs. Hughes could clean Symington and bandage his injuries, but she was far from skilled in a sickroom. He could not expect the lad to escape without fever—or worse—and there was no doctor in this isolated valley. If only Elizabeth would return from Constance's sickbed. Much as he hated to admit it, the chit was the most skilled healer available.

And her attendance on the patient was sure to bring his plans to fruition. She must return. She must tend Symington. Even if he did not form an attachment to his nurse, compromise was inevitable under such circumstances. He would send for Elizabeth immediately, he decided as a footman roughly stripped off Symington's clothes. Something clattered onto the floor: a card case fit for a duke. He fingered the jeweled lid, then extracted a card and set the case on the washstand. His eyes gleamed as he noted the confirmation: Earl of Symington Orchards, Sussex The answer to his every dream. Mrs. Hughes must keep his guest alive until Elizabeth arrived. **** Where am I? Sedge cracked his eyes open. He was cold. Shudderingly cold. He drew his legs up, fighting vainly for warmth. Pain stabbed his arm. He needed to escape, needed to ... what? But he couldn't rise, couldn't combat the bone-deep cold. A clank of metal. Flickering light. Painfully turning his head, he spotted a woman before the fireplace, dumping coal onto a sizable blaze. Another clank echoed as she stirred the fire, then returned the poker to its stand. "Wh-whe-where am-m I?” His chattering teeth made the words nearly unintelligible. The woman turned. “You are at Ravenswood, my lord." "C-c-cold." "Drink this.” She poured liquid from a steaming kettle and held it to his lips. He gulped greedily, but soon pushed the cup aside, exhausted. "Rest, my lord,” she urged quietly, tucking quilts around him. The cold receded. "R-Rand-dolph...” he murmured as sleep closed over his mind, bringing troubled dreams of dancing trees and storm-tossed waves that swirled about his feet. Pain prodded him awake. The fire burned brighter. Too bright. The bitter cold was gone, replaced by broiling heat that sapped his energy, sucking the very air from his lungs. He lay in a massive bed under a canopy embroidered with a ferocious raven. Its beady eyes glared at him, mocking his weakness. As he fought free of a mountain of covers, pain crashed over him in a searing wave. Broken arm, whispered a voice in his head. His right hand traced the makeshift splint. Fetch help, ordered another voice. Drink, commanded a third. He rolled his head to clear it of voices. Horsy screams and cracking wood reverberated through his ears.

And the hateful whistle of wind. Escape, escape, escape... "Rest easy, my lord.” A cool cloth wiped his forehead, bringing momentary relief. A middle-aged woman loomed from the shadows, shrouding his burning body with the hated sheet. “You must stay covered or you'll catch your death. It's a wonder you still live, considering how they found you." He moaned. “Escape ... must fetch..." "Lie quiet,” she ordered sharply, pinning his shoulders to the bed when he tried to sit up. "Where ... help...” His voice slurred drunkenly as he searched for the word he needed. "Shush, my lord,” she said. “Drink this. You can talk in the morning.” Lifting his head, she held a cup to his lips. He gulped thirstily. Only as the room began to dim did he identify the sickeningly sweet taste of laudanum lingering in his mouth. Damn! "Randolph ... help ... Randolph..." **** "How is he?” asked Fosdale, entering the room an hour later. "Delirious with fever. And he keeps calling for his coachman. I gave him a few drops of laudanum to keep him from thrashing about and aggravating the broken arm." "Will he live?" She shrugged. Fosdale berated himself. It was too soon to tell, and Mrs. Hughes was not qualified to judge in any event. Elizabeth should arrive before noon. She would cure Symington, then wed him. Feeling a great weight slip from his shoulders, he took himself off to bed.

CHAPTER FIVE Elizabeth glanced up when Fosdale entered the breakfast parlor. Her instinctive wariness stiffened into apprehension when his surprise turned to delight—and to a cunning that set her teeth on edge. His intentions were obvious. She'd known there would be trouble the moment she'd spotted the wreckage on the drive. "Good morning, Elizabeth. It's about time you returned." She nodded. “Aunt Constance is finally on the mend. Thank you for inquiring after her health." His face slipped into a scowl. “I've more urgent problems than that old crone. The Earl of Symington arrived yesterday. But he was injured by the storm and is in desperate need of your healing skills. You will look in on him after breakfast." "He is feverish, but not dangerously so,” she said in correction. “Mrs. Hughes, Wendell, and Letty helped me set his arm. While he must stay abed for a week or so, he needs no nursing beyond the attentions of a valet. Mrs. Hughes can prepare whatever tisanes he might require." Fosdale frowned. “He brought no valet." "Then loan him Sheldon or assign Wendell to help." "I will not tolerate inadequate care of so powerful a lord,” he snapped. “You must see after him personally." "Enough.” She glared at him. “The only services he requires are shaving and grooming, neither of which I can provide. I know very well why you wish me to enter the gentleman's bedchamber, but I refuse. We will not abuse the hospitality of this house to destroy the man's life." "Elizabeth!" "No. I will not look in on him again. I will not wed him. If you think his life is in danger, then tend him yourself or send to Carlisle for a doctor. I will not become involved." She rose from the table despite having eaten little. Her appetite was gone. Odious beast! Selfish, manipulative fool! Why had she been cursed with so venal a parent? She would have to lock herself in her room until Symington was gone. And she would have to lay in a goodly supply of bread and cheese, for the moment he recognized her tactics, Fosdale would try to starve her out. Damn him! If only she had the funds to support herself elsewhere. But even a cottage like Sadie's was beyond her means as yet. She stifled a wave of guilt, for she did not know whether Symington's fever would prove dangerous. He was not yet delirious, but only a few hours had passed since he'd been found. It was imperative that someone keep a close eye on him, and she could only pray that Mrs. Hughes would recognize any problems before they grew out of control. The housekeeper agreed that Fosdale's plotting was wrong, but she was old and half blind. And she tended to fall apart when faced with illness. She nearly ran down Wendell in the doorway. "Pardon me, my lord, but a man is at the door asking to speak with Symington. He claims—"

Elizabeth ignored the butler, escaping before he finished his report. What luck! Fosdale must deal with this visitor, giving her time to arrange for a long siege. Symington might not be fit to travel for a fortnight or more. **** Randolph grimaced as he entered the taproom. Raven's Rook was hardly an inn, though the tumble-down building probably held two or three rooms for let. Mostly it served as the local ale house. His nose twitched at the rancid smell that even a smoky fire could not cover. But he should not complain. His appearance matched the decor. Despite his best efforts, mud streaked his clothing. He had no cloak or hat, and he lacked identification beyond the money in his purse. He sighed. It was just as well. Playing the arrogant aristocrat would gain him nothing. He needed information about Anne. But finding Sedge was even more urgent. What had prevented him from fetching help? This village could not be much more than a mile past the bridge. Yet his coach was not in the stable yard, and the two boys playing in the road had not seen any carriages the day before, though rain might have kept them indoors. Two men were grumbling about storm damage. They drained their tankards and left. He sat down at the vacated table and ordered ale. It would quench a growing thirst, ease his pounding head, and perhaps elicit cooperation by proving he was a paying customer rather than a vagrant. He was opening his mouth to ask about Sedge, when his own name echoed from the corner. He froze. "T'Earl of Symington, it were,” said a man brawny enough to be a blacksmith. “Falling tree flattened his coach.” He shoved another bite of the inn's breakfast into his mouth. "Not quite,” protested a smaller man. “The earl were still breathing—leastways according to Bobby Barry, who hauled him out. They carried him up to the Manor." "Senseless, he was. And t'coachman, too,” insisted the smith. “Not likely to live, what with Lady Elizabeth gone to her aunt's and all. Nobody else up there has a lick of sense." A round of murmurs agreed with that sentiment. Randolph drained his ale and went in search of the innkeeper. He needed a horse. They had to be discussing Sedge. If he had been unconscious, the mistake in identity was inevitable. Damnation! Why had he urged Sedge to fetch help when the roads were so bad? There was nothing anyone could have done. "Skewered, he was.” The voice followed him out the door. “Or so claims one of the grooms." Dear God! The proprietor was sitting at a desk. Explanations would waste time he couldn't afford. He had to see Sedge. Why had no one summoned a doctor? Nobody else up there has a lick of sense. Was he already dead? At least Anne's confusion gave him a ready explanation for his presence. "Lord Symington was supposed to meet me here,” he said without preamble. “But I just heard that he

was injured. Where will I find him?" He frowned. “And you are?" "Mr. Randolph. Where is he?" "Ravenswood." "Would you have a horse for hire?” The innkeeper was glaring suspiciously, so he offered the first explanation that popped into his head. “My own disappeared after tossing me in the river last night." Pulling out his purse did more to assuage suspicion than his words, he realized when the fellow's eyes lit. No one cared a whit about his business. Negotiations produced a broken-down beast for only four times normal custom. But he was too anxious to care. If Sedge died, he would never forgive himself. Ravenswood was easy to find. The gates were only a quarter mile beyond the village. Lacking any idea of how far the village was, Sedge must have turned in there to fetch help. He shuddered as he passed the wreckage of his coach, and shuddered again when he spotted a horse's carcass, still in the traces. The Ides of March had brought disaster all around. He tried not to look closely. No purpose would be served by imagining Sedge's ordeal. Instead, he pressed his undistinguished mount to a canter. Ravenswood was a modest manor house that had acquired a more imposing facade a century or so ago with the addition of a Corinthian portico reached by twin sweeps of stairs curving up from the drive. They enclosed an ostentatious pedestal topped by a crumbling Roman statue. The entrance strongly resembled sketches of triumphal arches his father had made on his Grand Tour. But as he drew closer, the family's poverty became apparent, for the statue was not all that was crumbling. Stonework needed pointing, paint peeled from window frames, and draperies showed signs of shattering from decades of sunlight. He tethered his horse to the balustrade, irked when no one appeared to take the beast. He was not known as a harsh taskmaster, but his own staff would never have allowed a stranger to approach unseen. Hurrying up the stairs, he cursed when his fingers automatically reached for his card case. No identification. Money wouldn't work here. And fear increased his sense of urgency. He had to see Sedge. A butler answered the door. "I am Mr. Randolph,” he began. “Until we became separated yesterday, I was traveling with Lord Symington. The villagers claim that he was injured. I wish to see him.” He adopted the demeanor his grandfather used to command instant deference from his subordinates. It worked—to a point. The butler frowned. “You will wait here, sir,” he said coolly, indicating a chair in the entrance hall. “I will ask if his lordship is receiving." Randolph suppressed a grimace. He had been relegated to a drafty hall like an unwelcome tradesman. But what had he expected? Whitfield's haughty commands had never been his way. He lacked the imposing physique and arrogance that marked his father and grandfather. When he added his filthy clothing, scrapes, lack of a carriage, and apparent lack of title, he was lucky to be inside at all.

And if Sedge was still unconscious, how was he to convince anyone of his identity? He wandered toward the back of the hall—ostensibly to examine a portrait—and watched the butler's progress. Obviously the man was not headed for the bedchambers, so the lordship he was consulting must be Fosdale. Did that mean that Sedge was dead? Don't panic, he reminded himself sharply. It merely confirmed that he was unable to speak, which was already apparent. The mistake in identity remained. The butler disappeared through a doorway. A moment later, Anne emerged from the same room and strode toward him. She seemed to be in a passionate temper, noticing nothing until she nearly ran him down. "Wake up, Anne,” he said, grabbing her to prevent a collision. This was the last place he had expected to find her. Was she governess to Fosdale's daughters or companion to his wife? Either way, he was obligated. "You!” she gasped, recoiling from his touch. “What are you doing here? How dare you follow me home?" "I didn't—" She ignored his protest. “I told you to forget about me. Nothing happened! I appreciate your assistance, but that is the end of it. Now get out before Fosdale sees you. He will destroy you." "I didn't follow you,” he insisted. “I had no idea you lived here. I am looking for Lord Symington. They said in the village that he was injured. Do you know how he fares?" "You know Symington?" "We were traveling together until I stopped to help you." "Dear God, what a mess!" He frowned. “How badly is he hurt?" "Broken arm. Bruises. Fever, but not serious,” she said absently, then swore. “Why did you have to be with him? If you have any sense at all, do not let on that we have met. Fosdale will try to force us into marriage if he learns about last night. I won't destroy my life for an accident. Nor yours." "What about last night?” demanded a man's voice. They had been too engrossed to hear him coming, but this must be Fosdale. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Anne blanched. "What are you hiding, Elizabeth?” continued Fosdale. Elizabeth? Randolph glared. This was Lady Elizabeth? The girl his grandfather wished him to wed? "Nothing. I met Mr. Randolph briefly when the riverbank collapsed, tumbling me into the water. He pulled me out." "This was last night?” he thundered. She said nothing, but her white face answered for her.

"Then why did you not return home until this morning?” His brows drew together in a ferocious frown, yet nothing could hide the gleam burning brighter than ever in his eyes. "Should I have walked home through a cold rainstorm wearing clothing that was soaked through?” she demanded sharply. Then her face twisted into the travesty of a smile. “What a stupid question. Catching my death would have removed me from your dependency, so a dutiful daughter would have done so. My apologies for failing to remove myself from the world." Randolph gasped, but they ignored him. "Where did you spend the night?" "With Sadie, of course. Her cottage was the nearest shelter." "And you, sir?” he demanded, turning his eyes on Randolph. “Did you also seek the nearest shelter?" "I had no choice,” he admitted. “In rescuing Lady Elizabeth, I was injured myself." "Then the banns will be posted immediately.” He ignored Elizabeth's gasp. “How fortunate that Sadie left a week ago. Her daughter is near term and needs assistance." "Selfish and greedy as ever!” she snapped. The earl reddened. “But I won't condemn anyone to hell merely to lighten the drain on your purse." "You will wed him or watch me shoot him dead for debauching my innocent daughter." She straightened, color staining her face that might have been embarrassment, but was probably fury. “Is this how you repay the man who saved my life? By forcing him into a distasteful marriage? Forget it. I will trumpet your perfidy to the world if you persist in so dishonorable a plot." "No one will accept the word of a sniveling dowd over a gentleman born." Randolph had no illusions about Fosdale's opinion. Since his own garb hardly marked him as a gentleman, the earl had to be referring to himself. Elizabeth must have agreed. She insolently examined her father from head to toe. “If you are a gentleman, sirrah, then I will gladly die a spinster, for I will never place myself under the thumb of so odious a creature. Nor will I wed. Anyone. Nothing you do will change my mind." Fosdale's hand twitched as if he longed to slap her. “You will wed this man, or I will see your name buried so deep in mire that you will never hold your head up again." She laughed. “Think you that such threats will sway me? I care nothing for Society. The opinions of strangers count less than the bleating of your sheep. Tell everyone you know. If they cut me, it is no loss. But if anyone asks me, I will gladly describe your greedy scheming. Only a fortnight ago, you were plotting to force me onto Symington." "What?" "Don't try to deny it, for I overheard you. Why do you think I rushed to Constance's sickbed? I will not see any gentleman destroyed to feed your greed." Randolph frowned, staying out of their argument. If even half of her claims were true, Fosdale was worse than the London matchmakers.

But she was different, which was good, for honor demanded that he wed her. He had felt an obligation even before learning her identity. Discovering that she was the daughter of an earl sealed his fate. But beyond that, she intrigued him. He had never met so outspoken a female, or one who cared about how her actions affected others. Or did she? He unobtrusively backed away from the combatants. His appearance marked him as an insignificant nobody, but she did know that he was with Symington. Was she refusing him because she planned to trap a duke's heir? Her protests might mask her real intentions. And her charges against Fosdale—to which he had not admitted—could be an attempt to blame her father when she succeeded. He had no way of discerning the truth at the moment. But every instinct he possessed demanded that he hide his identity until he had time to think this through. "Enough,” she snapped, pulling him back to the argument. He had missed several exchanges. “I am of age and able to choose my own future. Be forewarned. I will run away rather than wed.” Breaking from Fosdale's grasp, she stalked upstairs. "Who are you, sir?” demanded Fosdale, whirling to face Randolph. "Edward Randolph, my lord." "You sound like a gentleman." He nodded. "I expect you to do your duty, sir. My daughter is headstrong and needs a firm hand, but you will manage her." "I will do as honor demands,” he said carefully. “But no harm has come to her, and I have no wish to wed a termagant. If you insist on a match, I will take her, but only if you refrain from raising the subject again, so that I might talk her around." "You think to charm the lady?” He laughed. “Elizabeth does not charm easily." "Then I shall accept her refusal and leave.” He made his voice as cold as possible. Fosdale blanched. “Forgive me, sir. Shock has loosened my tongue. I am sure you will talk her round in no time at all." Odious bastard! But he held his fury in check. “She will see that her future will be grim indeed if she does not accept the inevitable,” he said quietly. “But honor has already been satisfied by offer and response, so if you bring the slightest pressure to bear on her, then her refusal stands. Have I your word?" "Agreed.” He had paled even further. Confusion filled his eyes, as if he had run into an unexpected wall. “We must discuss the marriage contract." "Later. I have more pressing business just now. How fares Lord Symington?" "Randolph,” he repeated with new recognition. “That was what he was mumbling last night. We thought he meant his coachman." "The coachman's name is John. May I see his lordship?"

"Of course. Wendell will direct you. And he will find you a bed. Staying here will allow you to deal with Elizabeth.” He motioned to the butler, then returned to his breakfast. Randolph grimaced as he followed Wendell upstairs. He had expected to straighten out the confusion of identities as soon as Sedge awoke, but that was no longer possible. The masquerade must continue. He was trapped, but there was little he could do about it. And if he was to salvage the situation, he must keep Fosdale from making it worse. The earl was just the sort to renege on a promise if he could gain an advantage by doing so. A reasonable man would see no advantage in irritating Whitfield's heir, but he had no evidence that Fosdale was reasonable. Even the villagers credited him with no sense. Then there was Elizabeth. He must understand her motives if they were to have any hope of building a congenial marriage. Was she plotting to snare a duke? He didn't want to believe it, but his past experience made it seem far too likely. Even sensible chits turned cunning when faced with so much potential power and wealth. So he must hide his real identity for now, approaching her as an insignificant gentleman. Not that he really minded. The situation offered a unique opportunity to abandon the trappings of his title. Never before had he known the true feelings of those he met. Except for Sedge, even his friends toadied to him on occasion. Already his assumed name had provided eye-opening experiences. The innkeeper had paid him no deference, responding solely to money. Wendell had treated him as an unwanted vagrant. Fosdale was willing to accept him, but his expression had revealed considerable displeasure at forming such a low connection. And that raised new questions. Why was he so willing to accept an apparent nobody when he had a duke's heir at his mercy? Was Elizabeth that intransigent—which hinted that her claims were true—or was it a case of caging the bird in hand with the intention of freeing it once he caught the one in the bush? He must stay alert. And he must avoid meeting Fosdale again until he had some answers. He had no intention of negotiating a marriage contract under false pretenses, or of tripping himself up in casual conversation. If he was invited to join the family for meals, he must decline. But first, he must see Sedge. He fired a barrage of questions at the butler. **** Elizabeth raced toward her room, the fury and fear battling in her head making it difficult to think. Why had she lost control so thoroughly? In retrospect, her charges were ridiculous. Unless Mr. Randolph had lurked on the grounds for two chilly hours before approaching the house, he could not have followed her home. And he had not betrayed her. It was her own loose tongue that had created this plight. Such carelessness was wholly unlike her. She blushed. Cecilia stepped into the hallway. “When did you get back?" "This morning.” She continued toward her room, but Cecilia stopped her. "Papa was furious to find you gone, and even more furious when you refused to return. How did you dare counter him?" "Aunt Constance was ill. Would he rather she died?" Her eyes widened. “He said nothing of that. What happened?"

She shrugged. “A chill made worse by inadequate care, superstition, and dangerous remedies, but she is much better now." "My maid reported that Symington finally arrived last night.” She smoothed her gown. Only then did Elizabeth note that it was her newest. “I presume you are still uninterested. Is he at breakfast, or is he already closeted with Papa?" Cecilia's maid put on airs that the other servants disliked, so it was no surprise that she knew little of what went on in the household. “You will have to postpone your flirtation,” she advised brusquely. “A tree fell on his coach yesterday. He is quite ill, with a broken arm and dangerous fever." "Will he live?” Her voice wavered. "It is too early to tell.” The last thing the man needed was Cecilia trying to nurse him. The girl was impossible in a sick room. “I will let you know if he recovers." She continued to her room, leaving a disappointed Cecilia behind.

CHAPTER SIX "Drink this, my lord,” said Mrs. Hughes, raising a cup to Sedge's lips. He moaned and tried to turn away. His head hurt, as did his shoulder and hip, but nothing came close to the pain stabbing through his arm. He had a hazy memory of hands holding him down, imprisoning him as other hands twisted the arm. Excruciating pain had knifed into his brain. Then nothing. "Drink, my lord." He drank. At least the taste was different this time. Bitter rather than sweet. Not laudanum. He had hated the opiate for years, in part because an aunt had developed a craving for it that ultimately killed her. But mostly, he hated it because it drew a curtain over his mind, forcing sleep when he needed to think and plan. "Randolph,” he murmured. “Get help..." "Sleep, my lord. Randolph is downstairs. I will see after him now.” Before he could respond, she left him lying in the dark room. Hurting. Sleep was impossible—and unnecessary, he insisted. He looked at the new splints on his left arm. The doctor must have arrived to set it, which explained that fragment of memory. But when had Randolph arrived? And how? And where was he? Since Randolph had not checked on him, he must also be hurt. Or worse. He had to know, had to find the answers. Fighting through the pain, he struggled to reach the bell pull. "You shouldn't be thrashing about,” scolded a voice from the doorway. Sedge collapsed. “You're alive." Randolph carefully closed the door and pulled a chair close to the bed. “As are you." "What happened?" Randolph shrugged, examining his friend with a critical eye. Even in the inadequate light of the single candle he carried, he could see that Sedge was white-faced from pain, and sported fever patches on both cheeks. Bruises blotched every exposed bit of skin. His left arm was encased in splints. “Lie down. You look like hell." "I feel like hell.” He wiped his forehead. Randolph wrung out the cloth that floated in the basin of water, then laid it on his friend's head. “I apologize for dragging you into this,” he said, grimacing over the cuts on Sedge's palm. "Why? You didn't arrange for that tree to topple." "Perhaps not, but sending you for help was foolish. There was nothing you could have done." "Did you succeed?"

"Yes, though it was a mutual effort. If she hadn't hauled me out of the river, I would have drowned. We'll talk of it later,” he added, forestalling questions. “We have more pressing problems." "Where are we?" "Ravenswood.” He let out a sigh. "Why is that a problem?" "They think you are me." Sedge twisted until he could meet Randolph's eyes. “They think I'm Symington? What gave them that idea?" "Have you introduced yourself?" "Not that I recall, but the details are a bit fuzzy. And they all seem to know—” He swore. “I'm a simpleton. Everyone addresses me as my lord, not Lord Sedgewick." "Exactly. I questioned the butler on the way up here. They found the coach about ten o'clock last night. You were unconscious, as was John Coachman. By the wee hours this morning, you were fevered, incoherent, and thrashing about. The housekeeper gave you laudanum to protect your arm. When Lady Elizabeth arrived, she discontinued it in favor of willow bark tea, which is why you are reasonably conscious." "Thank God,” he murmured. Randolph understood the exclamation. “I must say, you look better than I expected,” he continued lightly. “Rumors in the village have you at death's door. Some believe you were skewered by that tree." "I nearly was." "Confusing your identity was inevitable under the circumstances. You were alone in Symington's coach. And they found my card case,” he added, spotting it on the washstand. "It was in my pocket.” Sedge's voice was growing weaker. Randolph picked it up and fingered the crest. As a lucky charm, it was potent, protecting Sedge from almost certain death. Leaving it behind had nearly cost him his own life. He slid it into his pocket, willing to risk exposure rather than face the coming confrontations without every possible advantage. Fosdale and his daughter posed multiple dangers. “Thank you for looking after it. But with so much evidence, they had to believe you were Symington." "Naturally. But they know better now." "Not exactly." Sedge's eyes widened as he snapped to attention. “They still think I'm you?" He nodded. "Why?" "It's a long story."

"I'm not going anywhere." "It starts with the lady in the river. We were at least a mile downstream before we could reach the bank. In the end, she had to drag me out, because a branch knocked me nearly senseless." "You should be in bed,” said Sedge. "Later. She managed to drag me to a nearby cottage—we were both soaked through, of course. Unfortunately, Sadie—the widow who lives there—was away. I collapsed. The next thing I remember was waking up this morning." "Good God! You say she was a lady?" "Lady Elizabeth, to be precise." "And you spent the night with her?" "Not intentionally, but it amounts to the same thing. Sometime during the night, I must have awakened enough to talk, though I've little memory of it. This morning, she was calling me Mr. Randolph." "Not Symington." "No. And I didn't know her identity at the time. She introduced herself as Anne, gave me directions to the village, and left. By the time I managed to dress, she was out of sight." "So she undressed you.” Sedge's eyes twinkled with humor. “How fascinating. For someone who never falls into scrapes, you've managed a whopping good one. Do you recall anything?" "I was unconscious,” he insisted blightingly. But he wished he had not been. Imagining those elegant fingers removing his clothing, drying his skin, and touching his nakedness pooled heat in his groin. And he retained an image of her leaning over him as she caressed his face. When had that happened? Shaking, he pushed the memory aside. “If she had not gotten me out of my dripping clothes and close to a fire, I would be suffering from an inflammation of the lungs by now,” he quipped, praying his face was less flushed than it felt. "So how did you discover her identity if she left you to your own devices?" "When I reached the village, I heard that Symington had suffered a dreadful accident and was at death's door. To save time, I kept the name Mr. Randolph,” he said, reminding Sedge that he had no proof of his identity. “Anne ran into me downstairs. She is Fosdale's oldest daughter.” He sighed. "You'd have to wed the chit anyway after last night, so why the long face? Whitfield can hardly object since he already proposed such a match." "Certainly, and finding her here saves me the effort of hunting her down. But there are too many questions. She refused—again—to consider marriage, despite Fosdale's heavy-handed threats to destroy her if she failed to comply. Unfortunately, he overheard us talking about last night. He is a manipulator who had already schemed to force her onto Symington, but he is willing to settle for a less exalted match if it will get her off his hands." "If she turned you down, Fosdale's character hardly matters." "You know I cannot honorably duck marriage.” He shrugged. “And she will be far better off with me than under the thumb of a father who clearly despises her—if her protests were genuine."

"You think they were not.” Sedge was frowning. "I don't know what to think. Does she also entertain fantasies about trapping a duke's heir? Now that Symington is helpless, she may have plans for bettering her position." Sedge frowned. “You said she ordered the change to bark tea. So who set my arm?" "Lady Elizabeth." "All that thunder must have affected my hearing.” He sounded nervous. “You didn't just say Lady Elizabeth, did you? Tell me I am delirious." "She set your arm." He shuddered. “So she may have other motives, though I know we were not alone." "I can't identify her motives, but don't fret about the arm. Wendell claims that she is a skilled healer." "God help me." "Setting your arm was a routine job, I gather, for she is the only healer in the valley. I am more concerned about what she plans next. I must wed her, but I want to know what to expect from the chit. Does she share her father's avarice, for example? But that is a question best answered by remaining plain Edward Randolph." "So you want me to play the role of Symington while you woo the chit as a mere mister?” Sedge laughed. “And they call me a prankster! I would never attempt something that mad. Consider the consequences, my friend. Deceit is no foundation for marriage." "Since she has refused me more than once, I am under no obligation to take her into my confidence,” he declared. “Discovering her motives is more important than any pique over a temporary deceit. Then there is the problem of Fosdale. He agreed to refrain from coercing her, but I suspect that he has plans to trap Symington before releasing the insignificant bystander. Besides, I rather enjoy exploring life without the pomp of an eventual duchy coloring every contact." "You aren't attached to the girl, are you?" "I don't know. If she is truthful, she is a most intriguing miss. I've never met anyone like her. She is well-bred and has no known stain on her reputation, yet she claims to eschew Society—which is why I have to suspect an ulterior motive. I must understand her before we wed, and I have little time in which to learn anything. This seems the easiest method. It is not as though I set out to become someone else. Fate has set the stage. I am merely postponing the denouement for a few days." "How can you assign her a stain-free reputation?” asked Sedge. “Many would look askance at a lady who treats gentleman's wounds." "Lady Horseley would,” he agreed. “But I find nothing wrong with it. I would rather see a lady dabble in medicine than allow her tenants and neighbors to die from lack of care.” He sighed. “Will you back me on this?" "Very well. It is your neck on the line. And watching you make an ass of yourself should provide amusement while this arm heals. So what does Mr. Randolph do, and why did he accompany Symington to Cumberland?"

Randolph pursed his lips, steepling his fingers around his nose. “I am Whitfield's distant cousin, a documents expert who was sent to verify the Chaucer." Sedge laughed. “Do you really believe that you can pass yourself off as a modest scholar of little means rather than a powerful lord, no matter how you eschew Society? You may consider yourself a quiet recluse, but you have been groomed to run the duchy since birth. The confidence and authority of that position are so much a part of your character that you do not even sense them." Damn! He reviewed that scene downstairs and had to concede that Sedge was right. He had issued orders to everyone, from Wendell to Fosdale, expecting his will to prevail. Even when he had not tried to intimidate, he had imposed his will—except on Elizabeth. But he must be careful from now on. He could not afford to reveal the truth until he discerned everyone's motives. “I will take Jakes as a model,” he decided, naming the clerk who had charge of his library. “Any mistakes before now arose from my fear for your life." "Good luck." "I need a more definitive background,” he continued, fingering the card case as he prayed for the best luck of his life. “What if Fosdale knows that Symington is an authority on Chaucer?" Sedge snorted. “Why would he? I doubt he knows much on the subject himself. Even gentlemen who know you discount your expertise. It is not usual for a nobleman of your expectations." "True.” He sighed, for he had never wanted the position birth demanded he occupy. Once Whitfield died, he would have little time to pursue his own interests, because no matter how onerous the duties became, he would never be able to eschew his responsibilities. "The duke is a well-known collector. Surely he keeps a man in his employ who is acquainted with rare texts." "Mr. Selkin died several years ago. The closest Whitfield has come to replacing him is to call on my opinion when his own is in doubt." "So claiming to be the duke's expert is no lie,” decided Sedge. “The fact that you are related accounts for your youth. You must express gratitude for such a prestigious position. You can be as arrogant as you like when discussing texts, but your demeanor must be subservient about everything else if you hope to succeed in this masquerade." "Subservient?" "Think. Would Jakes ever venture an opinion on any subject other than your library?" Randolph frowned, but he had to admit that Sedge was right. Merely being quiet wouldn't do. Everything must change—posture, expression, even the way he entered a room. And he must not manipulate Fosdale again. “Deferring to that arrogant windbag is galling,” he admitted. Sedge laughed. “Unless you want this imposture to end right now, you will have little choice. You chose the role of an unprepossessing employee. Unless you play it right, you might as well confess immediately and trust that time will answer your questions." "I suppose you are right." "I know I am right."

"Very well. But I will undoubtedly slip, so I need a reason for doing so.” He frowned. “Perhaps I grew up at Whitfield Castle after my parents’ deaths left me an orphan." "Don't be trite. Every estate in the country has an orphan or two, but most of them are packed off to the military as soon as possible. Or the clergy. Don't raise questions about why you weren't. And don't claim the duke took you under his wing. Everyone knows he did that to Symington. It would be better to claim that Whitfield took in your entire family. It is less suspicious. Maybe your father served as one of his secretaries. Besides, you will be better off sticking to the truth whenever possible to minimize slips. Your parents are not dead." "All right. But growing up with Symington will explain my concern for your health. You are a friend as well as my employer's heir." "You left out distant cousin." "I wonder what is in my trunk,” he said, changing the subject when he spotted the two trunks in the corner. “A poor relation will hardly own an array of evening clothes." "Let me know when you find out.” Sedge's voice was growing weary. “We will concoct a tale if necessary." "Sleep,” commanded Randolph. “I must check on John Coachman." "Don't give orders,” Sedge said, closing his eyes. “Ask if something is possible. Be uncertain. Accept less than perfect service. Wait on yourself. Keep your expectations very low.” In moments he was asleep. Randolph dragged his trunk from the corner. It was too small to hold much variety. He was about to ring for a footman when Sedge's reminder stopped him. Don't give orders. Wait on yourself. Sighing, he carried the trunk from the room. How long until his baggage coach arrived? A man in Mr. Randolph's position would hardly have his own valet. He had to conclude this farce quickly, before it exploded in his face. A maid directed him to a bedchamber. While not as opulent as the one Sedge was using, it was several cuts above what he'd expected—testament to his position as prospective son-in-law. He shivered. Or perhaps it was his friendship with Symington. Everyone now knew that Sedge had inquired about him several times. The trunk contained no evening clothes. Nor did it have his other pair of boots. But that was just as well, he conceded reluctantly. The disreputable appearance of those on his feet would hide the quality of Hoby's workmanship, particularly from those who were unfamiliar with London fashion. Changing into clean clothes, he went in search of his coachman. Symington's coachman, he corrected himself mentally. He must think of Symington and all his affairs as remote. So far, it had been easy, but that was unlikely to continue. On the other hand, he rarely thought of himself as Symington, so distancing himself from that name should not be too difficult. **** By the time Elizabeth reached her room, tears were shimmering in her eyes. She furiously blinked them away, splashing water on her face to shock it into behaving. She never cried. Damn Fosdale for all eternity! He could not have made his hatred plainer if he had scrawled it in foot-high letters across the front of the Manor.

What a coil! Wedding Mr. Randolph was impossible, but the only way to avoid it was to leave home. How would she manage? She could not throw herself on Aunt Constance's mercy. It would be the first place Fosdale looked for her, and Constance had neither the strength of will nor the power to prevent him from forcing her home. If only she had not blurted out the one thing she had planned to keep secret! Her mother had often warned her against giving free rein to her temper. And she was right. It had gotten her into the biggest trouble yet. How was she to escape? If she didn't wed Mr. Randolph, Fosdale would shout this escapade to the world. She didn't care on her own account, but Mr. Randolph would also be hurt. His position might be considerably lower than hers, but he was gentleman enough to feel obligations. So he would suffer. What a despicable way to repay him for saving her life. Yet she could not wed him. Somehow, she had to convince Fosdale that Mr. Randolph was unworthy of her hand so that he would allow the subject to drop. But even as she formed the thought, she knew that any attempt would fail. Fosdale would wed her to a Gypsy if it got her off his hands. And she could not think of a single trait that made Mr. Randolph ineligible for marriage. He was the most caring gentleman she had ever met—and the kindest. Damn! She needed to calm her nerves so she could think clearly. And the best way was to write. It had been her refuge for years. Pulling out paper, she began jotting down the jumble of feelings that had accumulated in the last fortnight. Within moments, the pen was flying across the page, recording her fury upon overhearing Fosdale's dishonorable plots, her disgust at Constance's mistreatment, the terror of being swept away by a flood, the exhilaration of defeating the elements, the insidious warmth that had stolen through her body as she touched Mr. Randolph's bare skin. She blushed and crumpled that last page, tossing it into the fire. A knock interrupted her. Cursing her failure to lock the door, she paused in indecision. Had Fosdale followed her? "My lady?” asked a soft voice. "Come in, Letty,” she said, recognizing her maid. "They need you downstairs, my lady,” said Letty. “Symington's coachman is in a raving fever." "Why was I not informed earlier?” she demanded, her own problems forgotten. "The servants’ hall is at sixes and sevens.” Letty shrugged. “Mrs. Hughes was with his lordship most of the night. She thought Rose was looking after the coachman, but Rose had to answer a call from Lady Fosdale, so she sent Ted to find me. But Lord Fosdale ordered Ted to fetch you from Bornhill Park, driving the message out of his head. He just returned, which is how we discovered that nobody had seen after the coachman." Elizabeth bit back a sharp reply. It wasn't Letty's fault, and the tale was typical of Ravenswood's staff. There was always more work than people to do it, so muddles were common.

Grabbing a bag of healing herbs, she headed for the stairs. She should have inquired about Symington's servants when she first learned of the accident. But finding him still in Cumberland had scrambled her wits. The coachman was in the room she used to isolate ailing servants from the rest of the staff, and he was indeed suffering a high fever. His thrashing nearly tumbled him off the narrow cot. "Bring water,” she ordered. “And bandages.” She swore. No one had even seen to the cuts on his head. Symington would likely be furious to find his servant abused so badly. The lack of hospitality reflected poorly on Ravenswood and everyone in it. She suppressed another wave of anger at Fosdale. As the most powerful landowner in the valley, he should have paid a stipend to keep a doctor in the village. But he had refused, and the local residents could not support a decent healer. "Help me get this wet clothing off,” she ordered when Letty returned. The servants had tossed a cover over him without removing his muddy clothing. Everyone had expected someone else to treat the fellow. If Mr. Randolph had been traveling with Lord Symington, then the accident must have occurred shortly after she had fallen in the river. So he had been cold and wet for nearly a day. Such lack of service was scandalous. The coachman was a big man, but sharp commands penetrated his delirium. He struggled to sit up so they could remove his shirt. Elizabeth replaced half of the damp sheet with a dry one and coerced him into drinking a potion that would reduce his fever. But once he collapsed back onto the cot, she faced a problem. She could not both lift his hips and remove his trousers, even with Letty's help. "He is too heavy. We need a footman." "May I help?” asked a voice from the doorway. Mr. Randolph. He must have found some luggage, for he had changed into a loose-fitting blue jacket, rose-striped marcella waistcoat, and pale gray pantaloons, though he still wore the muddy boots she had removed last night. He had cleaned up surprisingly well, and quite appealingly. Every attractive man she had previously met had also been imposing. How did he avoid it? But this was no time to consider conundrums, for his appearance below stairs confirmed her suspicions. Cursing gentlemen's inconvenient devotion to honor, she glared. "What are you doing down here?” she demanded. This was hardly an auspicious place to discuss marriage, but she would bet her entire savings that he possessed a stubborn streak. He wouldn't drop the subject any time soon. "Checking on John Coachman. What are you doing?" "Trying to remove his soaked clothing before it kills him, if it hasn't already,” she snapped, his unexpected answer irritating her worse. The coachman opened his eyes a crack. “Master Randolph,” he wheezed. His hand made an abortive movement that stilled when he passed out. "Perhaps he is not as delirious as I thought,” said Elizabeth, heaving a sigh of relief.

"I fear not. That is the same tone he used while teaching me to ride.” Randolph cursed under his breath when he realized what he had said. Lady Elizabeth was staring suspiciously. He scrambled for an explanation, finally settling on two unrelated truths. “John worked for the duke before he joined Symington's staff. I lived at the Castle." "Why?" "My father also worked for Whitfield." She abruptly abandoned the inquisition. “Lift his hips so I can slide these trousers off and change the sheet." He watched in growing appreciation as she competently stripped John Coachman. No missishness here. It was his face that was blushing. She would have treated him with the same impersonal touch, which proved that her career as a healer went far beyond passing out potions and bandaging scraped knees. A stab of disappointment accompanied the realization that he had been just another body to her. But it explained part of her fury over Fosdale's demands. "Has he any luggage?” she asked. He shrugged. “Why?" "He needs a nightshirt.” Already, she had tucked two rugs around the shivering coachman and sent the maid for more. She washed the mud from John's face and from the wounds on his head, revealing cuts and abrasions that must have come from the tree. A huge knot showed where he had fallen against a rock. "He also needs a warmer room." She frowned, reminding him that he must sound less commanding. "This room derives some warmth from the kitchen, but it has no fireplace of its own. Is there somewhere better we could put him until he has recovered?” What he really wanted to know was why John had been neglected for so long. It was obvious that no one had tended him earlier. Despite his efforts, she must have seen the condemnation in his eyes. “I will apologize to Symington for neglecting his servant. I am the one who is called upon whenever someone falls ill. But I was not here." He heard the regret in her voice and softened. She honestly cared that the service was inadequate—or was it only because the lack would diminish her chances with Symington? "Is someone fetching the doctor?” This time he remembered to phrase the order as a question. "There is no doctor." "I know there is none in the village, but surely there is someone who can be called!” His voice conveyed shock, and he kicked himself for overreacting. It was not Mr. Randolph's place to order the care of Symington's servants or to imply criticism of his hosts. Sedge would have to issue the necessary orders. "Only me, sir. This is a remote area. The nearest doctor lives twenty miles away, across a winding mountain pass that is likely blocked by mud, given the weather lately. But I would never consult him. His remedies have a tiring sameness—bleeding and purging—which harm more patients than they help. The nearest competent physician is in Carlisle."

"Which would take days." "Especially in this weather. So you will have to make do with me. But with luck and a little prayer, John Coachman stands a fair chance of recovery.” She shook her head, her face falling into rueful anxiety. “If only I had not fallen asleep last night!" He bit back his first response. “Will he not benefit from moving him to a warmer room?" "You truly care for him, don't you?" "Of course I do. I care for all my ser—friends.” He almost forgot that he no longer had servants. He was a servant. Sort of. Actually, he was an employee comparable to a land steward or solicitor, but without a staff beneath him. He abruptly cut off the speculation. Standing here with his mouth open made him seem simpleminded. “Surely no one will object if it will save the life of Symington's servant." She snorted. “You do not know Fosdale. What an awful precedent to set for his own staff. They are already unhappy and might mutiny if they discover just how wretched their lot really is.” She sighed. “But I will take the responsibility." When the maid returned with an armload of linens, Elizabeth ordered her to fetch two strong footmen. Then she led the way upstairs. "This room belonged to my grandfather's valet,” she said once the footmen had deposited John on a soft bed. “Simms was more of a friend than a servant, for they were together nearly fifty years. Poor Simms lived only a month after Grandfather died. I suspect it was stubbornness that kept him alive that last year, for he was also quite ill. But he couldn't tolerate anyone else caring for Grandfather." "Your grandfather must have been a good man to inspire such loyalty." "He was.” She bit her lip, then changed the subject. “Please do not mention this to Fosdale. Coddling Simms was bad enough, but he would likely suffer an apoplexy at the idea of housing a coachman in such luxury." He believed her, though the room was hardly luxurious. It was small, lit by a single tiny window, and furnished with battered cast-offs. But it had an adequate fireplace and a comfortable bed. And it was free of drafts. The maid was busily building a fire. Another arrived with a can of hot water and a kettle. All looked approvingly on Lady Elizabeth. Without a word being uttered, he knew that this incident would not reach Fosdale's ears. What kind of lord would treat people so shabbily? Elizabeth finished cleaning John's wounds. Fresh bandages wrapped his head. She prepared an infusion of herbs and induced him to swallow most of it. Randolph felt useless, but he could not bring himself to leave just yet. “Is that the same brew you gave Se —Symington?" "Not quite. His lordship's biggest problem will be pain. The splint he devised was poorly positioned, aggravating the swelling so that setting the bone caused considerable distress. John Coachman's fever is more severe, and his wounds have turned an angry red." But only some of them, he noted. How badly had John been battered by wind-borne debris and those

rowan branches? They should have stayed off the road yesterday, but the storm had appeared to be clearing. And Elizabeth would have died if he had been more prudent. He could only pray that saving her life would not cost John's in return. She set down the cup, then glanced back at him. “As long as you are here, let me take another look at that shoulder. I had no salve at the cottage." "Very well.” He felt odd about removing his clothes, but she was digging through her bag and paid no attention until he groaned. "Help him with the shirt, Letty. He is understandably stiff this morning,” she said without looking, but the words proved that she was more aware than he had thought. And he was stiff, and growing stiffer by the minute. He couldn't raise his left arm even to shoulder height, and his right was nearly as sore. Between injury and the unaccustomed exertion, pulling shirts on and off would be impossible for a while. He might even have to sleep in the plaguey thing. "What is that for?” he demanded when she turned. She glanced at the knife in her hand. “Murder?" He paled before noting the smile that twinkled in her eyes. “So you are a jokester." She ignored his words. “Actually, there are several splinters that were impossible to remove last night. If needles and tweezers won't suffice, I will have to cut them out." "Good God!" "Leaving anything embedded will prove more unpleasant. It might even lead to blood poisoning." Her hands moved over his skin as she spoke. The embarrassment staining his cheeks waned after several jabs made him flinch. "This is a nasty one,” she said some time later. “Hold still. It will sting." Pain shot down his arm. “Ouch!" "It wasn't that bad,” she chided him. Smaller pains elicited groans. "All gone.” She spread something cool and soothing, then wrapped the shoulder in a clean bandage. "Thank you. I think." "Work this in each morning,” she said, handing him a jar. “You should be as good as new in a few days. Lord Symington did not fare as well." "Did you examine the slashes on his right hand?” he asked, donning his clothing with Letty's help. "None are deep enough to cause lasting trouble." "But what if they fester?" "If they show any hint of redness, give him that salve."

"I'd rather you checked him yourself." Her brows snapped together. “Are you trying to escape Fosdale's manipulation? He would prefer to trap me into compromising a wealthy lord." "That wasn't—" She ignored him. “My apologies, sir, but I will not submit to your scheming, either. I have already made my position plain, so you need not fear having to wed me. The subject is now closed. Why don't you discover whether John's valise was recovered from the carriage? That would be more helpful than hovering here." She turned her back, concentrating on John's uneven breathing and heated brow. He might have already left the room. When he met the maid's gaze, Letty shrugged and turned to tend the fire. He frowned as he returned to his room. Every new encounter with Elizabeth raised new questions. She was like no one he had ever met, male or female. Pausing inside his door, he sighed. Nothing had changed. Clothing still lay strewn about. There was no sign of his greatcoat, which must remain in the carriage. No servants. The realization elicited a deeper sigh. Not only had he never taken care of his own clothing, he had not even watched Linden work over it. Bundling his muddy garments onto the floor of the wardrobe, he took stock of the rest. Fifteen cravats, two shirts, three pairs of stockings, and his buff pantaloons. Washing would be confined to the basin, for Mr. Randolph would not merit use of a hip bath. At least he had shaved himself often enough that he could do so without slitting his throat. But he had no idea how to clean his clothing, and until his shoulder loosened up, he must sleep in his shirt. Perhaps he should end this charade right now. Yet he was not ready to don his own persona just yet, he admitted as he made his chilly way down the drive. He hadn't dared ask for a cloak. Cold air seeped through his jacket, tightening his shoulder. He cursed. Unless his greatcoat was intact, Sedge would have to demand a wrap for him. No, he wasn't ready to end this farce. It was too instructive. Lord Symington could never have conversed with Elizabeth in John's bedroom, not even with her maid at hand. She could not have treated his injuries. Nor would she have revealed even the sparse information she had parted with. There were distinct advantages to shedding his expectations for a while. Ignoring the dead horse, he poked about the driver's box until he found John's satchel. Then he climbed inside. It was a wonder Sedge had survived. Sedge's coat was shredded, and his own was impaled. Blood-stained glass and wood shavings explained the enlarged window and Sedge's cuts. He shivered from more than cold. Crawling outside, he wrenched branches away from the crushed boot, digging through detritus until he uncovered his valise and Sedge's. At least now he could shave. They would be stuck here for some time, even if Sedge's arm healed quickly. But accepting hospitality from a man he could not respect cast a pall over his spirits. He wanted nothing from Fosdale except his daughter.

CHAPTER SEVEN Randolph dipped a cloth into a basin of water and wiped John's face and shoulders. The coachman was burning with fever. He sighed as he repeated the procedure. He had come up to check on John's condition, not to treat him. But Letty had been nearly incoherent from exhaustion—hardly surprising, for she and Elizabeth had taken turns watching John for more than three days now in addition to their other activities. He had sent the girl off to bed, assuming the chore himself. It seemed reasonable that a fellow employee and friend might do so. And Elizabeth should arrive in another half hour. This was merely one more oddity in a household he had yet to understand. Only Elizabeth and her maid paid the slightest attention to John. It was a situation he found unsettling, especially when he realized that he had no idea how ailing servants fared on his own estate. But regardless of the treatment accorded the resident staff, he could not imagine neglecting a guest at Orchards, not even a servant. Ravenswood was the most off-putting estate he had ever stayed at. At first, he had ignored his isolation, accepting it as the result of his imposture. But that was no longer possible. The staff considered him a gentleman despite his declared position with Whitfield. Mr. Randolph might not be a lord, but they treated him with far more deference than his apparent position required. Yet the service was a far cry from what he was accustomed to. He hated to think what this stay would be like if he had been relegated to the servants’ quarters. The fault lay with Fosdale, whose hospitality lacked any pretense of welcome despite demanding marriage to his daughter. Other impoverished lords made sure that guests were treated as well as possible. But Fosdale seemed to delight in forcing hardships on everyone under his roof. At first, Randolph had decided that the poor living conditions arose from apathy—many of the problems had no relation to poverty—but he was now convinced that malice was at work. Fosdale wanted his staff miserable. He wanted his family miserable. Discomfort was a constant reminder of his impoverished state, assuring that no one would make demands on his depleted purse. And fostering that misery relieved his frustrations. Had malice contributed to the eagerness with which Fosdale had embraced a lowly scholar as a prospective son-in-law? Perhaps he sought to sever Elizabeth's ties with Society by tying her to a nobody —he had demanded marriage even before learning of the remote connection Randolph was claiming to Whitfield. Or maybe he had welcomed the unimportant stranger because doing so promised to provide a new outlet for his spite. So lowly a lad could hardly fight back against an earl. Randolph shook his head, again dipping the cloth into the basin. Could such odious conclusions be true? He had formed them from conversations with servants and occasional exchanges with Elizabeth. He had not spoken to Fosdale since his arrival, taking his meals with Sedge and splitting the rest of his time between John and an exploration of the house. The one time Fosdale had approached, he had ducked out of sight. He could not afford to speak with the earl just yet. Discussing a marriage contract under false pretenses was dishonorable, and doing so without his solicitor present was stupid. But beyond that, he could not stomach deferring to the man. And the more he learned of Fosdale's character, the stronger that feeling grew. Every new fact increased his disdain for the fellow. Even his forays through the house raised questions. Ravenswood Manor was laid out in the classic H form, though most of the rooms were smaller and

gloomier than he preferred. But that had probably arisen from the harsher northern climate, for small rooms were easier to heat in winter. His explorations revealed a house in desperate need of repair, yet like everything else, money did not explain all the neglect. He had found furniture in an attic that was in far better condition than that in the drawing room. A footman claimed that Fosdale had forbidden his family to use it. No one knew why. Of greater interest was his discovery that the servants slept under the leaky part of the roof, despite ample space elsewhere. But the earl would tolerate no changes. Did Fosdale's malice arise from hatred of his family and staff, or was he using them as scapegoats because they could not fight back? The question gnawed at his mind. He was honor-bound to wed Elizabeth, but Fosdale was not a man he could welcome into his family. So the marriage contract must contain some unusual clauses. And that required a better understanding of Fosdale's motives and character. But first, he must tend John Coachman. Three days had convinced him that Elizabeth cared about John's health. He had initially feared that her attentions were an attempt to ingratiate herself with Symington, for Sedge's mumblings had convinced the staff that he was unusually concerned about his coachman's health. Despite Randolph's arrival, which remedied the confusion over John's identity, the impression remained and was now accepted without question. Yet Elizabeth had not visited Sedge since setting his arm. Though she discussed his condition each day with the housekeeper, she did not tend him, had made no effort to meet him, and insisted that he remain in bed a full week even though he was already fretting to rise. Randolph had stayed away from Sedge's room whenever Elizabeth was free, giving her ample opportunity for anything she chose to do. But she had done nothing. Either she was playing a very deep game, or her denials were genuine and she had no interest in Symington. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if one of her reasons for avoiding marriage might be her concern for the Ravenswood dependents. She went out of her way to help them and temper her father's harsh commands. In turn, they made her life as easy as possible, keeping her rooms comfortable, replenishing her stocks of herbs, and serving her better food than that delivered to the dining room, if Lady Cecilia's complaints could be trusted. He had not yet met Cecilia or Lady Fosdale, though he had overheard them yesterday. His impressions were unfavorable. Lady Fosdale affected the same die-away airs his aunt so often used to manipulate those around her. And Lady Fosdale's complaints mirrored those of other petulant women. Megrims and spells made her life a misery. Fosdale's clutch-fistedness was making them a laughingstock in local society. No one understood her, not even Cecilia. Elizabeth was the bane of her existence—unsympathetic, undutiful, and determined to call Fosdale's wrath onto all their heads. Cecilia had commiserated, adding complaints of her own. The food was bad, the weather worse. And life was unutterably dull and too boring for words, an obvious exaggeration since she had no trouble expounding her petty grievances in meticulous detail. Why was Elizabeth so different? The question revived all his suspicions, for most girls patterned their behavior after their mothers', producing marked similarities among the women of a family. Yet neither Lady Fosdale nor Lady Cecilia had paid the slightest attention to their guests. They had avoided Mr.

Randolph, ignored Symington's injuries, and spurned helping John, despite Elizabeth's obvious weariness from long nights of nursing. As near as he could tell, the other ladies did not lift a finger to do anything. They only complained. Again he sighed. He could not avoid the family much longer. His shoulder had healed enough that he could dress himself. Even Sedge would be up in another day or two, despite Elizabeth's orders. It was doubtful anyone could keep him in bed longer without strapping him down. So far his imposture had been simple because he had kept to himself. Elizabeth had been too tired to notice his slips. Letty was the same. But remaining aloof was no longer possible. He had to spend time with Elizabeth. The arrival of his baggage coach would likely expose him. Before that happened, he needed to know whether she could like Randolph Catherwood. Without titles. Without wealth. He must wed her, but he had no intention of changing his habits to suit her. If she could not fit into the routine he had established at Orchards, he must make alternate arrangements for her. Yet learning the truth was impossible until he breached the wall she hid behind. Had he made any progress? The rattling window reminded him that a new storm raged outside, raising the likelihood that his baggage would suffer further delays. "What are you doing here, sir?” Elizabeth asked from the doorway. "Keeping John cool." She seemed flustered. “Where is Letty?" "She was asleep on her feet, so I sent her to bed.” He berated himself for acting so decisively, but she ignored it, more concerned about the lack of hospitality. "You should not have to do this, sir. I can tend him quite well." "True, but I don't mind. And even the best nurse needs rest now and then." She flushed. “Your breakfast awaits you, Mr. Randolph. If you wish to help, then see that Symington remains in bed. He is not as well as he would have us believe." "I will try." "Thank you. I sent a deck of cards to his room, along with a chess board. Perhaps you can keep him entertained." "As you wish.” He nodded. “John seems cooler this morning." "I hope so. I changed his tonic last night. This prolonged fever is discouraging. Despite his long exposure to cold and wet, I had expected a response by now." His hand froze as he again wiped John's brow. “Is this a subtle way of telling me he will die?" "No!” Shock filled her eyes. "Then what?" She hesitated before succumbing to his silent plea that she talk. “I do what I can for the sick and injured, but I am no doctor.” She paced about the room. “There is so much I do not know. I often fear that my ignorance will kill someone. Leaving Symington in Mrs. Hughes's hands was a risk, for I had no idea

whether his fever would worsen. Failing to inquire about his servants was a mistake John is still paying for." "John's illness is not your fault,” he said, interrupting her obvious anguish. Her caring ran deeper than he had suspected. “If I didn't believe you were doing everything possible for him, I would have sent for a doctor by now." "You would?" He bit back a curse. “I know I have no authority, but Symington is aware that John has been a friend since childhood. He would see that everything possible was done.” Blessing the dimly lit room for hiding the embarrassment warming his cheeks, he rose to leave. "Forgive my rudeness, sir,” she begged. “I am unaccustomed to such loyalty. Enjoy your breakfast. If John's condition changes, I will send word." His face snapped into a frown the moment he closed the door behind him. He could not afford any more slips. Allowing emotion to control his tongue removed a necessary censor. He had to pause long enough to think before speaking. But he had learned much today. Whitfield had been right—again. Elizabeth might suit him very well... Three hours later, he entered the library to find Elizabeth poking at one of the window frames with a knife. This was the most pleasant room in the Manor—and the best maintained. He had spent several enjoyable hours there already. His initial fear of encountering Fosdale had dissipated once the staff confirmed that the earl avoided the library. It stretched nearly a hundred feet along the main block of the house, its bookcases alternating with settees and game tables. Portraits clustered between Flemish tapestries on the walls, lit by the huge leaded windows that offered a spectacular view of the valley and surrounding mountains. But the books had been his greatest surprise. Whoever had stocked these shelves had excellent taste. "So there you are,” exclaimed Elizabeth when he joined her. “No one could find you." "Is something wrong with John?” He had been exploring an older wing that had not been used for some time. "His fever finally broke. Letty is with him at the moment, though he was sleeping naturally when I left." "That is good news. What are you doing to the window?" "Fixing a leak.” She pressed another bead of paste along the edge of the frame. "Surely there is someone more qualified to make repairs.” The comment was out without thought, and he grimaced. "Wendell, but Fosdale hates books. Wendell has orders to ignore the library." Appalled, Randolph could only gape at her. She smiled. “You deplore his antagonism as much as I." "Of course. But why does he keep a library if he despises it?"

"Surely you know more of gentlemen than that after living at Whitfield Castle,” she said, shaking her head in mock despair. “A gentleman must have a library, and that library must be stocked with leather-bound volumes. It proves that he is cultured, civilized, and can afford quality—not that Fosdale can. Most of the books have been here for decades. Fortunately for him, no one expects him to have read any of them." "I am not as unknowing as all that. Publishers sell sets of books to those who need an instant collection, and many gentlemen have little interest in reading. But I do not understand hatred." "My grandfather loved books and spent much of his meager income on this room, a fact Fosdale will neither forgive nor forget." "Pardon my curiosity, but if he hates the library—and avoids entering it, from what I hear—he can hardly be preserving it for show, so why not sell it?" "He is. Why else is Symington here?" "To purchase a single manuscript. But are you saying he will sell others as well?” He fought to keep excitement out of his voice, for he had already discovered several volumes he would like to own—though he had to question whether his interest was strong enough to pay Fosdale for them. "The Chaucer is the only thing of value." He hesitated, but she deserved the truth. “I beg to differ, Lady Elizabeth. This room contains many treasures." "You jest!" "Hardly." "Are any of these supposed treasures in that case?” She pointed toward the corner. "Why?" "The contents of the first two cases belong to me: an inheritance from my grandfather." "Then he has done you proud.” He met her eyes. “I know books, my lady. Whitfield would hardly employ me if I didn't. Your inheritance is a marvelous collection of first editions and rare manuscripts." "How can that be?” she said, half to herself. “Grandfather lost nearly everything before Fosdale was born, a misfortune Fosdale still considers a personal insult. All my life he has derided Grandfather as a man of no sense and less ability." "Yet he knows about the Chaucer, and he has a good—albeit somewhat inflated—idea of its value.” Though they had not yet discussed the purchase, he had read the letters Fosdale had exchanged with Whitfield. "But the Chaucer was a gift, so it never reflected Grandfather's acumen." "From whom?” But the question was meaningless. Anger snaked through his belly as he realized that he had been set up. Her reply confirmed it. "The Duke of Whitfield gave it to Grandfather on the occasion of Fosdale's birth." "I take it you do not share your father's hatred of these volumes?"

"Never.” She struggled to control her intensity. “Grandfather and I were quite close. He needed someone to converse with, to share ideas with. And I have never been content with the frippery ways ladies fill their time, so I have read a great deal." "Will my—Symington's purchase of the Chaucer prompt Fosdale to evaluate what else is here?” An idea was forming in the back of his mind, but he needed time to examine it. Fosdale was sure to make financial demands during the marriage negotiations. What if he countered with the suggestion that Fosdale turn over the Chaucer as Elizabeth's dowry? "I doubt it,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “He would never admit that Grandfather might have acquired anything worthwhile.” She frowned. “Just how valuable are the books I own?" "I can't say at the moment, but I can give you an estimate in a day or two." "Thank you." It was dismissal, so he went in search of Sedge. **** Elizabeth watched him go, hardly daring to believe his words. Yet he was knowing about books. That was why Symington had brought him here. You can always rely on this. Her grandfather's voice echoed. His gesture would encompass the library as he made the vow—which he had done often toward the end. She had assumed that he meant the knowledge she had gleaned from this room, but perhaps not. He had promised her security. And he had left her a specific collection, listed by title as well as segregated by case. She had wondered at his selection, for it omitted many of her favorites. But she had never suspected them to be valuable. The Fosdale poverty was too entrenched in her mind. Yet this raised new questions. Some of the books had been purchased by his ancestors, but most had not. So where had he raised the money to amass this collection? He had lost the fortune acquired by his forebears. His only income derived from the estate. But if it had covered acquisition of numerous rare books, why had he perpetrated the myth of poverty, a myth continued by Fosdale? And why did Fosdale not suspect? Surely the estate records would show the book purchases. And why had he left the collection to her rather than his heir? It made no sense. But perhaps she was exaggerating its value. Not all first editions were rare, and rarity did not always translate to fortune. The value of an item depended on demand. He might well have acquired odd volumes cheaply because few people wanted them at all. His hope that they would appreciate over time had been prescient—after all, Mr. Randolph recognized them as having value—but that did not mean they would bring a fortune. It made sense, she decided as she collected her tools—the window was again sealed. Grandfather's bequest was reasonable, for they would not bring in a great fortune until long in the future. In the meantime, she loved books. Fosdale did not. Stripping them from the earldom inflicted a minor but well-deserved cut on Fosdale—payment for his mistreatment of his wife and daughters. But even a minor infusion of money was most welcome in her present situation, for it could help her escape marriage. Or had he meant it to be a dowry? Everyone knew she would never find a match without one. She was too plain to attract a gentleman's eye. But if Grandfather had expected her to use the library as a lure, he would be disappointed. She would sell what she could—a stab of regret accompanied the vow, for the books were old friends she would miss dearly—then use the proceeds to

complement her other earnings. She could leave Ravenswood at last. If the books brought enough money. But surely they would! She did not need much. And Mr. Randolph would hardly have mentioned them if they were not out of the ordinary. Stifling her excitement, she went to check on John. Planning her future could wait until she knew her income. Fate might play tricks on her if she jumped too quickly to conclusions. Mr. Randolph remained in her thoughts as she climbed the stairs, for he was unlike any gentleman she had ever met, as he had proved often since his arrival. Where was his arrogance? Not only did he respect her knowledge of healing, he had stepped in to care for John. It was an unusual attitude even for an upper servant, and his position placed him above ordinary employees. Sheldon was nearly as haughty as Fosdale. She could not imagine him befriending a coachman, let alone nursing him. So Mr. Randolph was unique. Or was he? A frown twisted her face as she slipped into John's room. Had he decided that projecting an image of meekness and humility would convince her to wed him? He had not mentioned marriage since arriving, but she knew he had not abandoned the idea. If she was to maintain control over her own future, she must stop thinking kindly of him. And she should certainly stifle any feelings of warmth when he entered a room. **** Cecilia stopped in the doorway of the morning room. “Where have you been keeping yourself?” she demanded. “I haven't seen you in days." Elizabeth set down her book. “Symington's coachman has been gravely ill. His fever has finally broken, but it is too soon to predict recovery. I do not like the sound of his cough." Cecilia shrugged. “Unfortunate, but that is the way of things." "It need not be,” snapped Elizabeth. “If Fosdale did not treat the servants worse than slaves, John would not have been left in the cold and wet. If he dies, it will be from a full day of neglect rather than his injuries." Cecilia knew enough to back off when Elizabeth used that tone of voice. “Mama is suffering a migraine today. She had hoped that having a gentleman in the house would enliven things, but we have seen nothing of our guest, despite that he is recovered." "Hardly. His arm is broken, and he was suffering from exposure. He must stay abed a week if he hopes to avoid an inflammation of the lungs." "Meg claims he is quite handsome." "And how would Meg know? Mrs. Hughes and Sheldon are caring for his lordship." "She peeped into his room this morning.” Her bland tone confirmed that Cecilia had sent her maid on that very errand. Symington was not housed in the family wing. "You are not taking a page from Fosdale's book, I hope,” she said sternly. “That would be unconscionable. Flirt all you want once he ventures downstairs, but I will not tolerate compromising him." "I would never do anything to hurt him,” she protested. “I merely needed to know if he was a gentleman I

could like. And he is. Meg claims that he is elegant as well as striking. I will fix up my blue gown. When he sees me in it, he will fall madly in love with me. I will see London at last!" "Just don't throw yourself at him,” she warned. “Anyone of his rank will be accustomed to ignoring importuning females. And consider his character as well as his looks and title. A gentleman has complete control over his wife. He can lock her away for life, and no one will raise voice in protest." "You always suspect the worst. I could understand banishing someone like Charlotte Warringer, but no one would ever do such a thing to me.” Charlotte was now thirty, without a single offer to her name, for she lacked looks, fortune, and a pleasing character. “Everyone I meet adores me. They forgive me anything and fall all over themselves to fulfill my every desire.” She stared dreamily into the fire. But the protests raised Elizabeth's suspicions. She grimaced. “Listen well, Cecilia.” She paused long enough to banish censure from her tone. “Flirting with the squire's sons and bandying words with Sir Lewis are quite different from entering London society. Everything I have read indicates that standards of behavior are much stricter in Town. Foibles are harder to forgive. No gentleman will tolerate feeling forced." Which was yet another reason she would not wed Mr. Randolph, despite finding him most agreeable. Men dominated their wives even without the excuse of coercion. Having to bow to outside pressure would raise enough frustration to turn dominance into abuse. But belaboring the point would only increase Cecilia's determination, so she changed the subject. “Sadie Deacon returned yesterday. Her daughter was safely delivered of a healthy son." "Again? That makes four.” Her voice conveyed boredom, for she claimed to despise any topic but London. But she couldn't hide the interest in her eyes. "Four it is. The oldest is a mischievous lad whose curiosity often leads him astray. In the last month alone, they have rescued him from two rooftops, a pig sty, the millpond, and a cheese press." "Cheese press?” Cecilia couldn't stifle her laughter. "He caught his finger in one of the holes." "Will he live to see adulthood?" "Who knows?” She shook her head. “Mrs. Hughes also heard that Sir Lewis's mother has recovered from her chill. He will return within the week." Cecilia's eyes lit with pleasure that she immediately twisted into frustration. “What am I to do, Elizabeth? He will offer for me. How am I to survive Papa's wrath when I turn him down?" "Why not accept him? If anyone is likely to cater to your whims, it is Sir Lewis, for he genuinely adores you. And you have always enjoyed his company." "Hardly." "Of course you have. Remember that picnic last summer? You spent nearly an hour on his arm, laughing." "He does tell the funniest stories,” agreed Cecilia with a smile. “His mother's dog must be a wonder. Imagine him opening doors and gates by himself." "And digging up every bulb she planted in her garden."

Cecilia giggled. “But he looked so contrite, she couldn't scold him." "So why not accept Sir Lewis?" "I don't want a life of funny stories and comfortable walks. I need excitement—and a husband whose kisses make me swoon." "That sounds horridly uncomfortable and quite exhausting. But what are you about to let even Sir Lewis kiss you?" "I course I would never welcome his kiss!" "Then how do you know its effect?" "One doesn't need to experience something to know how it feels.” Cecilia made a face. “Stop trying to dictate how I should live my life. We are nothing alike. Your idea of fun is boring." "And yours is pure fantasy. But Sir Lewis is real. Be honest with yourself." "I am honest. Sir Lewis is as tied to this valley as Papa. If he truly adored me, he would take me to London." "Have you ever asked him to?" "No, but he often refuses my requests." "Only the silly ones that you make just to exercise power. And his refusal to make a fool of himself tells you much about his character. It should also serve as a warning. He is a confident, mature gentleman, like most of those in Society. Young cubs may enjoy playing your childish games, but men will not." "Childish!" "What else can you call demands that serve no purpose other than to make gentlemen appear silly? Look into your heart, Cecilia. You care for Sir Lewis more than all the others combined. You were in alt when he carried you home the day you twisted your ankle." "Of course, for being in a man's arms is most satisfying. But that means nothing. I would have felt the same with any gentleman. And I need more than one admirer." "You have everyone in the valley enamored, as you well know." "But they do not count, being too far beneath me. Even Sir Lewis is beneath an earl's daughter. I must find at least a marquess, for my beauty demands that I marry up. A duke would be even better.” Her eyes glowed with cunning. "You haven't listened to a word I've said." "Of course I have, but you are the one who knows nothing.” She glared. “Why are you so set on ruining my chances?" "I nev—" "It's obvious.” Cecilia allowed no interruption. “You know no man will have you, so you are trying to destroy my happiness as well. Your insistence on denigrating London and Society is no more than the sour grapes of a spinster long on the shelf. You've twisted the polite world into a collection of

disapproving autocrats so you can justify avoiding it. Are you hoping to chain me to Cumberland so I will become your companion for life? Well, it won't work. Symington will expose your perfidy, for he is a real London gentleman." Elizabeth shook her head, pushing aside her pique. Cecilia didn't mean to be cruel. Lashing out was her way of shoring up her fantasies. But further discussion would be pointless, for Cecilia never listened when in this mood. And there was no way to predict how desperate the girl was. To keep Cecilia out of mischief, she would have to assign servants to guard Symington's room. Cecilia was again lost in her fantasy world of balls and handsome princes who would vie for her affections. Her dream London was a place where she could do anything with impunity. Foolish child. **** Cecilia paused outside Symington's door and straightened her gown. This was the best chance she would ever have. With Lewis due back at any moment, she could not afford to wait until Symington joined them for dinner. And it would work out in the end. Elizabeth's prattling only sought to thwart her. But she need not entertain the same fears as the antidotes. And she had no intention of sacrificing a glorious future just to keep her spinster sister company. She was reaching for the handle when the door swung open. Mrs. Hughes stepped into the hallway, a ferocious frown twisting her face. "And where do you think you are going, young lady?” Her disapproving tone hadn't changed a bit since the first time she had caught Cecilia up to mischief at age two. "Nowhere." "You know better than to enter a gentleman's bedchamber,” snapped Mrs. Hughes. “Do you wish to ruin your reputation? Mr. Randolph is playing chess with his lordship and won't welcome an interruption." "I—” Her face revealed her frustration. "Lady Elizabeth warned me you might try one of your tricks,” continued the housekeeper. “I'll be posting a footman to keep you out of this wing until the gentlemen leave." Cecilia fled, slamming her bedroom door and throwing herself across the bed in tears. How could Elizabeth be so cruel? Everyone hated her. Her father was scheming to tie her to this wretched valley forever. Her mother was so wrapped up in dreams of her own London triumphs that she cared nothing for her children. But Elizabeth was the worst. Fate had finally provided a chance to escape, to live, to enjoy life. Yet Elizabeth was determined to throw the opportunity aside. There had to be a way. Drying her tears, she paced the floor. How could she talk Symington into taking her to London? Elizabeth had probably warned the man to avoid her. She was scheming to keep them apart—there was nothing wrong with his health beyond Elizabeth's stubborn insistence on keeping her in Cumberland. She might even reveal Sir Lewis's offer to prevent Symington from making his own. And her father would back— She stopped, one hand over her mouth as realization surged through her breast. She had forgotten Mr. Randolph—easy to do when she had never met the man. But Meg claimed that he

had to marry Elizabeth. Thus she was no longer in a position to attach Symington and his fortune. Why should Papa encourage Sir Lewis when he could do so much better? Smiling happily, she went in search of her father.

CHAPTER EIGHT "Mrs. Hughes tells me that Lord Symington is determined to leave his room today,” said Elizabeth when she found Mr. Randolph ensconced in the library the next morning. Now that John's crisis had passed, the scholar spent much of his time there. “Can you convince him to postpone it for another day or two?" "I doubt it.” He shrugged. “He has hated being confined to bed since a childhood illness kept him there for three months. Rising will not affect his arm, his fever is gone, and he suffers no other injuries—as you would know if you checked him yourself." "I cannot, except in an emergency, as you well know. Treating male tenants can be forgiven, but problems always arise from treating the upper classes." "I thought you cared nothing for Society's opinion." "I don't, but dodging Fosdale's demands is an annoyance I can do without.” She glared at him. "What was that in aid of? I have never criticized your healing skills." "No, but you agree with him about—” She broke off in confusion. This wasn't the time to raise the issue of marriage, though it tied in with what she needed to say. Mercy, screamed a voice in her head. But there was none. She had to continue, even though it meant exposing her family in a worse light than before. She sighed. “If Symington is determined to rise, you must warn him to take care." "He will do nothing strenuous,” he assured her, interrupting as she fumbled for words. "I am sure he will be most circumspect, but that is not my present concern.” Again she paused. “My sister is rather silly in many ways, as I am sure you have noticed." He shook his head. “I have not met her, for I've been dining with Se—Symington." "Now that he is up and about, you should remain with him at all times.” She blushed. Randolph raised his brows. "As I said, Cecilia is rather silly about many things, for she is still quite young and naïve despite having reached the advanced age of twenty. She has formed an unfortunate image of London—romanticizing both Society and the City—and is most unhappy about missing a Season. Our neighbor has offered for her, but though Fosdale accepted the connection, nothing has been signed." "Are you implying that she will throw herself at Symington?” He frowned. "I have no objection to flirtation and would not interfere if he feels an attraction for her. She is a good girl at heart and has a core of common sense if she could just get past this obsession with her fantasies. But I fear she will force him into an offer. The servants have already caught her near his room. They sent her away, of course, for she had no legitimate reason to be there." "How did they happen to catch her?” he asked sharply. "I instructed Mrs. Hughes to post someone in the hallway.” Her flush deepened, burning her cheeks. “I know Cecilia rather well, but I cannot abide such an abuse of hospitality."

Randolph dropped his gaze, forcing his body into a more subservient pose. His last doubts about Elizabeth's intentions were gone, but he now suspected that she really would run away rather than accept a forced marriage. This new threat made it impossible to correct his own identity. Fosdale would immediately apply unrelenting pressure on Elizabeth, which would make winning her hand much harder. And revealing himself would expose him to Lady Cecilia's scheming. Thus he must remain Mr. Randolph, but he also had to protect Sedge. “Thank you for the warning. Can you perhaps coax this neighbor into settling his affairs?" "He has been in Carlisle since his mother took ill last month. I heard that he is expected back shortly, but that will merely make Cecilia more determined. You will warn him?" He nodded. "Good. The servants can hardly trail Symington whenever he leaves his room, and I cannot watch Cecilia. One of the tenants has a putrid sore throat." He glanced out the window, where another storm raged. “Should you be out in this?" "Illness does not wait for fair weather. But there is little to fear. The Wilsons live nearby, and in the opposite direction from the river." She left. He returned the collection of Donne's essays to its shelf, then went to warn Sedge. **** Sedge glanced through doorways as he wandered along the hallway. After a mere half hour of exploration, he was feeling shaky. But he wasn't about to return to bed. It felt too good to be on his feet again. He shifted his sling into a more comfortable position. This was the strangest household he had ever visited. Except for a footman not far from his room, he had seen no servants. And most of the furnishings were the dark, heavy styles of earlier centuries. This sitting room was typical, he decided, sinking into a chair and leaning back with a sigh of relief. He was weaker than he had expected. The half light provided by stormy skies revealed faded upholstery and threadbare carpet. Even the draperies seemed tired, sagging where threads had snapped. The Manor would have been spectacular seventy-five years ago, he decided, assessing styles with an experienced eye. Most of the public rooms had been redecorated about then. But little had changed in the years since. His eyes followed the egg-and-dart molding that edged the cornice, noting the plethora of spiders’ webs. It was time to expand his role as Lord Symington. This brief respite had restored his energy, so he would dine with the family this evening. Randolph needed a gentle push. He'd made little progress with Elizabeth in five days on his own. Or was he holding back out of ambivalence? He frowned. It seemed unlikely. Randolph exhibited a growing admiration for the lady fate had thrust into his arms. So

perhaps it was she who needed the shove. This situation must be settled soon. He knew too many gentlemen like Fosdale. They were autocratic and highly opinionated, expecting every order to be instantly obeyed. No matter what threats Randolph had used to gain cooperation, the earl would not remain quietly in the background much longer. He would act on his own, probably by posting banns this very Sunday. The resulting furor would cause a scandal—or worse. Besides, their baggage would certainly arrive by tomorrow. He couldn't imagine a longer delay despite the weather. That would add four more people to the three who already knew the truth. Even if they could explain why a lowly fellow like Mr. Randolph had his own valet, one of them was bound to slip. So if he was to derive any entertainment from watching Randolph flounder in a morass of his own making, he must leave his isolation. Fosdale had introduced himself two days earlier when he'd called to inquire about his injuries. They had agreed to postpone any business, but the earl had asked searching questions about Randolph. What was his exact relationship to Whitfield? What were his finances? His prospects? He had deflected most questions and given vague answers to others, but his impressions boded ill for Randolph's future. Fosdale's primary concern seemed to be mining the situation to his own advantage. He cared nothing for Elizabeth, wanting only to line his pockets at her expense. Randolph agreed. And he had vowed that the marriage contract would deny Fosdale any claim on his purse or his patronage. Watching them maneuver would be humorous. But he had serious questions about Elizabeth, especially after meeting her father. The fruit rarely fell far from the tree, so he had to suspect her motives. She had refused to see him, so he could not judge her character directly. Randolph was impressed, but that meant little. While he would trust his friend's opinion of a rare book or the optimum crop rotation for his estate, the fact remained that Randolph was naïve about people—especially women. He had deliberately avoided even local society for years, content to stay in his library. So was he really seeing Elizabeth's character, or was he merely fascinated by her professed indifference? And had that indifference arisen from her own convictions or from Randolph's apparent lack of title and fortune? He needed answers if he was to protect Randolph from grief. He owed him more favors than he could ever repay. He shifted his broken arm. Expectations for younger sons were far different from those for heirs, especially in his family. Never mind that he was wealthy enough to need no career. Never mind that his connections made him nearly as immune to criticism as the best-born heir. He was merely a second son, so his father had demanded he take firsts in all his studies, avoid any hint of scandal, and prove he was a responsible man. Randolph had assured his success. It had been Randolph's tutoring that helped him through school, Randolph's counseling that guided him away from activities that would have bankrupted him by age thirty, Randolph's intervention that dissuaded his father from buying him colors after a particularly juvenile prank exploded into scandal. That had been his most stupid idea ever, he conceded, though a grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. He had been down from Oxford less than a month when his cousin Jane announced her betrothal to Lord

Mulhouse. He had known Mulhouse in school, though the baron was some years ahead of him. Since he had never liked the man, he had taken it upon himself to investigate. Within the week, he'd learned that Mulhouse's vicious nature had worsened since his arrival in Town, that Jane had a marked tendre for Sir Ashley Burness, and that her father had forced her into accepting an offer that lined his own pockets. In other words, he had sold his daughter to the highest bidder and would henceforth wash his hands of any responsibility for the outcome—exactly as Fosdale seemed to be doing with Elizabeth. Sedge would have been angry anyway, but having Jane involved had made him furious. Yet instead of going to his father—who as head of the family might have handled it discreetly—he had devised his own way to free her. Unfortunately, in the arrogance of youth, he had failed to think beyond the denouement. Jane and Sir Ashley had escaped to Gretna Green, and Mulhouse had turned up naked on Hyde Park Corner during the fashionable hour. But Jane's reputation had suffered for several years afterward, and Sedge had narrowly avoided accompanying Wellesley to Portugal. Yet the memory of Mulhouse's embarrassment and the pretended shock of several formidable dowagers could still raise a grin. Ah, youth. He was older now, and wiser. But without Randolph, his position would be far more precarious. So he had to find out if Elizabeth might suit. If she was likely to make Randolph miserable, then he would do whatever was necessary to prevent this marriage. Rain beat against the windows. His concern for Randolph's happiness did not keep him from enjoying his friend's predicament, of course. Randolph didn't realize it yet, but he had boxed himself into a corner. A woman who decried coercion was not going to like being deceived, and if her previous reactions were indicative, she would treat them to some rare fireworks when the truth emerged. He headed for the door. He must notify the staff that he would dine with his host, then see what Sheldon could put together in the way of evening clothes. He lacked a proper jacket, but his white brocade waistcoat should dress up his morning coat. And he had been perfecting a new knot for his cravat. Maybe this was the evening to test it in public, if Sheldon could master it; until he regained the use of both hands, he would be tying nothing. And perhaps a different hair style. Deliberate dishabille should fit the mixed image he must present. Running footsteps approached along the hallway. An ash-blonde angel raced into the room. Or so she appeared at first glance. Second glance dropped her several notches on the social scale. Her gown was three Seasons out of date and cut far too low for daytime wear. Her hair was coiled into an evening arrangement of knots and curls that made her look like a schoolgirl playing at dress-up. "Help me, sir!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. The impact jarred his broken arm and called attention to several bruises. He gasped in pain, but she ignored it, burrowing closer until he had to grab her with his good arm or fall over backwards. "He is hateful and will ruin me,” she sobbed against his shoulder. He had hardly opened his mouth to respond when the door flew open. She had taken the time to shut it before assaulting him, he realized in growing fury. That angelic shell hid a scheming witch as unscrupulous

as any he had met in Town. "Aha!” shouted Fosdale. “So this is how you repay my hospitality! I will send for a special license immediately. No one trifles with my daughter." "Daughter?” drawled Sedge. “I cannot believe it. None but a serving wench or common whore would offer her wares so openly." The girl screeched, pulling free from his hold. "None of that, my fancy lordling,” protested Fosdale. “I caught you red-handed." "Set me up, you mean,” he growled. “I've never seen this girl in my life, and since she was mere seconds ahead of you, there is no question of anything untoward. Except by you. Is it you who taught her to twitch her fanny so provocatively? Pandering will make your name a byword in Society." "Lies reflect poorly on your character,” declared Fosdale. “You will wed the girl, or I will make your infamy known in every corner of the land, Lord Symington. I doubt such dishonor will sit well with Whitfield." He should have anticipated this, he realized, cursing Fosdale, himself, and fate. Elizabeth must wed the poor relation, but Fosdale could use his younger daughter to attach Symington's title and wealth. And this one was more than willing to cooperate. Despite his insults, her eyes gleamed with triumph. Greed twisted her lips, spoiling her looks. But he would never allow this pair of leeches to succeed. He glared at his host. Yet even as he opened his mouth to reveal their error, he paused. He could not betray Randolph. And nothing would change even if he did, he admitted grimly. Fosdale was impoverished. Revealing Randolph's identity would do no good, since he was already obligated to Elizabeth. But learning the truth would negate Fosdale's promise. He would pressure Elizabeth, who might balk entirely. Or if she accepted him, Randolph would assume that title and fortune had made the difference. Suspicion would tinge their relationship for years to come. Randolph deserved better. And exposing his own identity would reveal a new prize. His fortune was considerable, and the Marquess of Glendale held great power. If Reggie remained adamant, the title would eventually be his. Somehow, he must escape this plot. He felt no need to wed this chit, for her own dishonor condemned her. And he had time. Another storm was battering the valley, making travel impossible. No news was likely to escape into the wider world. He would sign nothing. Either he would undo their scheming on his own, or Randolph would support his denials to Society. If Randolph's impressions of Elizabeth were correct, she might also support him. He was steeling himself to reply when Randolph appeared in the doorway. His expression revealed that he knew exactly what had happened—and why. "Mr. Randolph!” Fosdale was suddenly congenial. “You are just in time to wish my daughter happy. She has accepted Lord Symington's offer of marriage." "I cannot imagine why, since she has never met the gentleman, nor he her,” said Randolph abruptly. "You should know that acquaintance counts for little in aristocratic circles, sir. Whitfield proposed the match some time ago." "Odd that he never mentioned it to me,” said Sedge.

"Or me,” echoed Randolph, “though we discussed every aspect of this errand for quite an hour. It is more likely that the suggestion came from you, and that Whitfield made no response because you refused to answer his questions. Since the girl acts the hussy to perfection, I can understand your secrecy. Prior acquaintance would prevent any offer." She gasped. Fosdale glared, then waved his hand to dismiss the charges. “Run along, Cecilia. His lordship and I must speak in private. Randolph, escort Lady Cecilia to her mother's sitting room." "I won't go,” she declared. “But by all means, send this ignorant lout away. He has no authority to arrange my betrothal. And what does he know of life in London? I will need masses of clothes, including the finest court dress ever designed so I can make my curtsy to the queen." "The queen has not appeared in public since Princess Charlotte's death last November.” Randolph's acerbic interruption raised a flash of fury in her eyes. “Nor is she likely to, for her own health is on the wane." "It matters not.” She waved his objections away. "We will settle the details in a moment,” said Fosdale. “First you must send for a special license, my lord.” He pulled a pen and paper from one pocket and a stoppered inkwell from another. "Not today,” begged Sedge, kneading his temples as though in pain. “Mrs. Hughes was correct. I should have remained abed. I fear I have overtaxed my system.” He swayed perilously. "Let me help you upstairs,” offered Randolph, rushing to catch his friend. Hooking Sedge's arm over his shoulders, he led him away. **** Randolph cursed himself for being late. He should have remained near Cecilia instead of searching for Sedge; he had passed her in the hallway after discovering Sedge's room empty. He at least should have tucked Symington's card case back into Sedge's pocket once he discovered how easy it was to avoid Fosdale. It might have protected him. Now they were all in a pickle. "Are you really fainting?” he murmured once they escaped the sitting room. "No. Merely feigning, a trick that infernal female probably knows all too well, the scheming strumpet!” Sedge straightened, fury blazing in his eyes. “Is there anywhere in this accursed place where we can be private?" "The library. Elizabeth is the only one who ever goes there." "I don't even want Elizabeth around just now,” snarled Sedge. "She left an hour ago to tend a sick tenant. And she would not be shocked anyway. She warned me that Cecilia might be plotting your downfall. That's why I was looking for you." "Why didn't she do so sooner?" "She posted servants to keep Cecilia away from your room, not realizing that you were too stubborn to follow orders. You can hardly blame her for not baring her family's dirty linen to a complete stranger. And when could she have done so? Fosdale has plotted to catch her alone with Symington since before we arrived."

They reached the library. Randolph locked the door, then led the way to the far end, fastening that door as well before turning to Sedge. "What happened?" Sedge explained. “There is no doubt they are working together. But your arrival helped, for I was able to avoid any commitment." "I can't believe you called her a whore and him a procurer!" "You called her a hussy." "She is, and an antidote as well when greed twists her face." "Agreed." Randolph sighed, pacing to the window and back. “What a coil! You are correct, though. Revealing my identity will only make the situation worse. Elizabeth is the most stubborn woman alive. She will defy her father's orders, even if doing so damages her own interests." "Then how can you expect her to ever accept you?” demanded Sedge. "Fosdale is not pressuring her at the moment." "He is actually holding to that promise?" "So far, though if he learns who I am, all bets are off. Not only did I compromise her that first night, I've repeated the offense several times since. She changed the dressings on this beastly shoulder until yesterday, since I am not in a position to demand valet service.” He flexed the offending joint. "He doesn't care?" "He doesn't know. I doubt he has the slightest idea how she passes her time. Or how I do. He doesn't care what methods I use to bring her round, for he only wants to get rid of her—as lucratively as possible.” His voice had taken on a deadly tone. "You may accept marriage, but I will not,” said Sedge. “I had nothing to do with creating this mess, nor do I care to tie myself to a selfish, despicable schemer. But revealing my identity will do no good, for my position is high enough to satisfy both of them." A crash of thunder shook the windows. “Thank God for this storm. It gives us time, and Elizabeth told me enough that you should be able to escape." "How?" Leaning against the mantel, Randolph stared into the fire. “Fosdale has already accepted another offer for Cecilia's hand. Only the man's trip to Carlisle prevented the settlements from being signed." "So how can he cry compromise? A lady betrothed has far more leeway than an innocent." "Which proves his lack of scruples and the dearth of honor in this house,” growled Randolph. "But can I blame her if he forced her into staging that scene?" "He did nothing but agree with her plan. The idea was entirely hers. You have no obligation to accept

their plot.” He bit his lip. “I need to discover her feelings for this other suitor." "If she had any, she would not have trapped Symington." "Not necessarily. Whatever Fosdale's failings, I don't believe that Cecilia is your typical fortune hunter. Her goal is entrée into London society. Elizabeth claims that the girl is obsessed with ridiculous fantasies. Once we discover the details, we can debunk them and give her such a disgust of you that she will flee this match faster than she promoted it." "Will Fosdale allow that?" "If he doesn't, I will destroy him. The man is unworthy of respect.” He paced for several minutes. “I have it. When I reveal my identity, I will admit that we planned this masquerade so I could discern his true character. The match had been proposed by the previous Fosdale. Lady Elizabeth seemed everything honorable, but we had reservations about allying the duchy with a man reputed to be a cruel, scheming miser." "That's good.” Sedge relaxed enough to laugh. “He will bend over backwards to protect his tie to Whitfield." "And find out too late that no tie exists. I will not allow him to annoy Elizabeth." "But what will Elizabeth think of the masquerade? If she was furious at the idea of a forced wedding, won't she be more furious to discover that her grandfather arranged a marriage without telling her?" "I will meet that challenge when and if it arises. And frankly, I believe her grandfather did propose such a match. Why else would Whitfield set me up like this?” He explained about the Chaucer. "Matchmakers!” Sedge snorted. "Short of becoming hermits, we can't escape them,” agreed Randolph. "Good luck. So the plan is to prick Cecilia's fantasies?" "Right. I will discover the details when Elizabeth returns, but for now, you had best let everyone know that Symington hates London society. It's true enough." "Hate is a little strong, I believe. Disgust is closer to the truth." "Let's not bandy words, Sedge. For the purposes of deflecting Cecilia, hatred may not be strong enough." They continued planning. Sedge would suffer a relapse that would keep him abed at least until morning. Hopefully, by then they would have specific information. If not, Sedge would content himself with contradicting anything Cecilia said. Randolph escorted Sedge back to his room, staying an hour to make sure Cecilia would not press her claims. When he left, he dropped his servile facade long enough to order the footman still stationed in the hall to forbid any visitors until Mrs. Hughes brought up the dinner tray. He should be back by then.

CHAPTER NINE Randolph paced the schoolroom, pausing to stare out the window on each circuit. He had chosen this vantage point because it offered a clear view of the path that led to the Wilson farm. Learning which path Elizabeth would use had been surprisingly simple, a testament to his odd place in the household. No one had seemed shocked when he'd showed up in the kitchen. All had readily talked to him. Not only did they identify the route to Wilson's farm, they had revealed that Elizabeth was on foot. Her horse had survived the accident, but he'd turned up lame and could not be ridden for at least a fortnight. Fosdale had refused permission to ride another animal. It was yet another of his petty tyrannies. So Randolph had positioned himself where he could spot her return. He needed to discuss the day's events, and he preferred to be the one who broke the news. But as the hours passed, he had to wonder if he had missed her. Had she called somewhere else so she would return by a different route? He was on the verge of inquiring below stairs again, when she popped up almost beneath him, heading for a side entrance that would bypass the servants’ hall. He grimaced, for he could not reach the door before her. But surely she would freshen up before doing anything else. **** "What are you doing?” demanded Elizabeth. Mr. Randolph had just walked into her room as if he owned it, locking the door behind him. He shrugged. “This is no more compromising than any other meeting we have held." "Of course it is. You are in my bedroom!” She considered shooing him into her sitting room next door, but that wouldn't work, either. Her desk was littered with papers she dared not let him see. She shook her head, flustered by his presence, in part because it seemed so deliciously illicit. For some reason, this felt far more intimate than the times she had entered his bedchamber to change the dressings on his shoulder. Warmth stained her cheeks. Her fingers tingled with the memory of those touches. She cursed. But he didn't notice. He was looking doubtfully at the decor. “I would not have guessed you were the chintz sort." "I am not. Mother chose the furnishings. Fosdale refused to allow a child any say in the matter—this despite that I was sixteen at the time and that Mother had never exhibited a lick of sense." "Did she do the same for Cecilia?" She nodded, grateful for a neutral topic. “But Cecilia's tastes have always matched hers. I am the ungrateful daughter whose lack of sensibility places unbearable burdens on her nerves.” She stopped the bitterness before she revealed too much, for her mother erroneously believed that Elizabeth's refusal to espouse her interests—which had resulted in numerous tearful confrontations over the years—had turned Fosdale against them all. “It was the only time he allowed her to redecorate anything, so she gave me no say in the matter." Randolph watched the emotions flit across her face. His chat with the servants had convinced him that every member of the family was engaged in an endless struggle for identity and power, which undoubtedly contributed to her vow of eternal spinsterhood. How could he persuade her that marriage need not lead to war?

"Please go before someone discovers you here,” she begged. "It would change nothing.” He cut off the expected protest with a wave of his hand. “Later. We have more serious business to discuss." "We do?" "Symington had already left his room before I could deliver your warning." "Dear Lord!” She blanched. "Exactly. Your sister did not waste any time. Fosdale found them together in a sitting room." "I should have expected her to enlist his help.” She snapped her mouth shut as if she had not intended to reveal the thought. "This is no time for polite niceties, Elizabeth,” he said, then ignored her glare at his familiarity. “My opinion of Lady Cecilia cannot be stated in polite company, and your father is worse. But that does not reflect on you,” he added, realizing that he was digging his own hole deeper. “I know you disapprove of forced marriage, so I assume you will help to prevent this one." "Of course.” Confusion swirled in her eyes. "Thank you. The best way to effect Symington's escape is to give Cecilia a disgust of him and convince her that whatever fantasies she harbors can never become fact. So I must know the exact details." "Why work to free Symington when you have made no effort to escape your own coil?” she asked slowly. He heard the bitterness in her tone. And another note he could not identify. “Our situation is entirely different, Elizabeth. You in no way schemed to trap me. In fact, I brought about the situation entirely on my own. And I do not find the idea repellent." "So you say, but honor often prompts gentlemen to lie." "What? No gentleman can hold his head up after perpetrating a lie.” But the words echoed hollowly in his head, for he could hardly deny that his entire life was a lie just now. Perhaps she saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, for she shook her head. "Men lie often,” she claimed. “Particularly when honor demands that they act against self-interest. It would be wiser to accept the truth, regardless of honor's demands. A forced union is bound to raise bitterness that will influence the relationship for life." The words froze something in his chest. “May we please postpone discussing our own future until later?" She sighed, but nodded. "Thank you. At the moment, I am more concerned about Symington. I cannot stand by and see him ruined by a pair of greedy schemers." "I cannot condone either of them, but how can Symington escape? I thought no gentleman could cry off a betrothal without destroying his reputation." "True, but he suffered a relapse and escaped before he agreed to anything. Your father believes a betrothal exists, but since Symington neither made an offer nor accepted one, he can honorably refuse."

"Then where is the problem?" He clamped his lips together, forcing her to answer the question herself. "Fosdale will tell everyone that Symington debauched Cecilia, then refused to do the honorable thing. Even if most people accept Symington's word, his reputation will suffer.” Anger flashed in her eyes. "Exactly. There are always those who believe the worst about everyone. So we must force Cecilia to cry off. You said she had unreasonable ideas about London society. What exactly did you mean?" She hesitated. "Please, Elizabeth? I know you feel loyal to your sister—and I must share the details with Symington— but I swear they will go no further. I have no interest in besmirching your family.” But he did have another reason for asking. Understanding her family's foibles could shed more light on their internal power struggles, making it easier to overcome her aversion to marriage. He stifled the thought lest it show on his face. "Very well.” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, then stared out the window. “To understand Cecilia, you must understand my parents, though I suppose it really goes back to Grandfather." "I thought you were close to him." "I was. But he caused most of Fosdale's dissatisfaction. And that led to Cecilia's fantasies." "She dreams of escaping Ravenswood?" "And Cumberland.” She sighed. “Grandfather acceded to the title while he was still in school and achieved control of his fortune at five-and-twenty. He was the first to admit that he was not ready for such responsibility, having fallen in with the macaroni set." "That was hardly a crime,” he protested, for Whitfield had belonged to that same group. Only after she turned to stare did he recall that he was supposed to have no personal interest in this tale. She resumed watching the storm. “Perhaps, but his immediate circle of friends spent more time at the French court than in England. They were dissipated wastrels, interested only in wine, women, and deep gaming. Few lived to see forty, the rest dying of accident or in affairs of honor.” She choked on the word. Randolph stifled another protest, for she was not describing the duke he knew. “Symington told me that Whitfield was one of your grandfather's friends,” he said carefully. “Were both involved in that?" She nodded, abandoning the view to meet his eye. “Whitfield held the Wyndport title at the time and as far as I can tell was the most stable gentleman of the group. Not that it mattered." He raised a brow. "Grandfather—like all gentlemen—had an exaggerated faith in his own abilities. He considered himself immune to the stupidities other young men committed. He did not recognize his own foolishness until the night he lost nearly every penny he had inherited to a French comte. That sobered him. And he did demonstrate a modicum of sense. Instead of trying to recoup, he returned home. Wyndport was appalled and also quitted Paris. I suspect he might have felt a trifle guilty, for it was he who had introduced Grandfather to the comte."

Guilt. Was that why the duke had pushed this match? Was he still trying to make up for leading his friend astray? “Wyndport could hardly be responsible for the losses,” he protested in defense of his grandfather. “No one forced Fosdale to wager everything he owned." "I forgot you are also related to the man, but you need not argue, for I agree. People are responsible for their own actions. I know that Wyndport was shocked, but if he felt any responsibility, it was because he learned the lesson without personally paying the price. He had also been betting heavily, but after Grandfather's disaster, he gave up gaming. Or perhaps there was something havey-cavey about the game that he believed he should have spotted." "You think someone cheated?" "How could I know? Even Grandfather never mentioned such a possibility. But Wyndport accompanied him back to England and never returned to France." Her tale explained much. Whitfield had a reputation as a puritan and had often lectured about the evils of wagering, especially when combined with heavy drinking. “How much of his inheritance did Fosdale keep?" "Ravenswood and a small house in London. He lost two other estates and all his money. Selling the house raised enough to keep Ravenswood operating, but its income only supports the estate itself. He refused to go into debt, so he could never return to Town or even visit one of the spas. Thus he failed to find a well-dowered wife. My grandmother was the daughter of a nearby squire.” She sighed. “Not that I hold that against her, for she was a wonderful, loving woman. But Fosdale still feels the sting of what he considers his questionable breeding." "Thus his determination to forge connections to a duke.” His voice was cold. And not just because of Fosdale's plots. What had the man done to Elizabeth? Only now did he realize that she referred to her father only by title, never acknowledging a blood tie. "That is part of it, I suppose. But his first goal is wealth. He never forgave Grandfather for losing the family fortune. Though he attended good schools, his allowance was smaller than the other boys received, making him the butt of many jokes. It hardened him, according to Grandmother, feeding his determination to recoup. So he threw himself at the most prominent heiresses in England, earning a name as a flagrant fortune hunter. Naturally, that closed many doors." "But surely the estate supported a comfortable living,” he said, thinking of those books in the library. “Why is it that money was still so tight if Fosdale abandoned gaming?" She shook her head. “You grew up in the south, but northern England is quite different. The fields produce well, but much of our land lies on the mountains, which cannot be tilled. The hillsides aren't even good for grazing, for little of the growth is grass. The estate keeps us fed and clothed, but even repairs must be postponed in bad years. With all this rain, the coming year will be an especially lean one. Our tenants will suffer greatly." "So your father failed to find a rich wife,” he repeated, returning to her narrative. "He finally gave up and settled on siring an heir. Lord Bornhill has an estate in the next valley. He was equally impoverished at the time and grateful to find a match for his only daughter. His sister Constance hadn't been so lucky. She remained a spinster and now lives in the dower house. I was returning from a visit when we met." "An unforgettable meeting,” he said, daring a smile.

She laughed. “That it was.” But her face quickly returned to a frown. “Mother accepted the match because he offered an escape from spinsterhood—and because she knew he had visited London, though I doubt she understood how short his stay actually was. She had always dreamed of an elaborate London Season, where she would be swept off her feet by a handsome, wealthy gentleman and carried away to live happily ever after." "Not an unusual dream." "For young girls,” she agreed. “But Mother was already five-and-twenty. Most people learn to distinguish fact from fantasy as they mature. But she never did. Fosdale swore that he would someday recoup his fortune. She has lived on that promise since the day he proposed. Whenever things look dark, she loses herself in air dreams where she is hailed as Society's darling and adored by everyone she meets. The dream has hardly changed in twenty-five years. At times I think she believes it really happened." How sad—and disturbing. She would hardly be the first person to retreat from reality, but he thought people used that defense only to escape intolerable lives. What had Fosdale done to her? And how had it affected Elizabeth? But that must wait until later. Sedge's problems took precedence. He took a turn around the room. “I take it she passed her fantasies to Cecilia?" "She did.” Shaking her head, she let out a disgusted sigh. “But that is not the problem. As you pointed out, many girls share that dream." "But not you." "I have more sense, and I have read widely. Unfortunately, Cecilia expanded Mother's dream, adding to the fantasy." "How?" "It is difficult to explain,” she admitted, pacing. “All these years, Mother's images of London have sustained her, allowing her to ignore Fosdale's abuses." "He abuses her?” His tone had a hard edge that brought a flush to her face. "Not that way. I've never known him to strike anyone. But he enjoys humiliating her, and he uses the promise of London to ensure obedience—not that he would ever take her there,” she added bitterly. "So she escapes his derision by dreaming,” he said evenly. "Quite successfully. But that provides an unfortunate example for Cecilia. She now sees London as a panacea for all ills. Thus living there will guarantee a long and ecstatically happy life." "That should be easy enough to disprove. The London papers contain ample evidence to the contrary." "I did not use the word obsessed lightly,” she warned. “She discounts news stories, for a tale becomes news only if it is out of the ordinary." He choked. "We have held this discussion too often for me to mistake her reaction. She can also cite chapter and verse from myriad romantic novels to support her views." "Good God!"

"Quite. Now there is a slight chance that you might succeed where I did not—after all, she knows I have never visited Town. She told me quite recently that Lord Symington, being a London gentleman, will prove my contentions false and reveal me as a jealous antidote seeking to deprive her of her rightful place in the world by locking her into a position as my lifelong companion.” His choking increased, but she continued without pause. “You can set her straight on that score, for you must have been there." "Not often. I am not overly fond of the place." "How about Symington?" "He hates it. Society is a frivolous collection of toadeaters, fortune hunters, and title seekers, whose antics make it impossible to poke m—one's nose out the door without being trampled.” He forced the passion from his voice—she was staring—and quickly changed the subject. “Tell me of this neighbor who has offered for Cecilia." She continued to stare for nearly a minute before complying. “He owns the next estate and is a perfectly proper gentleman, but I cannot imagine that you would know him." He bit off a more specific question, for Mr. Randolph had few connections. Raising further suspicions would expose him. He had already come too close by not weighing his words before releasing them. Elizabeth settled into a chair. “He has been courting Cecilia for two years. She enjoys his company but has steadfastly refused to consider marriage. Personally, I believe she harbors a strong tendre for him, though she will never admit it. Her obsession with London obscures everything else." "Why would she not be content with going to London as his wife?" "He has never promised to take her.” She frowned. “Actually, he has never admitted to being there himself, though he must have done so, for he is often absent for months at a time. It is only in the last two years that he has stayed home." "Do any rumors hint that he might have lost his fortune as your grandfather did?" "No, though I know little of his finances. His mother fell ill two years ago. She lives in Carlisle now, to be near her doctor. He visits often." Randolph let the subject drop. If Sedge wanted to know more about the suitor, he could ask. He paced to the window and back. “So your mother has never been out in Society, but always longed to. She passed that yearning on to Cecilia, who added her own exaggerations and misconceptions to the tale and now refuses to consider any other life." "That sums it up quite nicely. Rather than accept a local man, she schemed to trap Symington, believing that all her dreams will now be fulfilled." "Good. That gives us a starting point. She will be surprised to learn that Symington has avoided London for years. He dislikes crowds, noise, filth, and the shallow posturing of Society." "To say nothing of the importuning hordes,” she added, grinning. "All gospel, by the way. What specifically does she expect to find in Town?" "As to the city itself, I doubt gold-paved streets and fairy-tale castles would surprise her. She sees it as a collection of glittering ballrooms and pleasure parks."

"The only pleasure park left is Vauxhall, but the highest sticklers are shunning it these days. Since the Vauxhall Bridge opened, it has been overrun with undesirables. Even the entertainment is now aimed at the merchant classes. In fact, it may cease to exist altogether. The Reverend Barrett recently inherited the place. Believing its operation to be incompatible with his position in the world, he plans to auction it next month." "I've seen no notice in the paper.” She glared suspiciously. He cursed under his breath, then shrugged. “I have many correspondents.” Actually, Sedge had mentioned it. Sedge had conducted many a discreet liaison in its darker byways over the years, so its slide into mediocrity had saddened him. But it was again time to shift the focus. “How does Cecilia feel about Society itself?" "It consists of hordes of males ready to fall at her feet in admiration,” she said wryly. “She expects to be the subject of at least one duel a day." "Doesn't she know that dueling is illegal?" "I've mentioned it, but she hears only what she wishes to hear.” She shrugged. “As far as she is concerned, the only thing that might interrupt incessant partying would be secret assignations with passionate admirers—all very chivalrous, of course." "Of course. What about museums, theater, opera, and the daily social calls on other great ladies?" She laughed. “I told you her fantasies were ridiculous. I have tried to convince her that London differs from Cumberland only in scope. The activities are much the same, though formal entertaining occurs more frequently. One of her objections to country life is paying calls. Talking is so boring, and the endless gossip so trite. Unless conversation focuses on her appearance or her accomplishments, it is of no possible interest." He nodded. “So what does she consider to be endless gossip?" "Who is expecting a blessed event, the mischief children get into, the difficulty in finding good servants..." "In other words, the things ladies always discuss,” he said, interrupting. “What about the details of who is courting whom?" "That is more interesting, of course. But only because she believes that she can win any man she wants, so she looks down on the puny efforts of others to snare a husband." "So we can add arrogance to her fantasies." She glared. “Cecilia is a sweet girl who has a core of common sense about most things. Only on this one subject is she lacking." "I did not mean to impugn her nature,” he quickly claimed. “But I need a very clear picture of her expectations if we are succeed. What about the other activities?" She resumed her pacing. “Cecilia would abhor museums. I don't know about theater, for she hates reading anything but novels. But she would probably enjoy the farces. And I believe the theater offers another arena in which to display one's beauty and conquests, so she would likely approve. You must understand that she has always been the neighborhood beauty, so she expects everyone to pay homage to her. And she may even believe that a prince will demand her hand."

"He would have to be foreign, then,” he said with a laugh. “Our own princes are aged roués who are being forced into wedlock only because Princess Charlotte's death leaves us with no heir to the throne. Emissaries are already swarming over the Continent. But even if the royal family allowed them to choose an English lady rather than yet another German princess, I doubt any of them would make acceptable husbands." "Too true. I sometimes wish we could manage a London Season. The shock might convince Cecilia that she will be happier living here. Our neighbor truly does love her." "I would try to arrange it if it were not already too late. Now that she has staged her compromise, we cannot allow her near Society." "I know.” She frowned. "Does she expect to live permanently in London after marriage?" "I do not know if she has worked out the details, though she certainly expects to spend every Season there. And she has heard that Brighton is popular. Is it true that the Regent has built a fairy tale palace there?" "The Pavilion.” He rolled his eyes. “It is an abomination. We had best not describe that, for it would certainly appeal to someone with Cecilia's fantasies. However, repeating the comments others have made of the building might have the proper effect. Grotesque monstrosity is one of the kinder descriptions." "It would be better to call it dull, or a waste of money. She is drawn to both underdogs and the unusual." "Very well. I have convinced Symington to remain abed until tomorrow. He can begin his campaign then." "You can start tonight, sir,” she countered. “I will expect you at dinner. We rarely dress when dining en famille, so you needn't fret over your limited wardrobe. In the meantime, I must chide Cecilia for this latest start." "Do not be too hard on her,” he warned, unlocking the door. “If she digs in her heels too firmly, she may ignore anything we say." Checking to see that the hall was clear, he slipped out and reported to Sedge.

CHAPTER TEN Randolph left Sedge to his tray and joined the family for dinner. It was just as well that Sedge was remaining upstairs, for his temper was still hot. Faced with Cecilia and Fosdale, he would likely say something he would later regret. Though he agreed with Elizabeth that they must tackle Cecilia immediately, he deliberately arrived in the drawing room at the last minute. Thus he avoided any tête-à-têtes before he could form impressions of the family. So far, he had met Fosdale twice and Cecilia once, all under confrontational conditions. He had yet to see Lady Fosdale. The oddity of his position was responsible, of course. As Symington's friend, Whitfield's employee, and Elizabeth's suitor, he had been given a decent room. Yet only Elizabeth had made any pretense of welcoming him. Though he had decided upon arrival to take his meals with Sedge, he had never been offered an alternative. Elizabeth's order had been his first invitation to join the family. Elizabeth was entering the drawing room as he descended the stairs. Lady Fosdale's greeting hinted that the girl had not eaten with them in weeks. Another oddity. He knew she had nursed John Coachman through his critical period, but several days had passed since his fever had broken, and he had now improved enough to move out to the stables. Lady Fosdale strongly resembled Cecilia, though her blonde hair was liberally streaked with gray, making her eyes appear bluer. But she lacked Cecilia's vibrancy. However much he deplored the chit's actions, London would proclaim her a diamond if she ever managed a come-out—not that he would admit that aloud. Both ladies greeted him coolly. The flare of fury in Cecilia's eyes made him regret taunting her earlier, but his smile must have hidden his disgust, for she soon relaxed. Or perhaps flirtation was so automatic that she tried it on everyone, he decided, as he led Elizabeth into the dining room. Dinner seemed interminable, though it was actually one of the shorter meals he had endured in company. "I will send for a special license in the morning,” announced Lord Fosdale over the soup. Randolph glanced at the windows. Despite their heavy draperies, he could hear the rain beating upon the glass. For the first time since his arrival, he prayed for it to continue. No messenger could travel in this weather. "No one can be spared for at least two days,” said Elizabeth calmly. “The steward needs every available hand to clear that debris jam on the river. The only footman not helping is Ted, who is too young and too forgetful to send to London on his own." "Then I will find someone else." "And risk flooding the fields so badly that no crops will grow this year? Half of them are already under water. Every able-bodied man in the valley is clearing debris or repairing roofs damaged in last week's gale." Fosdale frowned. "Two days should make no difference." "Speak for yourself,” snapped Cecilia. “My marriage is far more important than a couple of silly fields."

"Elizabeth is right,” conceded Fosdale, flashing a quelling look at his younger daughter. "Why waste money on a special license?” asked Lady Fosdale. “Surely Lord Symington will wish a London wedding." "That would cost far more than a license and take too long to arrange. Even calling banns here would take too long, for he would need paperwork from his home parish before we could begin.” Steel threaded Fosdale's voice. “No lord would tolerate such a delay after compromising a lady." Randolph nearly choked over the lie. An immediate marriage would declare to all and sundry that something havey-cavey had precipitated the union, thus tarnishing the reputations of both parties. No heir to a duchy would consider it unless the girl were increasing. But Fosdale's reasoning was clear. He wanted an immediate wedding to prevent Symington from escaping his clutches. Holding it here would both reduce the expense and prevent his wife from joining Society. He wondered why the man didn't just pack them all off to Scotland. It would be far faster than sending a messenger to London for a license. Not that he would suggest such a thing. At least Elizabeth had won a brief reprieve. Bless her for finding a way to delay the messenger. And he must remember this tactic. Fosdale's purse seemed to take precedence over everything. He met her eyes and smiled. Lady Fosdale stifled her disappointment at missing another opportunity to see London. “An immediate wedding means we must waste no time in gathering your trousseau, Cecilia. And yours,” she added, turning her eyes to Elizabeth. Elizabeth glared back. Randolph changed the subject before Elizabeth's temper exploded. This must be why she had been avoiding her family. Was Lady Fosdale also anxious to see the last of her daughter, or had Fosdale delegated her to apply pressure as a way around his own pledge? “The Chaucer is in excellent condition, my lord. The parchment is foxed, of course, and several corners are missing, but that is inevitable, considering its age." "I know it is in excellent condition,” he said sharply. “Despite his considerable failings, my father took care of his books. How dare the duke imply otherwise!" "The duke never makes assumptions,” he snapped, then realized that he was out of character again. An employee would not speak so. He forced his hands to relax. “Proper care does not always suffice to protect ancient works, as even the most scrupulous collectors know. Just last autumn, a mouse damaged Symington's first edition of Shakespeare's Othello. He was furious." "He has a temper?” asked Cecilia. "At times." "And when would those times be?” asked Elizabeth, giving him an opening, though he could not like using it. He needed to think more carefully before speaking. What portrayal of Symington's character would discourage Cecilia without giving Elizabeth a permanent disgust of him? "Whenever carelessness damages one of his prized possessions or someone threatens one of his friends,” he said quietly. “He was so furious that he demanded the severest penalty from the culprit who let the

mouse in, refusing to accept even reasonable excuses.” He did not mention that the fault had been his, a fact he'd known the moment he found the creature. He now ate all meals in the dining room lest crumbs again entice pests. And he no longer opened the library windows after dark. "So he would protect his wife,” said Cecilia smugly. "Only if he cared for her. But do not think that a pretty face will sway his opinion,” he added, noting the arrogance in her eyes. “He judges solely on actions and character. He despises coercion, so any attempt to control his behavior is doomed to failure. In fact, Whitfield is the only man I know who has any influence over him. He complained for much of our journey that the duke had ordered him to London for the Season." "What?” Cecilia sounded like she had swallowed something rotten. "He usually avoids Town, for he hates Society, preferring quiet study at Orchards. Surely you know that he shares the duke's love of books and scholarly pursuits." Cecilia was coughing into her serviette. Elizabeth signaled a footman to refill her glass. “One must applaud a man who knows his own mind and resists efforts to force him down paths not of his choosing. Coercion is abhorrent in any form.” She flashed stony looks at Cecilia, Fosdale, and finally himself. “Any man can benefit from opposing tyranny, whatever its disguise." "Very true, but one must judge tyranny separately from the goal it pursues. A man can repudiate coercion, yet freely choose the same path for himself.” He held her gaze for a long moment. Further reply was delayed by the arrival of the next course. Elizabeth was digging her heels in again. He must convince her that his offer was made by choice and was not solely the result of honor. It would take considerable effort, particularly if her parents tried to press her. But that was for later. Now they must convince Cecilia that she had made a grievous mistake in attaching Symington, though he would say no more about Symington's character. Far better to cast doubt on the tales Cecilia read. Perhaps his position as a book expert would add weight to his criticisms. A glance at Elizabeth proved that her thoughts were moving in the same direction. It was almost as though he could read her mind. Smiling, he began a spirited debate, comparing Thomas Love Peacock's novels to the Waverly books. As expected, Cecilia declared that neither author could compare to her beloved gothic tales. "They are quite exciting,” agreed Elizabeth. “As long as one remembers that they are fantasy stories set in imaginary places. And even those that seem to be sited in England are often wildly exaggerated. Since one would never recognize our own Lake District from their descriptions, I cannot believe they do any better with London." "You miss the point,” swore Cecilia. “No writers live here, so they cannot know the truth. But everyone is familiar with London." "Talk about fantasy! Wordsworth lives only a few miles from here. Not only is he visited by many of the top writers in the country, but both writers and artists consider the Lake District an ideal place to spend a holiday. Yet you are right that most writers know London. Shelley wrote only recently that Hell is a city much like London—a populous and smoky city."

"Hardly surprising that he fled to Switzerland, then,” said Cecilia. “But he is so scandalous that I can hardly consider his opinions seriously." "In his personal life that is true, though he wed the girl in the end. But we have drifted far afield. My point is that stories like your romances, which are pure fantasy, have no need to portray real settings." "Not all romances are fantasy,” protested Randolph. “While many of the gothic tales published by the Minerva Press bear little resemblance to the real world, I have found the writings of Jane Austen and Mary Selkirk to be quite enjoyable and true to life." Elizabeth flushed, but she was looking at her plate, so he could not tell why. Was she upset that he did not condemn all novels? But making such a comprehensive misstatement would prove that he was close-minded, allowing Cecilia to ignore his words. She had already ignored Shelley, on the excuse that his elopement with a fourteen-year-old girl made his opinions unsound. His wife's suicide the following year had worsened the scandal. Shelley had ignored it, married the girl, and returned to England, where the Examiner had welcomed him and was now printing his poetry. Elizabeth pulled his mind back to the discussion. “Miss Austen was indeed true to life. Alas, the two books just published were the only others she had completed before her untimely death. She will be sorely missed." "By some, perhaps,” said Cecilia. “I find her stories rather boring, for nothing much happens." "But that defines much of their appeal.” Elizabeth ignored her father's protest. He was clearly irritated by this topic of conversation. "Very true,” said Randolph. “Her characters are delightful, for their attitudes and behavior match many of my friends. I derive the same satisfaction from Mary Selkirk's work, for I can always find people I know on the pages." Cecilia muttered something that sounded like, “What a boring life you must lead." Elizabeth shrugged. “They appeal to similar readers because they tell realistic stories about realistic people—which are far more believable than tales of mad abductions and of questionable rescues from improbable places by heroes who must be horridly uncomfortable to live with. And enduring constant upset must be quite disagreeable for the heroines." Fosdale was ready to burst into derision of all books, so Randolph changed the subject. They had given Cecilia enough to think about for the moment. “Is constant rain usual for this part of Cumberland?” he asked his host. "Not this prolonged." "Symington is becoming concerned about his baggage coach. It was cut off when the bridge washed out near Parinfel, but he had expected it by now despite this rain." Fosdale frowned. “It might have met with other difficulties—all roads are suffering this year. More than one is blocked by mud, so much depends on the route they chose. The shortest detour would take them west to the coast, though I expect that road is quite treacherous at the moment. The best route would circle through Keswick. Yet there are people who might direct them via Carlisle." Randolph frowned, turning the conversation to the effect the weather would have on planting, even if the blockage on the river was quickly dispersed. Jacob, the undercoachman driving his baggage coach, was both intelligent and resourceful. He would not have been misdirected all the way to Carlisle.

Another gust of wind rattled the windows. Jacob would not be traveling after dark in such a storm, but he would arrive shortly—with luck, tomorrow. He had a plan that would postpone his exposure and take care of Fosdale's insistence on sending for a special license. He could not allow word of Symington's faux betrothal to escape the valley. But success demanded that he meet the baggage coach before it arrived at the Manor. A few innocuous questions started Fosdale on a monologue of estate problems. The earl thought nothing of monopolizing a conversation with so inferior a guest. Nor did he care a whit about cutting the ladies out entirely. They seemed accustomed to hearing a litany of complaints over dinner, for no one tried to deflect Fosdale's tirade. All ate quickly and efficiently, their eyes rarely rising from their plates. Lady Fosdale had not said a word since Fosdale's quelling glance at the mention of trousseaux. The girls could expect no wardrobe from their clutch-fisted father. He could not imagine either his mother or his grandmother allowing one person to dominate table conversation. Nor would they have allowed business discussions during dinner. Did Elizabeth know no better, or did she find it easier to let her father dictate table manners? The question raised the entire issue of Elizabeth's training. For his own part, he had no complaints, finding her delightful in every way. But his feelings would not influence others. Since her parents had never entered Society, would she understand the expectations of the haut ton? He must discover some way of asking the question that would not insult her. And he must do it soon. Regardless of his own preferences, his grandfather demanded obedience. Whitfield would insist on a London wedding, probably at Westminster. Never mind that the groom preferred a quiet country existence. Never mind that his father was confined to bed. The Dukes of Whitfield had married at Westminster for centuries. He would not be allowed to break with tradition. So Elizabeth would have to endure at least part of a London Season. And she must comport herself properly—not that he had any real fears on that score. She believed that Jane Austen and Mary Selkirk offered realistic portrayals of Society. Both relied heavily on manners in devising their plots. But that was for later. The ladies retired to the drawing room. He declined port, excusing himself to check on Symington's condition. His escape allowed him to relax for the first time in hours, though he did not immediately head upstairs. Time was short, so he must give Cecilia additional food for thought. And Elizabeth could probably use some assistance. "You know I have no intention of wedding anyone!” Elizabeth's voice carried beyond the drawing room as he approached. Damn! Even in this brief interval, Lady Fosdale had raised the issue. Somehow, he must convince the woman to drop the subject. "You have no cho—" "Please join us, Mr. Randolph,” said Elizabeth, interrupting Lady Fosdale when he appeared in the doorway. She seemed relieved to see him, which boded well. "Thank you, my lady.” He accepted coffee and sat down where he could catch Elizabeth's eye. “It always amazes me when people assume that a problem has only one solution. That might be true of numbers—summing a pair of twos must always yield four—but most situations can be resolved in many

ways." "Such as whether to wed?” Elizabeth's eyes challenged him. "Exactly." "B-but, of course she must wed,” sputtered Lady Fosdale. “Society will shun her if she does not." "A grievous result, to be sure,” he agreed calmly. “But that is my point. Whether one weds is a choice. Every choice has a variety of effects.” He stared at his audience. “Every choice. If one wishes to choose wisely, one must understand the consequences of each option. I have found that no two people weigh the consequences in quite the same way. Yet that does not make any choice wrong. It merely demonstrates the differences among people." Elizabeth was frowning, as if she mistrusted his words. Neither of the girls took him seriously, because neither yet understood where their current paths would lead. But again he backed off. Pressing too blatantly would put their backs up. He had given them something to mull. Later, he would add new ideas. But for now, he would content himself with stirring up a little trouble and pushing Lady Fosdale's thoughts in another direction. He turned to her. “If his lordship is set on obtaining a special license, Lady Cecilia could be wed in two or three weeks. Will you be holding a betrothal ball or will you settle for a simple wedding breakfast?" "I-I hadn't considered,” she said, floundering. "You have little time for planning. A man of Symington's stature usually weds with considerable pomp. Whitfield would be appalled if the niceties were not observed." "We must have a ball!” Cecilia was so excited at the prospect that she all but leaped to her feet. "It would be a woeful affair,” countered her mother. “Few people live nearby. And in this weather, it would take weeks merely to send out invitations. I expect nearly everyone would decline. Not only are we unknown outside of this valley, but traveling is impossible just now." "Symington's standing would guarantee a large attendance,” insisted Cecilia. "Whitfield's might,” he said, correcting her firmly. “If he were to attend, but that is impossible given his current state of health. Symington lives as a recluse, so his name would hardly draw a crowd. Everyone knows he disdains frivolity." "Besides, your father would never allow the expense,” admitted Lady Fosdale, flushing with embarrassment at revealing such a truth to a virtual stranger. "And not just the expense of a ball,” said Elizabeth. “You know we haven't enough linens to furnish more than a dozen bedchambers. Nor do we have the stabling or servants to handle more than a few guests. Where would these mythical visitors stay? Raven's Rook?" "Then we must wed in London during the Season,” decided Cecilia. “You said that Whitfield has already ordered Symington to Town." "Only to settle his betrothal. Since that is no longer necessary, he need not comply.” He shrugged. "Discussion is pointless, because Fosdale will never agree,” said Elizabeth. “Lord Symington will have to reconcile himself to a wedding without pomp. If that annoys him, he must accept that even great lords

must sometimes make sacrifices." "He will be delighted,” said Randolph. “Avoiding a formal celebration might be enough to make this match attractive. He will be able to immediately return to Orchards and resume his studies." "Orchards?” shrieked Cecilia. "His estate. He leaves it only when summoned to Whitfield Castle." "But surely he visits London often! A lord of his stature must live there much of the year." Obviously she had not believed a word he had said. He suppressed a sigh. “Why would he? Only those seeking brides frequent the Marriage Mart. You have saved him from wasting months of his valuable study time." Cecilia's temper shattered. “Papa might cheat me out of a wedding, but I will not give up my rightful place in Society. I will spend the Season in London, even if I must go alone!” Without another word, she stormed out of the drawing room in tears. "Oh, dear,” murmured Lady Fosdale, trailing after her. “She will work herself into a migraine.” She sent a reproving look over her shoulder before quitting the room herself. Randolph looked at Elizabeth. “Is this good or bad?" "Good, if we react correctly. Cecilia has long used tears, hysteria, and megrims to manipulate people. When she falls into one of her states, gentlemen usually trip over their feet in their haste to ease her woes. Mother believes every word she says." "But you don't." "Nor do you.” She grinned. “Tell Symington to ignore her histrionics. He must join us for dinner tomorrow. And now that we have established that he dislikes London and has no intention of living there, we can start revealing the truth of London itself." He accepted a second cup of coffee. “Is part of her determination a wish to escape your father's tyranny?" She nodded. “He is stricter than he needs to be with all of us. He even forbids Mother to be at home to callers, claiming that the tea and cakes they consume deplete his purse. That means she must limit her calls on others, because she cannot reciprocate people's hospitality. Since money figures into every refusal he makes, Cecilia is determined to marry wealth." "Wealth and her fantasies of London. Both are ways to escape a domineering father." "But she refuses to accept that her husband will be just as domineering." "Not necessarily.” He held her gaze. “Cecilia has exaggerated many ideas, but so have you." She jerked as if he had kicked her. "Exactly. All men are not alike. Do not eschew half the world's population because your father is a tyrant. Few wives become slaves.” Raising her fingers to his lips, he headed for Sedge's room, satisfied that he had given both girls something to consider.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Randolph frowned as he made his way toward Fosdale's study. The summons had not been unexpected, especially after he had ducked any tête-à-têtes over port. But it was unwelcome just the same. Discussing marriage settlements while he was embroiled in this imposture was pointless. Once the truth was known, he would leave the negotiations in the hands of his solicitor. Fromish would leave no loopholes for Fosdale to sneak through. But in the meantime, he had to avoid the subject. And he had to do so without lying about his financial affairs or abandoning his pose as a poor relation. He blew out a long breath. Nor could he give any hint of his ultimate stand: A bride must come with a dowry, no matter how the betrothal arose. He would settle for her library, of course, but the demand would throw Fosdale off balance. Marriage was not the only touchy subject just now. The Chaucer was another. He had abandoned the idea of demanding it as Elizabeth's dowry. Antagonizing Fosdale might push him into abusing his wife. Whatever her weaknesses, she did not deserve that. But Fosdale would want an estimate of its value, which he was unprepared to give. Aside from the damage that could do to the sales negotiations, adjusting the price upward might mollify Fosdale enough to ease the marriage settlements and keep him off Elizabeth's back in the future. He shook his head. The entire situation was so delicate that even the most minor of slips could compromise it. So he did not look forward to this meeting. But fate handed him a reprieve. As he rounded the last corner, Fosdale burst from his study and hurried away, the steward close behind. An emergency must have arisen on the estate. Perhaps this latest storm had worsened the flooding. He stepped into the study so he could truthfully say that he had complied with the summons. He was turning to leave when he spotted a well-worn ledger lying on the desk. Manners forbade prying, but he needed all the information he could get if he was to counter Fosdale's scheming. And this time ignoring convention proved beneficial. Within moments he was seething. Unscrupulous, manipulative bastard! The ledger did not contain estate records. Instead, it held details of Fosdale's personal investments and accounts. Even a cursory glance revealed that the earl had amassed a fortune. Randolph frowned, paging through the book from the beginning. Unlike most boys, Fosdale had saved a portion of each quarter's paltry allowance, building a small nest egg by the time he was twenty. That year, his allowance had significantly increased. But why? The man had already been at university for two years. Twenty was hardly a milestone age. The only explanation that seemed reasonable was that the elder Fosdale's finances had improved, for there was no hint of illegal activity. Yet the family knew nothing of a change in fortune, so perhaps Elizabeth was wrong about her grandfather's affairs. His disastrous losses could easily have included debts. Perhaps he had lost the London house as well, which would have forced him to borrow operating capital for Ravenswood. Pride would have kept him quiet. Twenty years later, he paid the last debt, boosting his disposable income. His first act had been to raise his heir's allowance.

He didn't really like this explanation, but it accounted for the entries in the ledger. And whatever their reasons, it was obvious that both Fosdales had consistently lied to the family about their circumstances. Had hoarding his windfall been the younger's reaction to his father's losses? Some men who had experienced poverty became obsessed with building a large reservoir of cash to prevent it from ever happening again. The money itself became the focus of their endeavors. Thus they refused to spend any of it. Returning the ledger to the position in which he had found it, he left. But questions boiled through his mind. On such brief acquaintance, it was impossible to tell whether Fosdale was merely a miser or was inflicting hardship on his family for a more sinister reason. It wasn't a question he could ask Elizabeth, at least not until they reached a closer rapport. But the contents of that ledger would profoundly affect his marriage negotiations. There was no question now of inflating the price of the Chaucer. And no point in mentioning Elizabeth's library as an asset. If Fosdale wanted this connection, he would have to pay. His smile bore no hint of humor. Fosdale himself had offered the perfect explanation for his new knowledge. While he had undoubtedly exaggerated Whitfield's hints, no duke would consider connecting the families through marriage without first investigating Fosdale's background, including his finances. And Fosdale could hardly deny an arrangement with Whitfield after announcing it yesterday. A more natural smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Fosdale was about to receive a well-deserved comeuppance. There would be no advantageous marriage settlement. His initial stand would remind the earl that his own standards were impeccable, regardless of any scheming by Whitfield. Only an inadvertent compromise would force him to overlook Lady Elizabeth's paltry breeding. How could a girl whose mother was a baron's daughter and whose grandmother was a squire's chit aspire to wed a duke? He had no choice now, but he would expect a dowry worthy of a duchess in return. Don't hurt Elizabeth, whispered his conscience. And it was right, he conceded, pushing anger aside. Fosdale's plots must fail, but he would discuss it with Elizabeth first. She might even know of other grievances he could address. But that must wait until she accepted him. Heading for the stables, he turned his thoughts to his baggage coach. If he could not intercept it, the fat would be in the fire. He had taken the precaution of penning a request from Symington that Mr. Randolph be given a mount— which had revealed that he still wore the Symington signet ring. He'd immediately turned the seal toward his palm and prayed that no one had noticed. At least the dining room had been ill-lit at dinner. In the end, he didn't need the note. The servants were delighted to help Lady Elizabeth's young man. They even gave him a decent horse. Clouds hung heavily overhead, though it had ceased raining for the moment. Not that it mattered. Time was too short to quibble over the weather. It was more important to learn the lay of the land and find the best spot to waylay his coach. At least the wreckage of his carriage no longer blocked the drive. He made a leisurely circuit of the park. It was walled along the road, but only a ha-ha separated it from

fields, river, and the mountain rising beyond the lake. Half a dozen paths led in various directions, but none could be traversed by a carriage. Which made his job easier. He need only watch one road. The gatehouse was in ruins, but it would offer shelter while he waited. He would stop the coach, make sure the servants understood his orders, then ride into the village to complete the errand that explained this ride. He encountered Elizabeth near the gatehouse. "You are out early.” He dismounted, for she was again on foot. "Mrs. Wilson's throat is still bad. And Mr. Duncan was injured while working on that debris clog last night. He lives in the village.” She shrugged. "Do you make healing rounds every day?" She nodded. “There is no one else to see after them. Are you enjoying your ride?" "Very much. I am not accustomed to staying indoors all day." "Odd for a scholar." He grimaced, but she was watching a hawk and did not see. “I often ride. And my father's estate needs periodic inspection." "Your father owns an estate?” This time she made no attempt to hide her surprise. Cursing this new slip, he almost claimed that it had come from a distant uncle, but he could not afford too many lies. One was bad enough. “It will be mine in time, though I do not live there. But I must inspect it often. Father suffered an injury last year that confines him to bed." "Still?" "Permanently. He broke his back." "How terrible!" Their eyes met. She truly cared. Despite never having met the man, her distress for his misfortune was real. “It has not been pleasant, but his condition is now stable. He will likely live many years yet." "Confined to bed." "Or a chair. But that is enough of my affairs. The park is lovely. Did Capability Brown have a hand in its design?" "One of his assistants, according to Grandfather. It was redone in his father's day and includes a maze— now sadly overgrown—and a hermit's retreat." "I don't believe I've seen one of those.” The words were out before he had time to consider them, and he nearly kicked himself in disgust. Any hope that he might get away with such stupidity fled with her response. "It's not far. Caesar can carry both of us." How could he pass up the chance to ride double with her? And it might yet be all right, he conceded as

he lifted her onto the horse, then swung up behind her, making no attempt to keep distance between them; her warmth stole through his cloak as he set Caesar to a leisurely walk. Hermit's retreats were usually fanciful huts hidden in woods. They had been popular a century earlier. Few had ever been inhabited, though some estates had employed a resident hermit. "It is just beyond the north end of the lake,” she said as he skirted the formal gardens. "You say your great-grandfather built it?" "His wife's family had one on their estate in Surrey. She thought it charming, though I have heard hints that her attraction was more for the occupant than for the retreat itself; the hermit was replaced with a resident ogre about the time she turned fifteen. Ours was never inhabited, however. In here,” she added as they reached a patch of woods. He frowned. Tucked inside was a jumble of rocks, holding that other sort of hermit's folly—a cave. Pulling Caesar to a halt, he dismounted and lifted her down. Why did it have to be a cave? "They did quite a good job of building it,” she said, heading for the entrance. “This was originally flat woodland." Taking a deep breath, he followed. It was too late to retreat, though shivers crawled down his back. “It looks completely natural.” He was proud of his even tone. "From here. The inside is obviously fake—they used daub to simulate much of the stone. But there is neither window nor chimney, so it is uninhabitable. Come see." You can do this, he admonished himself. It is merely a folly. A man-made fribble no different from a summer house or pagan temple. The walls aren't even stone. Elizabeth had disappeared inside. He forced his feet as far as the entrance. A tiny shriek made him jump. “All this rain is making the ceiling drip,” she said laughingly as she grabbed his hand to pull him through the doorway. “Stay close to the wall. The builder would be horrified to see how Fosdale has let it deteriorate. I imagine the whole thing will collapse one day. But for now, you can see how it was. There's a stone fireplace and cupboard, and even a stone bed, but they are only for show." The room was barely ten feet across. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, contributing to the damp and creating the musty smell he would forever associate with terror. Daub might have smoothed the surface and filled in cracks, but plenty of raw rock remained, exuding that dusty dampish odor he hated. Lichens covered several surfaces. Darkness closed over his eyes despite the light pouring through the doorway. His chest tightened, restricting his breathing. His heart battered against his ribs, drowning all other sound. Pain zigzagged down his arms. Say something, demanded the voice through his growing panic. Tell her it is charming. Laugh at the foibles of earlier generations. Then you can leave. He opened his mouth, but what emerged was an agonized scream as his feet bolted blindly for the door... "Are you all right?” Elizabeth's voice held only concern as she laid a hand on his shoulder. He was leaning

against a tree, gulping air and shaking. "I'm fine.” His shaky whisper belied the claim. "What happened?” She gently turned him until she could look into his eyes. Without volition his arms closed around her, and he laid his head on her shoulder. Her hand stroked his hair. Only his grandmother had ever understood. Those few who had once known believed he had outgrown the problem. Yet he suddenly found himself admitting a truth even Sedge did not suspect. “I cannot tolerate small spaces, especially when they are damp." "They cause panic.” Her fingers kneaded his shoulders, relieving the tension. He nodded. "Like Letty and the lake,” she murmured. "What about the lake?” Surprise raised his head until he could see her eyes. She did not look the least bit distressed to discover that a grown man harbored such a childish fear. "Severe trauma can have odd consequences, particularly when it occurs in childhood. My maid nearly drowned at age six. Ever since, she cannot tolerate water on her face. I promoted her to lady's maid when I discovered that the footmen thought it funny to toss her in the lake. Have you any idea what caused your own problem?" Her matter-of-fact acceptance stunned him, making talking easier. His tutor, his father, and his grandfather had all considered his dilemma unmanly, prescribing remedies that ranged from whipping to locking him in wardrobes until he was too hoarse to continue screaming. A future duke did not quiver with fright when faced with a small room. He was almost afraid to believe in her tolerance. How could she describe more than twenty years of terror as the expected result of a childhood trauma? Yet if they were to wed, she must know the truth. He had given up finding a cure. "I was hardly a model child,” he began. “I did not take well to the regimented life boys are expected to endure. Nor did boring sessions with tutors appeal to me. So I frequently escaped their supervision and set out to explore." "That sounds much like my own childhood,” she said with a laugh. “I was the bane of my governesses." He squeezed her once, then dropped his arms to pace the clearing before the cave. “My gr—Whitfield's estate contains many wonders guaranteed to fascinate young boys. I was nine when I slipped away to explore a cave I had spotted several days earlier. The roof collapsed, pinning my legs to the floor and extinguishing my candle." "Dear God.” She blanched. “It is a wonder you weren't killed." "True. I tried to free myself, but the stones were too heavy. Smaller ones tumbled during the night. Though they did little more than inflict bruises when they landed on me, the knowledge that death lurked overhead was always there." "When did they find you?"

"Dusk the next day.” He shivered. “By then I'd been trapped for thirty hours and was feverish. One leg was broken and I had contracted a chill that nearly killed me. By the time I recovered, I had suppressed most of the horror. But it revives whenever I feel closed in." "Then why did you walk into that cave?" He shrugged. “This fear is illogical. I keep hoping that someday I will overcome it." "I wish you had told me earlier." "It is not something I like to reveal. You are the only living person who knows about it,” he said truthfully. **** Elizabeth was silent as Mr. Randolph escorted her back to the house. His tale had touched her more than she had thought possible, making him seem far too human. And far too needy. Imagining the horror he lived with raised the urge to hold him close and soothe away his fears. Her hand brushed the arm that held her against his chest, sending sparks rampaging along her nerves. There was so much about him that she admired. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember that wedding him would be a disaster. But she must remember. Stiffening her back, she deliberately recalled the many ways Fosdale tormented her mother. Never would she leave herself open to such abuse.

CHAPTER TWELVE Randolph escorted Elizabeth back to the house before returning to the gates. He tethered Caesar behind the ruins, then settled into a reasonably comfortable niche from which he could see the road. His card case turned in his hand. Who would ever have predicted this day's events? Elizabeth actually believed his lifelong shame was a perfectly normal reaction. The idea was insidiously enticing. His fears had changed his life. Those who had witnessed an attack had either considered it childish or dismissed it as rebellion against activities he disliked, such as his tutor's insistence on exploring the dungeons at Whitfield Castle. The constant ridicule and their determination to beat his fears into submission had made him secretive. And he had eschewed several potential friendships because the gentlemen were too like those who derided his manhood. Frowning, he reviewed the boy he had become. After that brush with death, he had eschewed adventures. Never again did he escape his tutors, broadening his knowledge only through books. Even now, he avoided new places lest he stumble into a situation he couldn't handle—like that hermit's cave. It was an understandable reaction, but he had carried it too far. Yet part of his terror had been provoked after the original accident. Elizabeth's acceptance allowed him to dispassionately examine his childhood for the first time in his life, raising anger that overrode the shame. His fears had strengthened every time Tyer had locked him up in an attempt to cure him—at least that was the man's justification for the abuse. The tutor had been a stern disciplinarian even before the cave incident. Afterward, he had relished punishing what he called George's infantile displays. Randolph swore, reviving his hatred for the tutor who had mistreated him so badly—not that the blame was solely his. Whitfield had originally suggested that approach, and his father had concurred. But neither of them had seen the results, and he doubted either man knew how often the treatment had been applied. He tried to recall the initial disaster and all the subsequent recreations of it. Even thinking about it revived the breathless terror. Death loomed, ready to pounce. But mixed with the fear was a helplessness that he had never before identified. The feeling remained, he admitted. In the cave, he had been unable to move, to see, to ward off the falling stones that could destroy him. Later, he had been helpless against Tyer's determination and superior strength and against the walls and locks that enclosed him, suffocating him. And he was still out of control, helpless to ward off the creeping terror. But at least he could finally accept that his fears did not reflect his character, his worth, or his right to be considered a gentleman. Hoofbeats approached. Shoving the card case into a pocket, he abandoned his post and stepped onto the drive. For the first time in days, Lady Luck looked favorably upon him. His baggage coach turned through the gates, caked in mud but intact. "My lord!” Jacob pulled the team to a halt. "How was your journey? Did you have any trouble other than the collapsed bridge?” he asked. "We lost two days to impassable roads." "I expected that.” His hand cut off the apology on Jacob's tongue.

"Then why are you waiting here, if I might be so bold?" Randolph laughed. “Boldness is just what I need at the moment. We must talk—all of us.” He opened the door to greet the two valets while Jacob and the groom climbed down to join him. “Lord Sedgewick and I have fallen into a bit of a muddle. I need your cooperation if we are to emerge intact." "Anything." "Good.” He explained the mix-up in identities, emphasizing the need for secrecy if Sedge was to survive unscathed and unmarried. “It will take a few days to extricate him. In the interim, can you remember that your employer is Lord Symington?” he asked Sedge's valet. "Of course, my lord." "I am merely Mr. Randolph,” he reminded the men with a sigh. “Linden, you must pose as Symington's secretary. Fosdale is short-staffed just now, so I hope he will send you for the license." "As you wish, my lo—Mr. Randolph, sir." "Let's not overdo it. I am merely a poor relation who knows something about books. A library expert of sorts." Humor glinted in Linden's eyes. “Like Jakes?” Staring disdainfully down a very long nose, he rapped the carriage roof. “Why are we wasting time with underlings, Jacob? His lordship will be expecting us." Randolph laughed, though Linden's reminder was less humorous than intended. He kept losing the subservient demeanor he should be employing. He had never considered himself particularly autocratic, but it was true that he was accustomed to taking charge, to getting his own way, to... There was that need for control again. It countered his perpetual feeling of helplessness. Sighing, he turned his horse toward the village. He must do better before someone noticed. Especially Elizabeth. She was already suspicious, and far too intelligent... He was so deep in thought that he nearly passed an oncoming horseman without notice. "Symington!" The greeting jerked him out of his thoughts. It was far from cordial, despite the fact that he had not seen Sir Lewis in at least six years. "I ought to call you out,” continued Lewis coldly. “Seducing innocents cannot be rectified by marriage alone." Thrown off balance by the charge, Randolph could only stare. "I know she's beautiful, but that's no excuse." "Wait a minute,” protested Randolph, finding his voice. “I never seduced the girl." "Then why is the tale all over the valley?” Fury glittered in his green eyes. "I accidentally compromised her,” he admitted calmly, trying to defuse Sir Lewis's anger. Why did he care what happened to Elizabeth? Was a secret liaison behind her refusal to wed? “Honor demands I wed her despite never having laid a hand on her. I have every intention of doing so, though I have yet to convince her of the necessity. She's turned me down several times already."

"I know her better than that, so peddle your distortions somewhere else. Do you think to escape the consequences of your dalliance?" "You need a better source of on-dits, sir,” he snapped. “I cannot shirk my duty despite the fact that spending the night with her was an accident, and I was unconscious the entire time." Lewis shifted his horse closer. “Name your seconds, Symington. I'll not tolerate your lies. You were caught forcing yourself on her, as everyone for miles knows, so this ridiculous protest merely increases your dishonor." Red mist obscured his eyesight. “If you impugn my honor one more time, I will issue my own challenge. Your facts are wrong, as are your conclusions. If such a tale is indeed making the rounds, I can only believe that Fosdale is using deliberate calumny to apply pressure to her despite vowing he would not do so. But what business is it of yours, anyway?" "The business of an honest suitor. I'll not have Cecilia trapped into a miserable marriage just because you wanted a diversion." Damn! He had forgotten that he was not supposed to be Symington. So Lewis must be the neighbor. "Wait!” He raised a hand to ward off any blows. “We are speaking at cross-purposes. Are you the gentleman who offered for Lady Cecilia?" Lewis glared but nodded. "Do you love her, or did Fosdale coerce you into making the offer?" "That is hardly your business, Symington.” Anger flushed his face. "It is very much my business. The girl I accidentally compromised is Elizabeth." "Then why are you betrothed to Cecilia?" "I'm not, as she would the be the first to admit. She considers me an insignificant lout, for I do not fit her image of aristocratic gentlemen." "What? With your prospects, she would overlook cloven hooves.” His voice was bitter. "Under different circumstances, that may be true.” Randolph shook his head. “But not this time. A series of mishaps has created the greatest muddle it has been my misfortune to encounter. Every day brings new difficulties, and if we are to survive with all parties intact, I need your cooperation." "Is Fosdale trying to force you into wedding Cecilia?" "I wish it were that simple.” He sighed. “The short version is that everyone at Ravenswood believes that I am Mr. Randolph, one of Whitfield's poor relations, and that the man I was traveling with is Symington. I inadvertently compromised Lady Elizabeth while rescuing her from a flooded river, so I am honor-bound to wed her, though she is arguing vehemently against it. Lady Cecilia, with the enthusiastic connivance of Lord Fosdale, is attempting to force marriage on the faux Symington. But revealing the mix-up before I gain Elizabeth's consent is likely to ruin any chance of doing so." Sir Lewis was staring so hard that his eyes appeared ready to fall onto the road. “May I ask who is posing as Symington?" "Lord Sedgewick Wylie."

"I should have known that prankster was involved,” he grumbled. "Actually, he had nothing to do with it. He was unconscious when the mistake occurred.” He explained. “But you can see one of the problems. Revealing Sedge's identity will do nothing to resolve the crisis. Fosdale will still have Symington under obligation, and he will then have the bonus of trapping yet another wealthy lord in his net. Elizabeth is convinced that Cecilia cares for you, but she is enamored of her fantasies and won't give them up easily." "I have always known that,” Lewis said with a sigh. “Which is why I never revealed how often I have enjoyed the delights of London. I hoped she would accept me for myself rather than as a means to escape Cumberland." "Just so.” He felt the same way about Elizabeth. “The current plan is to give her a disgust of Sedge and prick her fantasies by describing the worst aspects of London society. Once she realizes that trapping Symington will not fulfill her dreams, she should cry off this betrothal. And that is the other reason for keeping the imposture intact. Unlike me, Sedge keeps permanent rooms in Town." "I know, though the last time I was there, he was persona non grata in some circles. That prank he played on Lord Crossbridge did not sit well with the sticklers." "Was that the one involving Lady Prudehurst's corset cover?" He nodded. "Crossbridge and I have long been friends, but you must admit that he is often an arrogant, pretentious ass who jumps to hasty—and usually erroneous—conclusions,” he reminded the baronet. “That particular incident started when he publicly vilified Sedge for debauching Miss Graham, not realizing that she was in Sedge's arms because he had just plucked her from under a team of panicked horses—in front of a dozen witnesses. Despite that, Crossbridge's claims were accepted by some of the tabbies. I don't blame him for retaliating. And it was funny." "Quite.” His lips twitched suspiciously. “But Crossbridge nearly suffered a fatal apoplexy when the cover fell out of his cloak in Lady Beatrice's drawing room, which he will never forgive." "No one was injured and no damage was done. You must have left within the day if you think it hurt Sedge's reputation. Granted, Lady Beatrice was highly critical at the time, but her pretended pique sought to discourage the cubs from emulating the feat. Sedge is too beloved to suffer for the deed." "True, I did leave immediately and haven't returned. And his credit has always been remarkable. He gets away with doing and saying things that would ostracize a lesser man." Randolph shook his head, though it was true enough. “Let us deal with Sedge later. His credit is of no use at the moment, for revealing it will only encourage Cecilia. If we are to escape the present imbroglio, we had best meet as strangers. You do not know Symington. And you certainly do not know his distant cousin Randolph. Since we are all eschewing London, there is little reason to have met." "I was on my way to Ravenswood now. Will you join me?" "Not just yet. I've an errand in the village. Sedge is holed up in his room, having suffered a relapse yesterday. He must appear at dinner tonight, though. Can you wangle an invitation? The more people at table, the easier it will be to prick Cecilia's notions." "Lady Fosdale will invite me. She always does when I've been away any time."

"You seem less angry about Cecilia than I would have expected,” Randolph dared. Though they had never been close, he had always liked the baronet. And they would likely become brothers-in-law by summer. Lewis frowned. “It hurts,” he admitted. “But I do not want an unwilling wife. Despite her age, Cecilia is still a credulous child, for she has had no opportunity to learn the ways of the world. Facing reality will be good for her. Once she learns to distinguish fact from fantasy, we can decide if she will make me a good wife." Randolph nodded. “Fosdale is determined to fetch a special license. If I convince him to send Symington's secretary, can you put the fellow up for a few days?" "Gladly." **** Elizabeth was the first to arrive in the drawing room that evening. She had nearly cried off after learning that Sir Lewis would be there. Cecilia's betrothal was a deliberate cut, since Fosdale had already accepted Lewis's own offer. Embarrassment would make it difficult to face him. But Mr. Randolph had urged her to join them. Time was running out. They had to discredit Cecilia's image of London if they were to free Symington. That goal was more important than any discomfort over Cecilia's plots. And there would be discomfort. Cecilia had reacted to the news of Sir Lewis's return by embellishing her most elegant gown. She was determined to flaunt her new status. "Lord Symington, Mr. Randolph,” she said in greeting when they arrived in the drawing room. It was the first time she had seen Symington since setting his arm. Even with the sling, he made an imposing figure, taller and broader than he had initially appeared, and aristocratic to the bone. She could understand Cecilia's glee. He was handsome as sin, despite his fading bruises, and dominated the room without uttering a word. She shivered. How could anyone feel comfortable around him? His hauteur was enough to put her back up even before he opened his mouth. She hated men who wielded quizzing glasses. At least Mr. Randolph made a comfortable companion, though even he looked more imposing this evening. The arrival of the baggage coach had reunited him with his luggage, so he was no longer wearing that familiar blue jacket. Instead, he had donned an elegant evening coat the color of wine, though it also fit loosely across the shoulders. Had he borrowed one of Symington's, or was the fit dictated by having no valet? Not borrowed, she decided, comparing the two men. Symington was six inches taller and considerably broader, though Mr. Randolph was muscular in his own right. Those solid shoulders had surprised her the first time she had applied the ointment to his injuries, not that they should have. He had demonstrated considerable strength in their struggle against the river. But this was no time to be thinking of his bare shoulders. Or the rest of his bare body. It was especially not the time to think of her hands caressing that bare body, stroking across his back, around his chest, down his— Warmth flushed her cheeks, intensifying when she realized that Symington was still inspecting her with that dratted quizzing glass.

Irked, she exchanged innocuous comments with Mr. Randolph, grateful that she had been spared Fosdale's scheming. A match with a haughty fellow like Symington was unthinkable. Cecilia would do well to consider his character. He was not a man who would cater to a wife's demands. Lords rarely did, of course, but he seemed harsher than most. And more intense. "Sir Lewis,” intoned Wendell from the doorway. "How is your mother?” she asked when he had raised her hand for a courtly kiss. His eyes were dark green tonight, so she knew he was suppressing a raging temper. Hardly surprising. He must have heard of Cecilia's antics by now. "Much improved. I left her in the throes of whist with her dearest friends." "That is good news. Lewis, may I present Lord Symington. Sir Lewis Mitchell, my lord." Each bowed stiffly. “You are Whitfield's heir, I believe,” said Lewis. Symington nodded. “And you are Fosdale's neighbor?" Another nod. "And this is his cousin, Mr. Randolph,” continued Elizabeth. "Randolph." "Sir Lewis." She frowned over the odd expression the two men exchanged, then dismissed it. Symington was making her more nervous than she had thought. Cecilia staged her grand entrance, relieving the tension—or adding to it. Lewis's mouth tightened. "Pardon me for keeping you waiting, my lord,” Cecilia said gaily, ignoring Lewis as she floated to Symington's side, her hand extended. "You didn't.” He ignored her hand, resuming a nonexistent conversation with Mr. Randolph. Cecilia flushed. "I hear congratulations are in order,” said Lewis, stepping into the breach to kiss the outstretched hand. “Allow me to wish you happy." Her smile became even more strained. Elizabeth exchanged a satisfied glance with Mr. Randolph. Cecilia was off balance and reeling. The public cut from Symington was bad enough, but discovering that her erstwhile suitor felt no regret made it worse. He was treating her as just another neighbor. "Excellent start,” murmured Mr. Randolph as she joined them. "Quite." Sir Lewis was drawing Cecilia into talk of his journey. "So your mother is completely recovered?” she asked, this time with a genuine smile.

"Yes, though I cannot say the same for Mrs. Harris,” he said, naming his housekeeper. “Wet weather always affects her lungs." "I hadn't heard.” She frowned. “I must visit tomorrow. Is anyone else ailing at Little House?" They fell into a discussion of his tenants and the damage wrought by the storms in his absence, including several sheep who had drowned when rising water trapped them. Elizabeth led the others to the far side of the room, relaxing a bit, for Cecilia could not hide her genuine interest in Lewis and his dependents. "What shall we discuss at dinner?” asked Symington softly. No hint of arrogance remained. “London, the city? Or London society?" "The city,” said Mr. Randolph after glancing at her. "We will have to raise the subject early,” she warned them, nervous at how he had read her mind so easily. There was an odd connection between them that she couldn't seem to break. “Fosdale has a penchant for usurping table conversation." They nodded. Lord and Lady Fosdale arrived. Wendell immediately announced dinner, preventing further introductions. Only as Symington escorted her to the dining room did Elizabeth realize that he had yet to meet her mother. Shame over the breach of manners flushed her face. "Is it true that you dislike London?” she asked Symington once the first course was served. "Don't be a goose, Elizabeth,” snapped Cecilia, interrupting. “Mr. Randolph was merely jesting, for he is hardly in a position to know anything of the matter.” She tossed him a look of frigid disdain. She was obviously piqued to be seated between him and Lewis, though she took advantage of her position to flutter her lashes at Symington. “Someone of your stature must revel in Town, my lord." "Such quaint notions,” he drawled. “I have been there, of course, but I haven't stayed more than a week at a time since the year my father introduced me into the clubs. London offends my fastidious nature. Such filth!" "The air is appalling,” agreed Lewis. “I visited occasionally during my school days. One can hardly poke one's nose out the door without being covered with soot." "Yet what can people do?” said Symington with a shrug. “They must eat, which requires cooking fires. My valet despaired of getting my cravats clean. Were I to return, I would undoubtedly lose him." "Cloaks help,” put in Randolph. "True, though the cloak itself must then be kept separate from other garments and great care taken to see that the outside never touches the lining. Even a dash to a carriage exposes one to soot. Walking is impossible, of course, and not only because of the air." "Then why?” asked Cecilia, frowning. "Horses,” said Lewis succinctly. "Horses?” echoed Lady Fosdale. "Thousands of horses. Riding horses, carriage horses, dray horses. Even mules and donkeys. All adding their droppings to the streets,” explained Symington. “Walking becomes quite perilous."

"As does breathing,” said Randolph. “The last time I passed through Town, I nearly expired from the stench.” He fluttered his serviette under his nose. "This is hardly appropriate conversation for the table,” said Lady Fosdale after glancing at her red-faced husband. “You were describing how my brother fares in Carlisle, Sir Lewis. Is it true that my niece is enamored of Mr. Burton?" Elizabeth caught Randolph's eye and smiled as her mother determinedly kept the talk on gossip. His plan was working better than she had expected. Each new comment had etched a line deeper into Cecilia's forehead. When the ladies reached the drawing room, Cecilia sought her out. “Do you think Lord Symington exaggerates?” she asked softly. "About London? I doubt it. You know how much soot one fire generates. I hadn't thought of it myself, but thousands of fires must blacken the city. And the same argument holds for horses." She grimaced. “Actually, I meant about disliking Town." "He seems a man who knows his own mind and who will not alter his course without a very good reason." "But he would do so for love,” she decided. "Forget about your effect on the squire's sons,” she warned sharply. “Lord Symington does not care a whit for you. Why should he? Even if he might have originally been susceptible to your charms, he obviously hates you now. You forced yourself on him, trapping him into a marriage he cannot want. For all you know, he may love someone else." "But Papa said he is looking for a wife." "Fosdale knows nothing of the matter. And in any case, he only said that Symington was unwed. Do not dispute me,” she added as Cecilia opened her mouth. “I overheard that same conversation. Symington may have intended to wed soon, but you have no way of knowing whether he had already chosen his bride. Nor does Fosdale, no matter how he may have twisted facts in his own mind." "He swears that Whitfield expects a betrothal from this visit.” Her eyes flashed. "I give leave to doubt it. What duke would press for a suit with a penniless nobody of questionable breeding without even discussing it with Symington? You cannot make a case that the man is unable to find his own bride." "But—" "There is no but. Symington's wealth and prospects alone make him acceptable to the highest sticklers in Society. His looks are an added bonus. Even were he mad, he could find a dozen duke's daughters who would accept him. So why should he look here? Despite Fosdale's title, we have no social standing and no fortune to offer a powerful lord. Fosdale is the one who wants this connection. He probably concocted the idea from whole cloth. And after the way you misused the hospitality of this house, you cannot expect Symington to look on you with kindness. In fact, his eyes blaze with contempt whenever he glances in your direction. That cut was deliberate. You will be well served if he locks you in a dungeon and starves you to death." "He wouldn't dare!” But her face had blanched.

"I do not know him well enough to say, but no one would stop him. You know that wives have no rights of their own. A husband may do as he pleases, and that includes imprisonment and beating. Why do you think I oppose marriage so strongly? I will not place my person or my reason under the thumb of someone who might take my desires into dislike. Look what happened to Mother. She was just as pretty as you in her youth." "But she was too timid to utilize her looks to advantage.” Cecilia stalked off to talk to Lady Fosdale. Elizabeth picked up a book. Conceited fool. The revelations Cecilia had already heard should have given her pause, but she was too sure of her charm to believe them. Nearly an hour passed before the gentlemen arrived, but at least Fosdale did not accompany them. Cecilia remained resolute, donning her most flirtatious smile as she approached Symington. Mr. Randolph's greeting kept Elizabeth from overhearing their exchange. "I think that went rather well,” he said, drawing her apart from the others. Sir Lewis was deep in conversation with Lady Fosdale. "But not well enough.” She shook her head. “Her ideas are more firmly fixed than even I had thought. She is convinced that her charm will win his heart." He groaned. "Perhaps I was too firm just now,” she continued. “I pointed out that wives have no rights, leaving them at the mercy of their husbands, who may choose to mistreat them with impunity." "But few actually do so,” he countered. “Most gentlemen deplore brutality." "Beating is not the only way men can mistreat their wives,” she reminded him. “One need look no further than Fosdale. He maliciously denies Mother anything she wants. Not just visiting London, for I realize that such a journey would prove too costly. But he refuses even innocuous requests. She wished to plant flowers near the lake, propagating them from those in the formal gardens. He would not hear of it. She asked to transform an unused bedchamber into a sitting room using furniture from one of the attics—it is smaller than the morning room and easier to heat in winter. He refused." "Do not agitate yourself,” he said soothingly, interrupting the flow of words. “I agree that her situation is unfortunate. In fact, Fosdale would appear to be a tyrant who exercises his power solely to prove that he can. But again, few men follow that course. You cannot judge all mankind by the deeds of a few, just as you cannot condemn the entire estate of marriage because your parents have created a bad one." "Please, don't—" But again he interrupted. “I asked you to search your heart once before. Are you afraid to discover that you reacted to your mother's unhappiness by turning all men into monsters?" "How dare—" "Don't answer now. Let your pique settle, then think about it. I have no quarrel with many of Mary Wollstonecraft's premises—" "How did you know I admired her?" "Your philosophy reflects much of her thinking. But marriage is seldom a form of slavery. And even Mary

chose to wed in the end—quite happily." Symington's voice diverted her attention, and just as well. Mr. Randolph's ability to read her mind was becoming dangerous. If he suspected that she found him attractive, he would never accept her refusal. "You may acquire my name if you insist on taking it,” Symington growled at Cecilia. “But you will get nothing more. I have no obligation beyond setting a roof over my wife's head—a roof of my own choosing. If you think I will waste a single shilling on a greedy schemer, then you are the stupidest child alive. I despise fortune hunters." Cecilia's cheeks flamed, and she cast a pleading look at Lewis. He shrugged and returned his attention to Lady Fosdale. "But how could you face Society after mistreating a wife?” Cecilia demanded. He laughed. “Don't you listen to anyone but yourself? I care nothing for the opinions of others. But even if I did, no one would care. It is bad ton to interfere in a man's personal affairs. I can name a dozen lords who beat their wives regularly, but that is not a subject anyone would discuss. Those silly books you read have given you very odd ideas of how the world works. Rank has many privileges, among which is immunity to censure. For example, the Duke of Norfolk is a drunkard whose low behavior encompasses every vice known to man. But he is a close friend of the Regent. And while prudent men might hide their daughters when he appears, he is welcomed everywhere. Now, if you will excuse me, I must retire. My constitution is not yet ready for extensive revelry." He took leave of Sir Lewis and Lady Fosdale, winked at Randolph and Elizabeth, then headed for his room. "Why do I get the feeling that he is neither as sedate nor as opposed to London as we are implying?” she murmured as Cecilia joined Sir Lewis. Randolph hid a grimace. Elizabeth was sharp enough to sense hidden truths. But he needed to keep the Symington image as real as possible. “Symington has visited Town on several occasions, but he avoids Society and has always preferred the country,” he said carefully. “He likes nothing more than to potter about his library." "That sounds unlike any lord I have ever heard of." He shook his head. “There you go again, trying to fit everyone into the same mold. Let me describe a few of the lords I have met, so you can rid yourself of that notion once and for all." "How do you know so many lords?” she asked suspiciously. "I lived at Whitfield Castle,” he reminded her. “I also attended Oxford, where I met many heirs, and I have known Symington since birth. He may prefer country living, but he is no hermit." She frowned, but he ignored her. "Lord Petersham is quite an odd fellow. He is a renowned expert on both snuff and tea, but has little interest in anything else. His extensive snuffbox collection permits him to use a different one every day of the year." "Merciful heavens. How useless." "I agree. You would doubtless prefer Lord Hartleigh. His principal interests are the government and his

family, but he also devotes time to several charities. His favorite cause is training London street waifs for productive work so they do not turn into footpads and pickpockets. He has converted one of his estates into an orphanage and school for that purpose." "He sounds an interesting gentleman." "Very. And his wife is even more interesting. Her particular cause is helping abused servants. She abhors gentlemen who sexually assault unwilling maids. You have much in common, for she is both charming and well-read. And she would quickly disabuse you of your notions on marriage. Hartleigh dotes on her, denying her nothing." "I stand corrected.” Not that it changed her fundamental opposition to marriage. There were undoubtedly some very good men in the world, but she had no way of knowing which ones they might be. In particular, she did not want to consider Mr. Randolph, for he was under pressure to wed her. Fosdale might not be pressing publicly, but he had to be doing so in private. She knew him too well to think that he would ignore this opportunity to be rid of her. Mr. Randolph might claim free will, but that was merely a sop to his own conscience. And he could just as easily be feigning geniality to overcome her objections. "There are gentlemen who are truly bad,” he admitted, again showing that uncanny ability to read her thoughts. “Symington already mentioned Norfolk. Then there is Lord Devereaux. He is nearly fifty, but has wasted his entire life in the pursuit of dissipation. He is a confirmed rakehell who lets nothing stand in his way when he decides to seduce someone, often wagering with a friend as to which of them can bed a lady first. His gaming and drinking are legendary. I cannot think of a single redeeming quality in the man except that he has never resorted to force. That cannot be said for the former Lord Wroxleigh, who injured many girls in the course of a reprehensible life. Thankfully, his son repudiated his father's habits and is happily married to a charming lady." "Should you be discussing such things with me?" He blushed. “Probably not, but someone who treats all manner of illness is hardly going to swoon." "Do you object to my activities?" "Not at all. I admire your concern for others. Even your pique over Cecilia's treatment of Symington arises from a desire to see them both happy rather than fury or embarrassment at how the situation arose." "That is true, though I do not understand how you discerned it." "I am usually considered a reasonable judge of character,” he replied, leading her back toward the others. “As are you if you relax enough to trust your instincts." Sir Lewis was preparing to leave. They accompanied him to the hall. "Be careful riding home,” urged Cecilia, unable to keep the concern from her voice. The open door revealed thick fog outside. "I will.” He shivered. “I should have expected this after our dinner conversation. Everything tonight reminds me of London. It suffers from incredible fogs." "So I've seen,” put in Randolph. “One year, it was so bad I could not leave the house for nearly a week. I literally could not see my hand before my face. One of Whitfield's servants disappeared trying to reach the market."

"Disappeared?" "Probably footpads.” Lewis shrugged. “They are bold enough at any time, but fog gives them free rein to attack at will. God knows there are enough of them. Bodies turn up in the Thames every week." "I've heard the problem has worsened since the end of the war,” said Elizabeth. "Quite true,” confirmed Randolph. “Former soldiers litter the city. Between beggars and cutpurses, one cannot go anywhere without being accosted. And ladies must take an escort for protection whenever they leave the house." "At least we have little crime in the country,” Lewis commented as he left. Cecilia was shivering. Without a word, she headed for her room. But that line again furrowed her forehead. "Good job,” said Elizabeth softly. Lady Fosdale was also heading upstairs. "Thank you. And one problem is now solved. Over the port, Fosdale agreed to send Symington's secretary after the special license." "Wonderful. I think Cecilia is close to breaking. With luck, one more confrontation will do it. What do you know of London society?" "Enough to be grateful that I needn't participate." "Excellent. We must force her to admit that even visiting London will not fulfill her dreams." "Tomorrow we attack Society, then.” Smiling, he placed a gentle kiss on her hand that left it tingling as she hurried upstairs. But questions increasingly niggled at her mind. There was something odd about Mr. Randolph, though she couldn't quite bring the details into focus.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Randolph returned the last of Elizabeth's books to the shelf and frowned. No matter how many times he added the figures, they remained the same. Her collection was worth a small fortune. It was another Ravenswood mystery and painted a disturbing picture of secrecy in all the Fosdale men, hinting that the Fosdale women had been deliberately relegated to seclusion for at least half a century. No wonder Elizabeth had such a low opinion of men. Yet she had cared deeply for her grandfather—and he for her, if this inheritance was any indication. He scanned the titles one last time. Few of these volumes had changed hands within the last ten years, as he knew quite well, for all were books he would have considered for his own collection. In fact, his agent had bid on two of these, losing only because the price had passed his limit. He paced the room as his mind sifted facts, arranging them to form a new picture. While it was possible that Elizabeth's grandfather had owned some of these books before losing his inheritance, he had likely purchased the bulk of them in the twenty years that followed. Which meant that Ravenswood was more profitable than either Fosdale would admit. He nodded. He had never liked his earlier speculation that the elder Fosdale had accrued large debts. Surely both Whitfield and Elizabeth would have heard rumors of it. So the apparent lack of funds had arisen because Fosdale had invested most of his profits in rare books. And Elizabeth had offered an explanation, he realized as he gathered his notes and glanced over his report: the late Lady Fosdale. The woman had been a squire's daughter. Elizabeth believed that Fosdale had been unable to find a better match, but that wasn't true. If all he had wanted was an heir, he could have approached any number of girls from his own class on his return from France. News of his reduced circumstances would have arrived later, particularly to families not in London. Or he could have repaired his fortune by wedding a wealthy mushroom. Even fifty years ago, there had been girls who used enormous dowries to buy a spot in Society. Lady Jersey's grandfather had been a banker. Fosdale had done neither, eschewing both fortune and breeding. So he must have wed the girl for love. But that would not have endeared him to his fellow lords. Even today, unequal unions were looked at askance. Fifty years ago, maintaining proper bloodlines had been even more important. She would never have been accepted by Society. It fit. Fosdale had protected his wife from snubs by exaggerating his poverty to keep them at home. He had protected her from guilt by never revealing that he had deliberately eschewed Society. Only when his son neared his majority did he increase the boy's allowance. But by then, the lad had probably demonstrated a deep hatred for his father's youthful blunder by denigrating the man's character and eschewing everything he enjoyed, so the elder Fosdale had kept his valuable collection a secret. What euphemism had covered new purchases in the estate books? The easiest would have been to feign new gaming losses, which would have increased the son's disdain and added to his own secrecy. And the son had reacted to his improved position by concealing the change and amassing as much cash as possible to guard against the return of lean times. When his reticence marked him as a fortune hunter during his pursuit of an heiress, he had turned his back on Society, choosing an impoverished wife because a lady accustomed to thrift and country living would make fewer demands on his purse. Perhaps it was the son's growing parsimony that prompted the elder Fosdale to leave his books to

Elizabeth. At least she would appreciate them. And he may have known that she would need to finance an escape one day. Yet he had never hinted at the collection's value. Randolph frowned. Had he vilified Whitfield unnecessarily? The duke had suggested Elizabeth as a bride, but his real purpose may have been to divulge the value of her inheritance. That fit the kind of secrecy her grandfather seemed to have espoused. This was getting too involved, and the truth was irrelevant anyway. He was obligated to far more than appraising a few books. **** Elizabeth stretched her cramped fingers as she reread the final page of the clear copy. It was good. Her body thrummed with excitement, as it always did when she completed a manuscript. After ringing for Letty, she rapidly penned a letter to her publisher. Between her fortnight with Aunt Constance and the extra work engendered by Symington's visit, she had been hard-pressed to complete it on time. "Enter,” she called when the rap sounded on the door. "I finished my appraisal of your library,” said Mr. Randolph without preamble. She whirled at the sound of his voice, one hand automatically seeking to cover her manuscript. “Damnation!” she snapped as papers scattered across the floor. She scrambled after them. "Forgive me for startling you.” He stooped to help. "Leave it!" But it was too late. He stared at the letter in his hand, then shifted his eyes to the other pages. “You are Mary Selkirk?" She covered her flaming cheeks, muttering curses until she exhausted her extensive repertoire—twice. Exposed—and by the very man who already represented the greatest danger to her plans. Rustling papers belied her impression of eyes boring into her back. “Leave the mess,” she begged. "All done. Look at me, Elizabeth." She never wanted to see him again, but her head lifted on its own. He had set the pages in order and placed the manuscript at her elbow. Swirling thoughts fed her growing terror. What was she to do now? Fosdale would be furious, and he might appropriate her savings. Whether he had the legal power to do so would not matter. How was she to escape? "I admire your books, Elizabeth,” he said quietly, pinning her with his gaze. She snorted. "Since I praised Mary Selkirk at dinner the other night, you can hardly accuse me of false flattery,” he protested. Letty appeared in the doorway, only the briefest blink betraying her surprise at finding a gentleman in

Elizabeth's sitting room. "Wrap it and send it, Letty,” she ordered, nodding toward the writing desk. Mr. Randolph nodded soothingly when she caught his eye. She was so upset that it took a moment to realize that she had silently asked if he had checked the page numbers. She shivered. The silence stretched until Letty had left. Mr. Randolph shut the door. "You are a talented writer,” he stated, taking a seat. "Thank you,” she managed. "Does she take your packages into the village for you?" "Actually, her brother carries them to Keswick. His employer allows him to come home once a month to check on his family. He will return to work tomorrow." "No one knows, do they?" She shook her head. "Why?" She shrugged. "I can guess at some of your reasons,” he continued calmly. “The highest sticklers look askance at intellectual activities. That did not stop Lord Byron, of course. And only last year, Lord Bridgeport admitted that he was the celebrated poet Thornton. But they are men. A lady would face more condemnation and less acceptance." "I care nothing for what Society thinks,” she vowed, stung into a response. "So you claim.” A raised hand prevented her protest. “You said something similar when your father was insisting on marriage. So why the secrecy? Do you fear your family's reaction? Your father has little use for things literary." "In part.” His calm acceptance had mitigated that initial flash of terror. “But it extends beyond that. How can I condemn Cecilia's obsession with romances when I write them myself?" "An interesting conundrum,” he agreed. “Though as I pointed out at table, your work has little in common with the gothic tales she finds so enthralling. Your foundation in reality is less likely to lead impressionable girls astray." "Hardly. For the sake of money, I willingly create dreams just as unrealistic as those I deride. What do I know of life in the upper classes? My own experience is hardly typical.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. Randolph remained silent for several minutes. Elizabeth was rubbing her temples to assuage what was probably a raging headache, and he needed time to order his thoughts. If he misjudged her thinking, he would lose her. He would never get another chance like this one. Catching her off guard in an activity she had kept secret for years had breached her barriers. But she would rebuild them when he left, stronger than ever. He had made a huge mistake in believing that secrecy afflicted only the men of this family, he conceded in

a rueful aside. Elizabeth didn't realize it, but she was following in her father's footsteps by amassing her own nest egg. So what did she truly want? She claimed to despise marriage, citing a wife's lack of control over her life. And she was right from a legal point of view. Women had no power. Their husbands decided where and how they lived and whom they could see. Everything they owned reverted to their husbands upon marriage, including the clothes on their backs and any money they might have saved. There were ways around those restrictions, of course. A caring father included details of pin money, living arrangements, widow's portion, and settlements on any progeny when negotiating the marriage contract. And it was possible—though far from common—to set up trusts that would place a woman's assets beyond a husband's reach. But many a husband resented such restrictions, taking petty revenges in response. A better way of assuring her contentment was to find a husband who respected her. Elizabeth's planning had ignored the possibility of forming an emotional attachment, though he doubted that this was the most propitious time to reveal that he was falling in love with her. But at least he could give her the same understanding and support she had offered him outside the hermit's cave. "Is money so important, then?” he asked when her hands dropped back into her lap. "Not in itself, but without it, I can never achieve my goals.” She shrugged. "I know you wish to avoid marriage,” he said, forcing calm into the words. “What are your other goals?" "Independence. I must escape Fosdale's tyranny. He would force me into a life I abhor,” she said bluntly. He grimaced, though the answer was hardly a surprise. "Not all of his reasoning is selfish,” he pointed out. “The world in which we both must live expects ladies to wed. You can hardly condemn a father for wanting his offspring to achieve success. Much as you may decry it, that translates to marriage for both daughters and heirs." "Meaning you.” She glared. "It is true that I will inherit my father's estate,” he said carefully. “I accepted long ago that I must one day wed, but you are the first lady I have met who would make a comfortable wife." "Me? Comfortable?" "Quite. I cannot abide stupidity, nor can I accept disdain for learning. And you already know that I disapprove the devotion to frivolity and inanity that characterizes Society." She stared speechlessly. "But what of you? What sort of life do you envision ten or twenty years from now?" "I-I have not thought that far ahead,” she admitted. Good. He could use that later. “Then what are your immediate goals?" "A home of my own, where I can be my own master. But Fosdale would never agree, so I must support myself. Hence my writing." "Writing will hardly support you."

"Not yet,” she conceded. “But it will do so eventually." "You claim to be realistic, yet you blind yourself to the reality of the world in which you live.” He met her renewed glare. “The unfortunate truth is that your income will never rise much above what it is now. No matter how popular your books become, no matter how much your publisher earns from your work, you will never receive more—because you are a female." She shuddered, but the flicker in her eyes proved that she had feared just such a future. "You could probably escape Ravenswood, but your earnings would cover only a tiny cottage in a remote location.” He held her gaze. “Without servants, you would have to do everything for yourself—cook, clean, plant and tend your garden, make and care for your clothing, and so much more. There would be no horse, no carriage, no social life with your own class, suspicion from the lower classes...” She was hurting more with every word, but he had to spell it out. In her way, she was just as unrealistic as Cecilia. “When would you find time to write?” he added softly. A tear leaked from the corner of an eye. "I know it is unfair,” he continued gently. “But you cannot change that basic truth." "Then what am I to do?” Her lips quivered. "You could supplement your income by accepting fees for your healing." She shook her head. “Those who are most desperate for help cannot afford payment. Those with money would never call in a female.” The bitterness was back. "Then why did you choose writing? If you are determined to abandon your heritage, you could do far better by opening a shop or starting a school—though succeeding as a headmistress must wait until you acquire a more sober age. Few parents would consider you sufficiently stern to trust their daughters to your care." She sighed. “The obvious reason is that neither of those activities can be profitably begun here, and I have no way of supporting myself elsewhere until the venture succeeds. But in truth, I have to write. Even if I had no publisher, there is something in me that demands I set words to paper." He had suspected something of the sort, for most of the creative people he had met shared a similar compulsion. “Then why do you say your stories contain ideas you abhor? In my experience, creative minds can conjure fabulous tales, but the core philosophy is real—has to be if the plot is to work.” He again met her glare. “Love and marriage are the primary goals of every character in your books." "I could not sell the work if my characters countered expectations." "Fustian. Mary Wollstonecraft did." "She was not writing to entertain, and her situation was far different from mine. She could afford to write from the heart." "As do you,” he vowed. “You could not touch your readers if your stories were contrived solely to meet other people's expectations. Those themes you profess to disbelieve are your own dreams. You have suppressed them due to an understandable fear, but they persist, appearing under the safer guise of fiction." "How dare you—"

"I want you to be happy, Elizabeth.” His soft words cut off her protest. “Even before today, I admired you. Meeting Mary Selkirk has only increased that admiration. But I will never force you. You are free to pursue whatever future you desire. If you reject my offer, I will find some way to prevent Fosdale from retaliating against you. But I do ask that you seriously consider the consequences of living alone. Ask spinsters—even widows like Sadie—if they truly enjoy that life. Mankind is not suited to solitary existence." "Do not deign to tell me what I believe or why I write as I do, Mr. Randolph.” Ice dripped from every word, making him sigh. Had she listened to anything he'd said? “Yes, I need to write. But even stronger is my need to escape this estate. Thus I make compromises, writing what will sell rather than what I feel.” She hesitated then, proving that some of his words had penetrated. “Do you speak from actual knowledge about my earnings, or is that merely a guess based on Society's opinion of women?" "Knowledge. I am well-acquainted with several publishers, yours among them." "Then what am I to do?” Tears shimmered in her eyes. He briefly considered pulling her into his arms. His heart wept for her pain, which could only get worse as disillusion set in. But touching her would press his suit in a way she would interpret as taking unfair advantage. And if he was to give her the free choice he had just vowed, then she must know all her alternatives. "Are you convinced that you will never wish to take your place in Society?” he asked instead. “Turning your back on your heritage will have serious repercussions if you later change your mind." "I have no use for any of them." "In that case, you have another option.” He paused, but he had no choice. “You asked me to appraise the library. I have finished my examination. If you sell it and invest the proceeds in Consols, you could live quite comfortably on the earnings.” He handed her his report. The total made her gasp. "Are you sure?" He nodded. “You need not take my word for it, of course. I can put you in touch with two rare book dealers in London, though they will likely offer less. They must make a profit on resale, you understand. Or you can contact Christie's auction house. It is possible that the books would bring more at auction— though not guaranteed, and there would be commissions. I do know that Symington would pay that figure for the collection in its entirety if you wish a private sale." "You work for his family." It took him a moment to realize that she was questioning his objectivity. Fury twisted his face before he remembered that a servant must always consider his own position first. He sighed. “Then perhaps you would prefer to let a dealer handle the sale." "I did not mean to imply that I distrusted you, Mr. Randolph,” she said, flushing. "The choice is yours. But I would urge you to consider the future long and hard. Given your age and rank, setting up your own establishment—even with a rigid chaperon and a separate companion—would be so scandalous that your reputation would remain suspect for many years. You admitted that you have not considered anything beyond escape from Ravenswood. Please do so before making any decisions. What would happen if you formed a tendre for a gentlemen? Marriage need not be unpleasant, you know. When two people care for each other, it can offer fulfillment and great joy without threatening

either party's independence—as I know quite well, for my parents have just such a union, as did Whitfield." "It is you who should be writing novels,” she said with a snort. “I cannot imagine a marriage that does not destroy independence." "Then perhaps your imagination is not as acute as I thought,” he countered, stung by her stubbornness. “I know many happy couples in which the wife pursues her own interests with full support of her husband. Lady Bridgeport is a renowned artist and illustrator, for example. Just because the law gives a man the right to dominate his wife does not mean he will actually do so. I have always chosen my friends out of mutual respect rather than social position—or even gender." He cut off further comment before he gave himself away. The lowly Mr. Randolph could have friends in many places. Only in a duke's heir were some of his attachments surprising. She frowned when he raised his own character, so perhaps he should have cut his comments even sooner. "You still feel obligated,” she said. "Not at all.” This was one idea he must demolish. “I have no respect for your father, Elizabeth. I have never allowed anyone I don't respect to dictate my actions. And while Society would conclude that I have compromised you, and continue to do so at frequent intervals,” he added, gesturing to the closed door, “you are quite correct that nothing irrevocable has passed between us. Given your determination to eschew Society and its restrictive demands, I feel no need to press the issue." "Good. Then we shan't discuss it again." "Not so fast,” he protested, holding up his hand. “I feel no obligation to offer for you, yet I do believe we could be quite comfortable together. Thus marriage is another option you can choose. But I will not press,” he added to forestall further argument. “All I ask is that you consider not just the coming months, but ten, twenty, even fifty years ahead." "Very well, but now you must leave if you are to have time to change before dinner. Tonight's topic is Society, I believe.” She stood. "Just so.” He considered kissing her hand, but decided against it. She must have read his decision, for she relaxed, sending him the most natural smile he had yet seen. “When I have considered, I may have other questions concerning the library." "I remain at your service, my lady." **** Elizabeth was relieved when Symington and Mr. Randolph entered the drawing room after dinner. As usual, Fosdale had disdained joining the ladies—which provided further relief, because he had been testier than usual in the dining room. At one point, she had feared that he would demand a firm wedding date from each of the gentlemen. Mr. Randolph had smoothly deflected him—too smoothly. He was remarkably adept in social situations and completely indifferent to Fosdale's vastly superior position. In fact, he was often just as haughty and commanding as Symington. Granted, he had grown up at Whitfield Castle and counted Symington among his closest friends, but she was beginning to wonder just how close his connection might be. Could he actually be Symington's heir presumptive? Her grandfather had once mentioned that Whitfield's line was

sparse, with the closest branch descending from a distant cousin. But his exact position was irrelevant, she reminded herself. He would leave as soon as Cecilia jilted Symington. She would always remember him fondly, of course, and not just because he had solved her most pressing problem. If circumstances had been different, they could have become friends. Possibly more than— Selling the collection to Symington would assure her future, she reminded herself, forcing her thoughts back onto business. And it provided the easiest answer. London was too far away to easily transact business with book dealers or auction houses. Symington could take them with him when he left. And despite her insinuation, she knew Mr. Randolph would not cheat her. Even though he disapproved of her plans, he would do his best to help her. The admission raised a treacherous glow in her heart, distracting her yet again. She still had trouble believing that he had given her the means to achieve her dreams. Such unselfishness had to hide an ulterior motive. But try as she might, she could not imagine what it might be. He was a man ruled by honor, a man who would never eschew a duty. Yet he was backing away from a marriage demanded by both honor and duty. Why? "Tell us about London,” demanded Lady Fosdale when the gentlemen were seated. Fosdale had monopolized the table conversation. Elizabeth exchanged triumphant glances with Mr. Randolph for the ease with which the desired topic had arisen. "What do you wish to know?” asked Symington, ignoring Cecilia's avid gaze as he concentrated on his hostess. That irritating note of ennui was back. "It must be wonderful to live so close to friends,” she answered with a sigh. “I can rarely make calls more than once a week here." "You would enjoy London, then,” agreed Symington. “Calls occupy most of every day. Sometimes I wish they did not." "Then you agree that drinking tea and gossiping is a waste of time?” asked Cecilia, smiling in delight. "Good heavens, no!” He stared at her in appalled shock. “Gossip forms the very fabric of Society. My irritation arises from the necessity of keeping track of where I have called and where I have yet to call. Many hostesses must be visited weekly, some at other intervals. Inadvertently insulting one by failing to appear when expected can besmirch even a spotless reputation. One needs a secretary just to keep proper records—quite exhausting, and another reason I avoid Town. A man in my position must make at least a dozen calls a day." "At least it allows you to keep up with what is happening,” said Lady Fosdale. "You have that reversed, my lady,” he said in gentle correction. “One hears the news from one's servants —part of their job is to keep their employers informed. Paying calls proves that you are au courante, for you are able to discuss every story. Only rarely do calls reveal something new, so being first with a tale is quite prized. I actually managed it the last time I was in Town. After overhearing Lord Eppingham release his valet in a fit of pique over a badly tied cravat, I was lionized for quite four hours.” He preened in a most exaggerated fashion. "Who would care?” demanded Cecilia.

"Why, everyone! What is more important than the intimate doings of Society? When Brummell cut the Prince Regent some years ago, it was the talk of the town for weeks." "Because everyone was speculating about his reasons?" "Of course not. Everyone knew the Beau was tired of approving the Regent's dress—there is no disguising such girth, so why pretend otherwise? But repeating the latest gossip proves that one knows it and is part of the haut ton. Those who remain in ignorance live on the fringes, demonstrating that they are little better than mushrooms. Thus everyone repeats every tale every day. One can enter a dozen consecutive drawing rooms and hear exactly the same stories in each. Driving in the park offers another opportunity for demonstrating one's knowledge. And whether one attends a series of routs, a card party, or even a ball in the evening, the day's gossip will dominate." Elizabeth jumped when Mr. Randolph joined her on the settee. "He does this so well,” she murmured. “One could mistake him for a leader of Society after such a performance." Lady Fosdale was smiling. “It sounds heavenly." "It sounds boring,” snapped Cecilia. “But surely you exaggerate, sir. There must be many places where one can discuss the state of the country, ways to alleviate the poverty that is becoming so common in the cities—" "Good Lord!” Symington recoiled. “Surely you are not a bluestocking!” His voice shuddered on the word. “No lady of quality would dream of discussing politics. And coming out as a reformer courts permanent ostracism." Elizabeth met Cecilia's shocked gaze. “I warned you,” she said calmly. “The newspapers make it quite plain that society ladies avoid serious discussion of any kind." "Quite true,” confirmed Symington. Mr. Randolph cleared his throat. “I have noted that many ladies concern themselves with such matters in the country, willingly addressing the problems that face their tenants and villagers. Some even sponsor schools to teach the children to read and write." "So you are saying that people go to London only to enjoy the entertainments?” Cecilia's brow cleared. “That makes sense. There would be little time for anything else. And frequent doses of frivolity make life enchanting." Elizabeth glared at Mr. Randolph, but his slight shake of the head dissipated her irritation. He was right. Straying too far from the truth would lead to trouble. Cecilia might be obsessed, but she was not stupid. "Few people view the London Season as frivolous,” said Symington sternly. “It is quite serious, for its purpose is to arrange marriages. The rules reflect that purpose, though they vary by activity and location. A modest infraction that might be excused on a morning stroll, would cause a serious scandal if it occurred during the fashionable hour. The strictest rules are enforced at Almack's, of course." "Almack's.” Cecilia's sigh was ecstatic. “That gold and marble palace seen only by the crème de la crème." "I don't know where girls get such ridiculous notions,” complained Symington.

Randolph tried to stifle his laughter, but failed, sending Elizabeth into similar spasms of hilarity. "Almack's is a building,” he said once he caught his breath. “And not a particularly handsome one. I have been there, as has every mushroom in Town, for it is available to anyone who cares to rent it. The walls are plain, the floors uneven—which makes it dashed difficult to execute steps properly. The last time I was there, paint was peeling from the portico.” He shook his head at such neglect. "I expect she was referring to the Wednesday subscription balls,” said Symington, making a token effort to cover a yawn. “The patronesses have given them an aura of mystique by making them excessively exclusive. But the music is mediocre and the food nearly inedible. Stale cakes, buttered bread, and orgeat so foul-tasting that it threatens illness." "It sounds worse than the assemblies at Raven's Rook,” said Elizabeth. "I would not be surprised. But Society dares not complain. One must have permission from the patronesses to attend. If they don't like your breeding or your manners, you will not receive a voucher. The tiniest hint of scandal or even the perception of an insult will get that voucher revoked. And they do not believe in second chances. I know of no one who has succeeded in getting a voucher reinstated." "They sound like tyrants,” said Elizabeth, suppressing her delight when Cecilia flinched at the description. "They are. And they enjoy wielding their power. Everyone must adhere to their rules. The Duke of Wellington was refused entrance one night because he was not wearing knee-smalls. And more than one person has been turned away for arriving after the doors were closed." "And their power extends far beyond Almack's,” added Mr. Randolph. “Many a girl has been denied vouchers because she dared to waltz before receiving permission from a patroness. Miss Ungerwood destroyed her come-out by waltzing at a country assembly, where she was spotted by one of the high sticklers." "Then the best way to secure my place in Society is to become a patroness,” decided Cecilia. Symington laughed. “Such childish conceit. Do you honestly believe that they will expand their little group? Your innocence is shocking, my dear. They will never dilute their power. Nor would they consider passing it on to someone so young." Elizabeth decided that they had given Cecilia enough to think about for the evening. “Have you any idea when your secretary will return, my lord?” she asked Symington. "It would depend upon the weather,” he replied. “Two weeks at the very least." That led, quite naturally, to everyone's guesses on how long the wet weather would last.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Elizabeth pulled out a book describing Switzerland and settled down to read. Wind battered the library windows, proving that yet another storm was moving in. Shivering, she shifted closer to the fire. The library was impossible to heat properly, but her grandfather had always insisted that fires burn in all three fireplaces to at least keep the chill off. It was an order Fosdale had never countermanded, which meant he probably didn't know of it. He never entered this room, and the servants rarely volunteered information. Now that she knew the value of her books, she was grateful that the damp had been held at bay. The first blast of rain slammed against the house. Sighing, she rose to check her repairs. The putty was holding. No water seeped around the window frame. Resuming her seat, she tried to lose herself in a description of mountains that sounded taller and far more rugged than those surrounding Ravenswood. The wild grandeur would make an ideal setting for one of Cecilia's stories, but perhaps she could use it as well. She had come across a fell-walker last summer who had been fascinated by the different sorts of rocks he found in the hills. Switzerland would likely interest such a fellow. She turned her imagination loose, conjuring other characters and listing all the reasons they might be traveling abroad. But she couldn't concentrate. Images of Mr. Randolph kept intruding. He knew about her writing. Her greatest fear since she had penned her first book five years earlier had been that someone would discover her secrets, making it impossible to achieve independence. Now that fear had come to pass. But he did not condemn you. She frowned. It was true that he had praised her work even before he had connected it to her. And he was the only person at Ravenswood who seemed to understand her. Could she trust him to remain silent? Of course you can. She nodded. Revealing her secret would force her into marriage by destroying her other options, something he had vowed more than once to avoid. But beyond that, he was a man who loved books, a man who had read widely and appreciated knowledge. So he did not consider writing novels to be either sinful or scandalous. Yet he was close enough to the aristocracy to understand that others would. Most members of her class distrusted a broad education, especially in women. Earning a living was even worse. What would Society say about her other dreams? Plenty, and none of it supportive. Even Mr. Randolph did not wholly approve of her plans—she nearly choked on the understatement, for despite his soothing words, his eyes had held shock. He might even consider her a candidate for Bedlam. Yet he had not only refused to expose her, he had handed her the key to success. Though it meant selling the library she loved, she could live comfortably even if she never wrote another word. So why were doubts suddenly assailing her?

She had lain awake half the night trying to plan her next step. But problems she had never considered suddenly loomed large. Staying in this valley would put her in the position of playing maiden aunt to Cecilia's children—assuming the girl married Sir Lewis—and leave her at the mercy of her parents’ ire. Both images made her cringe. She could live with Aunt Constance, but the woman would likely die before many more years had passed, exposing her to Uncle Jason's disapproval, for he despised girls who left home for any reason but marriage. So she would have to live in a place where she knew no one. And risk them shunning you for being different, added a voice. You would be much better off with Mr. Randolph. Never! She straightened in shock. Where had that idea come from? And why? "Does it do nothing but rain in Cumberland?” asked Mr. Randolph, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Be grateful it is not colder, or we would be buried in snow by now.” She watched him peruse the titles, unable to ignore how his pantaloons clung to his thighs and how his jacket stretched across his shoulders when he pulled a book from a high shelf, then returned it. “Was there something particular you wished to read?" "Not really. Your grandfather amassed an interesting collection." "Once he returned from France, he never traveled beyond Carlisle. But his interest in other places and other times remained, so he used books to explore them.” Her eyes strayed to the volume in her lap. Not only would she lose her own books, leaving would also remove access to hundreds of others. Where would she research places and ideas for her novels? "So he traveled the world through other eyes.” He joined her on the settee. "It is better than knowing nothing at all." "But not nearly as interesting as seeing new places for yourself. No matter how evenhanded a reporter tries to be, his prejudices will inevitably skew his opinions. If he dislikes quaint country villages, his descriptions will make them sound boringly unappealing. If he prefers open vistas, then reports of forested mountains will suffer." "Surely writers try to be fair when they are describing real places. Unlike the novels I write, their works are supposed to be truthful." "It depends on the writer. If you were to write an account of your travels, you would find something good to say about every place you visited." She stared at him, surprised by his perspicacity. "That is the kind of woman you are, Elizabeth. And many writers feel the same way. But there are others who believe that only their opinion matters. I am sure you have met such people." "Major Henessey,” she replied instantly, naming a retired officer who lived near Sir Lewis. “He considers himself the ultimate authority on everything, so he never admits a fault and will argue against any ideas but his own, even those that are equally good." "Exactly. So if he set out to write a book about Cumberland, could you trust him to portray it accurately?" "Probably not, but that has no bearing on this discussion. I cannot visit places for myself, so I must glean

what I can from the accounts of others." "But you could travel, if you chose to,” he said softly. "Hardly. That is one restriction that I will never overcome." "Lady Hester Stanhope has done so for some years now." "But I am not Lady Hester. Even if I had her wealth, I would not try to cope with inns and transportation and finding adequate translators in countries where I did not speak the language." "So the ability to travel must weigh in favor of marriage.” He smiled, sending goose bumps skittering down her arms. She ignored them, stifling a groan at yet another mention of marriage. His determination hadn't waned after all, though she had mistakenly thought so after his revelation about her library. But he was not deterred. “I can offer you experiences you would never find on your own. You needn't fear that I would take advantage of my position to dominate you, for I respect you too much to try." Randolph knew he should give her more time, but that commodity was growing short. And yesterday's discussion seemed to have done some good. The shadows under her eyes hinted at a sleepless night. Was she finally facing the loneliness she would endure if she held to her course? She bit her lip for more than a minute before responding. "I have learned that when an offer sounds too good to be true, it generally is. You paint a pretty picture with your words—freedom, noninterference in my work, travel, and more—but what would you derive from such an arrangement? A gentleman would never accept so lasting a commitment without expecting some benefit." "Companionship,” he said carefully. “I do not enjoy the press of London, but neither do I enjoy solitude. You are an intelligent woman who shares many of my interests and offers stimulating conversation. I can relax completely with you, for you already know the worst about me and accept it." "Your fear.” She nodded. "I doubt if you can comprehend how much that means to me. No one who has not been brutalized in an attempt to rid him of a childish fear can understand the stigma attached to the adult who harbors it.” He sighed. “And I really would like to travel, but have hesitated to do so alone." She was staring, as he had known she would. “And how has a duke's book expert and distant cousin amassed the means to travel? Or the leisure to do so?" "The relationship is not as distant as I implied,” he admitted, choosing his words with care. "I suspected as much." He raised his brows. "You are so at home with command, I wondered if you were Symington's heir, who I understand is currently a distant cousin." "Something like that.” He managed to keep a straight face, though her knowledge of his family tree was a shock. He had not even thought of that third cousin when he embarked on this deception. “I knew you

were remarkably observant. But I wanted to give you a free choice in deciding your future, without your father's pressure or interference. My knowledge of rare books is well-known. Whitfield calls on my expertise frequently, as does the British Museum. And he did send me here to authenticate the Chaucer." "So what do you do the rest of the time?” she asked suspiciously. "We discussed my father's estate, which I will one day inherit and must supervise now that he cannot do so himself. In addition, I own a small estate nearby and have sufficient funds to be considered wealthy by some. You need not fear the future if you become my wife." "Dear God!” She blanched. “Whatever you do, don't mention that to Fosdale. He would drag us off to Scotland in a trice if he suspected your situation. The only reason he is not pressing harder is because he considers you negligible. And he is concentrating on attaching Symington at the moment." "I am aware of that.” He suppressed a grimace, for this conversation was becoming trickier with every exchange. “But I have no intention of falling in with his wishes. I would wed you, yes. But by choice. You are of age, so any agreements we reach need involve only the two of us. If Fosdale makes demands, I will remind him that ladies traditionally bring dowries into their marriages." She laughed. “I am tempted to accept you, just to see his face when you confront him.” The smile died. “Almost." "Do not decide yet,” he begged, stifling disappointment—though her words raised hope that he would ultimately win her. “But as you consider my offer, think about everything we have discussed. I promise, on my honor as a gentleman, that I will never coerce you into a life you abhor nor deny any request without offering reasons that you are welcome to debate, for I believe that marriage should be a partnership. Your writing is a part of you that I would never suppress. I can offer a comfortable life with opportunities you will not find elsewhere. And I beg you to think seriously about your ideas of marriage. Just as Major Henessey imposes his views on those around him, you have allowed your parents’ unhappiness to skew your image of all relationships." "You mentioned that before,” she reminded him. “I will consider it, and I will consider your offer. In return, I would ask that you accept my answer this time." Pain knifed his heart. Would she ever return his love? Her eyes hardened at his hesitation. He must agree unless he wished to hear another refusal. So he nodded, praying that he would not have to renege on the implied promise. “I will leave you to your thoughts, my lady,” he said formally, placing a lingering kiss on her hand before striding away. **** Elizabeth touched the back of her hand. It remained warm from his lips. He was unlike any man she had ever met, which was reason enough to seriously consider his offer, she admitted with a sigh. Could he possibly be right? She stared out at the rain. How could she tell? She mentally listed every couple she knew. Her parents’ marriage was by far the worst, though few aristocratic couples treated each other as more than casual acquaintances. On the other hand, people rarely revealed their true feelings in public. Even her mother seemed perfectly content when judged by her demeanor around other people.

It was an important point, she admitted. Society frowned on any display of genuine emotion. And Mr. Randolph was right. She was skewing her perceptions. Because her mother's bland expression hid bitter unhappiness, she had assumed that all facades covered distress. But they actually hid a variety of feelings, including happiness and contentment. Thus she could not use public demeanor as a clue to truth. A stronger gust of wind rattled the windows, as if berating her for having been so stupid to begin with. So how could she judge people if they hid behind masks? She couldn't. But you did know one happy couple, that pesky voice reminded her. Sir Lewis's parents had been deeply in love, a fact she recognized because she had so often visited Little House—his younger sister had been a close childhood friend. More than once, she had come upon the Mitchells embracing—in empty rooms, in the maze, in the stable ... Yet their public demeanor had been no different from her own parents', whose private behavior bordered on abusive. After the baronet's death, Lady Mitchell had moved to Carlisle to escape the daily reminders of what she had lost. Yet even admitting that some marriages worked left her with questions. A husband had a legal right to make all decisions, to discipline his wife in any way he chose, to ignore any suggestions she might make. Her earnings would belong to him. She would have no claim to the money beyond what he chose to give her. Even if she bought property before marriage—assuming anyone would sell it to a female—the title would revert to him the moment she wed. There was no way to protect herself from abuse. Regardless of how honest Mr. Randolph was being today, he could change his mind in the future, and she would have no recourse. So the decision came down to Mr. Randolph's character and to the question she had asked more than once. Was he a man who would treat her fairly, or was he hiding behind geniality to force her into marriage? Her suspicions might seem odd, for she offered nothing a gentleman usually coveted—fortune, connections, beauty. But this case was tangled in honor. Honor was a malleable concept for gentlemen. It could force a man into deeds he found abhorrent or it could defend disreputable conduct. Honor demanded that vows between gentlemen took precedence over promises to others. Thus settling gaming debts was more urgent than paying the butcher, even if the butcher teetered on the brink of bankruptcy and the holder of the vowels was as rich as Golden Ball. Honor ostracized a gentleman who cheated another at cards while turning a blind eye on a man who ignored his marriage vows, thus cheating his wife, or who wagered away dowries and inheritances, thus cheating his children. Honor required a gentleman to marry any lady he dishonored, however inadvertent or insignificant the compromise. Yet honor then ignored any mistreatment he meted out afterward. So honor dictated behavior, but in the end, it protected only gentlemen. Women and anyone from the lower classes didn't count. And no matter how much he tried to dress it up, Mr. Randolph's proposal arose from honor. He had spent the night with her—never mind that he was unconscious the entire time —therefore, he must wed her. All his talk of companionship and mutual interests sought only to convince her that life would be all right. And it might well be, she admitted. If he had been honest, then they did share many interests, especially a

craving for knowledge. But just how honest had he been? She had already caught him playing fast and loose with his background. And there were other concerns. He had made no mention of setting up a nursery or what that entailed. A landowner who was heir to another estate would need a son. And he was close to the Whitfield line as well. She frowned. Again he had hedged, for he had glossed over just how close he was. But that did not matter. Had he left out the subject of intimacy because she was an innocent maiden, or was he avoiding it because he found her unprepossessing appearance off-putting enough that he was unwilling to make any promises? It was an important point, for if he rued marrying an antidote, let alone sharing a bed with one, then the future looked grim. Sooner or later he would resent his entrapment and take that resentment out on her. She hoped his silence rose from delicacy, for she found him quite likable. Be honest, demanded her conscience. All right, she found him more than likable. Far more than likable. He might lack the size and intimidating masculinity that Symington radiated, but she had always been uncomfortable around blatantly virile gentlemen. Mr. Randolph did not intimidate her. He was pleasing to look at, stimulating to talk to, and his touch raised an amazing amount of warmth. Again, she felt his lips pressing against her hand. His fingers were long and elegant, conveying gentleness. She would have no fears with him. His caress would be excit— She was actually considering marriage, she realized in shock. Tension gripped her arms, spreading to engulf her entire body. But it was a good tension, a welcome tension that hinted at something more. She needed to see him, to touch him, to decide if he would welcome her into his heart and home or merely tolerate her. The question was assuming a burgeoning importance. Abandoning the library, she went in search of him. "Have you decided already?” he asked when she found him in the morning room. "No.” Only then did she realize how difficult it would be to ask her question, for it not only bared her own insecurities but begged him to lie. But it was too late to back down, and the answer was vital if she was to make a wise decision. Watching the rain flatten the emerging daffodils on the grounds outside made it easier to talk. "You spoke of wanting companionship,” she finally said, noting his reflection in the window glass. He seemed tense. “But you did not mention an heir. I presume you will expect one." His eyes widened. “Of course. I want a complete marriage, Elizabeth. If you consider intimacy distasteful, then we need to discuss the problem before this goes any further." "It's not that,” she protested. He gently turned her until he could see into her eyes. His own remained inscrutable. She shivered.

"Then what troubles you?” One finger stroked the side of her neck. She had no choice. “I fear you will come to regret attaching a wife who is so plain. I accept my lack, but you would have to look at me every day. And what if I cursed your children with my ugliness?" "Dear God,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I ought to throttle Cecilia. Damn her selfish hide. Do not let the spiteful prattlings of a conceited fool mold your thinking, Elizabeth." "Do not minimize the problem, sir. Everyone in the district recognizes it." "What they recognize is that your looks are different from those your mother bestowed on your sister, for you more closely resemble your grandfather—his portrait hangs above your shelves in the library, does it not?" She nodded. "You have a strong face that imparts great elegance to your adult form, but which probably overpowered you as a child." "Don't lie to me,” she begged. "I am not.” His arms slipped around her shoulders to pull her close, setting off explosions from head to toe. She could not remember being held by anyone before. Really held; not just picked up or shoved aside. It was remarkably comforting—and exciting. "I don't ever want you to demean yourself again. Cecilia may be beautiful—though personally, I have always considered blonde hair to be insipid—but she exaggerates her countenance. At least a dozen girls with equal beauty appear in London every Season." She leaned closer, absorbing his warmth. He stroked her back. “Forget Cecilia, my dear. I far prefer looking at you, for you are a lovely lady, whose eyes sparkle with wit and humor. And I have wanted to do this since I awoke to find you bending over me in Sadie's cottage." He tilted her head so their mouths met. Her lips tingled, radiating heat clear to her toes. He moved across them, then settled more firmly, deepening the kiss and pulling her against him. She slid her hands up his shoulders, feeling the hardness of muscles she had not touched in days. And never like this. The pleasure elicited moans as it drove coherent thought into hiding. She had written of kisses, but never experienced one. It was nothing like her expectations. She wanted more... So did he. Even an innocent could understand the changes in his body. But he denied them both, easing away to stare into her eyes. His breathing had quickened, proving how much he had been affected by that embrace. "That is enough for now,” he said, his voice raspy with desire. “I want you, Elizabeth—as my wife, as my lover, as my friend. But I will not coerce you. Have you another question?" She shook her head. “I will give you my answer in the morning." **** Randolph threaded both hands through his hair as he fought to control his breathing. And his feet. They

longed to race after her and settle this issue right now. Dear Lord, he hadn't expected that. Never had he reacted so powerfully to a simple kiss. Backing away had been the most difficult thing he had ever done. But he'd had to. Continuing even a moment longer would have removed the freedom of choice he'd sworn to give her. The only consolation was that she had been equally reluctant. He had not realized how vulnerable she was. A good part of her defiant bravado stemmed from fear that no one could accept her. No wonder she avoided any thought of marriage. After years of listening to Cecilia's taunts—and Lady Fosdale had undoubtedly contributed more than a few well-meaning condolences—she believed herself an antidote. So she never really looked at herself in a mirror. With the right hairstyle and more fashionable gowns, she could stun any gentleman into speechlessness. Before this was over, he was going to give Cecilia a blistering lecture on conceit and cruelty to others. That chit was begging for a brutal comeuppance. Elizabeth might be right that the girl's core was sound, but no one would ever discover that until she discarded her selfish façade. Dinner would be an excellent place to start. Sir Lewis had been conducting estate business with Fosdale when this latest storm broke and had already accepted an invitation to stay the night. Perhaps the baronet should describe some ravishing beauty he had met in Carlisle. One who cast all other females in the shade. If no such woman existed, he could make one up. A little jealousy should enliven things. And it was time to describe Cecilia's barren future if she pressed this betrothal. He headed upstairs. One way or another, they must free Sedge tonight so he could deal honestly with Elizabeth when she sought him out in the morning.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Elizabeth frowned as she climbed the stairs. Since her judgment had been unsound in one area, could she trust it for anything? It was a vital question, for her instincts all shouted that Mr. Randolph was an honorable, forthright gentleman who was offering a life she had never considered possible. He might even provide the one thing she had never truly believed in—love. But was it true, or was she merely reacting to that mesmerizing kiss that had ended far too soon? She did have another source of information at her disposal, though. Symington had known Mr. Randolph all his life. Yet how could she ask personal questions of a man she barely knew? Biting her lip, she looked at the idea from several sides. Symington was a virtual stranger. Gentlemen rarely revealed personal information about themselves, let alone their friends. Seeking him out was highly improper in the best of times, but even more so today, since he would most likely be found in his bedchamber. Holding a private meeting with him would be worse, for discovery could lead to any number of complications, all bad. On the other hand, the two men were close friends, so he must want Mr. Randolph's happiness. And she had no one else she could turn to. Fosdale cared nothing about honesty or integrity. Her mother would support his demands in the hope that loyalty would win that trip to London. Cecilia was too immersed in her own affairs to bother about anything else. Without wasting more time dithering, she plucked up her courage and went in search of Symington. He paled alarmingly when he opened the door to her knock. “Has something happened?” Even his voice seemed hesitant. "Not really.” The sight of the bed looming behind him sapped most of her courage. “I wished to speak with you for a moment—but not here." "Of course.” He followed her to a sitting room at the end of the hallway. "I—” She frowned, framing and reframing her question. “This is more difficult than I had imagined." "Then it must concern Randolph.” His eyes were twinkling with humor, which somehow relieved her. She nodded. "Has he done something new to annoy you?” He wandered over to watch the rain as if he understood that she would talk easier if she wasn't facing him. "Not really. I presume that you understand the situation we face." "You need not fear your father's demands,” he said soothingly. “Randolph knows his own mind quite well and rarely allows others to dictate his actions." "I know. He is quite adept at command and at getting his own way." His shoulders stiffened. "What I cannot trust are my impressions of his character. Can I believe him, or is he so accustomed to winning that he will say anything to achieve his objective?" He turned, unable to hide his surprise at the question. “A gentleman never lies."

"If we are speaking of gentlemen in the abstract, then they often twist words to serve their own purposes.” She glared, challenging him to contradict her. "Touché,” he admitted quietly, then sighed. “Randolph is an enigma in many ways, for he holds portions of himself aloof even from his friends. But he is one of the most honorable and loyal men I know. I have never seen him break a vow, or even bend one." "Thank you.” Her heart soared at the words. “You grew up together, did you not?" "Not exactly.” He frowned. “I saw him frequently, but my father lived on another estate. He was quite adventurous as a child and often led us both into trouble, though I must admit to my own share of bright ideas.” They shared a chuckle. “That changed after he shattered his leg. Perhaps the prolonged bed rest broke his spirit, or maybe he acquired a healthy respect for the dangers we had been running. He never explained, but that was when he turned to books and study, refusing to join me on further adventures. He never acted on impulse again until he jumped into the river last week." "For which I must be grateful,” she murmured. But her mind raced. The accident in the cave had completely changed his life. He had even postponed things as sedate as travel because he wouldn't face the unknown alone. So perhaps he needed her. Did he hope to broaden his horizons with her at his side? Could she help him find that adventurous boy he had once been? The idea was insidiously enticing. She was tempted to question Symington further about the young Randolph, but bowed to propriety. The longer she remained, the greater the risk that someone would discover them together. Thanking him for the information, she slipped away. **** Elizabeth paused in the drawing room doorway. Her head was beginning to ache. After leaving Symington, she had passed two hours in fruitless contemplation, but she was as confused as when she had started. Probably more confused. She had decided to avoid marriage ten years earlier after finding her mother in uncontrollable tears for the third time in a week. Nothing had tempted a change of mind—until now. Fosdale's dictates had grown increasingly cruel in recent years, and she could not convince herself that they were inadvertent. He was deliberately making his wife miserable, though she had done nothing to deserve such treatment—which made putting herself under the control of another an intolerable idea. Yet she was faced with a gentleman who not only vowed to eschew such control, but who made her yearn for his company—and more. His portrayal of a future spent alone had been brutally honest. She had known that her income was unlikely to cover even a rudimentary staff, yet she had never considered the effort it would take to do the work herself. She had known that women had no rights and few opportunities in the world of business, yet she had believed that in time she would earn enough to support herself in style. She had known that setting up her own establishment would sever any ties to her own class, yet she had never considered the gulf that would remain between her and the lower classes. He had also given her the means to overcome most of those problems. Yet the biggest hurdle of all would never be cleared with money: the fundamental loneliness she would face for the rest of her life. It was a problem she had never even considered until now.

Reality rarely matches expectations. The axiom echoed in her ears. Despite quoting it to Cecilia at frequent intervals, she had never applied it to herself. Mr. Randolph was right. In her own way, she was as naïve and unrealistic as Cecilia. Her dreams might be very different, but she was no more likely to achieve them. And after just a few days in his company, loneliness loomed as a worse fate than helplessness. But there was another side to that axiom, she realized suddenly. She had always interpreted it negatively: reality could never live up to expectations. But there was a positive meaning as well. Sometimes reality exceeded expectations. How often had a fear of the unknown proven false? Riding had become a joy. Exposing her writing to the critical eye of a publisher had brought great satisfaction. Even that brief kiss had been unlike anything she had ever imagined. Could marriage to Mr. Randolph be another of life's pleasures? She shivered, and not in fear. Yet her growing attachment—she had finally admitted to an attachment during the past two hours—was not as important as Mr. Randolph's character. She could not quite bring herself to place her future in his hands. He seemed honest, concerned, and caring—traits Symington had confirmed—but she could not shake the conviction that something wasn't right. And not just with Mr. Randolph. She had questions about Symington as well. Both gentlemen seemed unusually tense. They stiffened at odd times for no apparent reason. She had attributed it to Fosdale's pressure, but that was an inadequate excuse. Even innocuous conversation was odd, for they weighed each word as if conducting delicate negotiations with hostile opponents. And they often backtracked, changing their words in mid-sentence. Then there were the facts they had not revealed. Who was Mr. Randolph? Why did his connection to Whitfield shift so often? Could she tie herself to a man even Symington had described as an enigma? She didn't know. Her heart demanded that she accept him, her body frankly wanted him, but her head remained skeptical. So she had come downstairs, hoping that inconsequential chatter would ease her tension. A break might offer a different perspective when she returned to the decision she must make. She had promised an answer by morning. "There you are, Elizabeth,” said Lady Fosdale unnecessarily. “Do join us. Lord Symington is telling the drollest story." She met his gaze in surprise. Why was he entertaining the ladies instead of trying to disgust Cecilia? "So what happened next?” demanded Cecilia. “Society would forgive the Season's diamond anything, so she must now be a duchess." "Of course not.” He paused for a bored yawn. “Having destroyed her reputation by galloping through the park at the height of the fashionable hour, she had to retire to the country. Someone claimed that she later married a squire's son, but I have reason to doubt it." "But everyone loved her!” Cecilia protested. "Hardly. She was merely the fashion of the moment, replaced within hours by a new Incomparable. The

rules are far more important than one silly girl. The duke was appalled at her behavior. Continuing to court her after she had embarrassed him in public would have diminished his own standing." "But you are not like that, are you?" "Not a bit. I detest Town and go there only when business demands it. And while I play the game when necessary, I do it only to humor my grandfather. Once he passes on, I need please only myself. Society's opinion doesn't matter, because I have no use for any of them." Elizabeth coughed to hide a smile at the way Cecilia blanched. It was Symington's strongest statement yet, and Cecilia was finally realizing that she had backed herself into an untenable corner. A commotion echoed from the hallway. Lady Fosdale rang for the butler. "What is going on, Wendell?" "There has been a minor accident near the gates, my lady. Lord Fosdale has invited the gentleman to stay the night while he assesses the damage." "Show him in so we may welcome him to Ravenswood,” she ordered. Elizabeth's attention shifted to Symington, who had noticeably stiffened—again. What was the man's problem? He seemed on the verge of rising when Wendell returned. "Lord Crossbridge, my lady." Symington's shoulders sagged. Crossbridge was already bent over Lady Fosdale's hand as he murmured greetings and flowery compliments. Symington's eyes darted toward the door, but he was too far away to leave without drawing notice. Fear clogged Elizabeth's throat as all her uncertainties flooded back. Something was very wrong. "Was anyone injured?” Lady Fosdale asked. "One of the horses pulled up lame. Morning will reveal how serious it is." "May I present my daughters, Lady Elizabeth and Lady Cecilia, and another house guest, Lord Symington,” she said, indicating the others. Crossbridge turned, his genial smile changing to fury when he spotted Symington. “Well, well, my lord, how interesting to meet you in Cumberland.” He straightened, radiating haughty condemnation. “What kind of rig are you running this time, Sedgewick? The town tabbies may forgive you everything short of murder, but country sensibilities are sterner. Haven't your escapades harmed enough people already?" Cecilia gasped. Elizabeth stared, her heart dropping through the floor. "May I present Lord Sedgewick Wylie, prankster extraordinaire and bane of many a gentleman,” Crossbridge said coldly. “He tricked Lord Oaksford into parting with his prized team of bays for less than half their value." "That is not what—" But Cecilia interrupted him. “He came here to buy a rare book from Papa."

"You'd best count the silver. The man is a pariah,” swore Crossbridge. The glare he aimed at Lord Sedgewick contained a hint of triumph. "You've wreaked your revenge for that minor contretemps two years ago,” drawled Sedge before he glared in turn. “Now suppose you drop the dramatics before you say something you'll regret." Shrieking, Cecilia leaped up to slap Sedge's face. “You are no duke and never will be." "Quite true, alas." "And you would never take me to London?" "I would see you in hell first." "But why this charade?” demanded Elizabeth. "It wasn't my ide—” Sedge snapped his mouth closed. Fury flared in Elizabeth's breast, replacing the pain. “How dare he claim to be honorable when he lied from the beginning?" Cecilia stared. “Do you mean that insignificant little man is—?" Sedge grabbed her arm as she whirled to leave. “Oh, no you don't,” he growled as his temper snapped. “You will leave him alone. Even if he were not pledged to your sister, I will never allow a conniving little witch to bother my closest friend." "You can consider our betrothal broken,” she swore, drawing herself up in hauteur. He actually laughed. “Dear Lord, you are incredibly stupid. I never agreed to a betrothal. I would leave the country before tying myself to someone as dishonorable as you. Yes, you have a rather ordinary prettiness of face, but it will never make up for your questionable breeding, minimal dowry, and mean-spirited character. Perhaps we can pass this off as a childish prank, but if you ever attempt such a thing again, I will spread this tale throughout Society. You would never be welcome in London after that." She tore free and fled the room. Elizabeth shook away her shock. “It was his idea, wasn't it?" "Not exactly—” he began, but she ignored his words. "I should have known. There isn't a gentleman in the world who cares for anything but himself.” She glared at him. “And what was that about being pledged to me?" "You know he has no choice—" "Fustian! He is as bad as Fosdale, but they won't get away with it.” She followed Cecilia from the room. Sedge groaned. Lady Fosdale appeared close to tears. “I must retire,” she managed in a wavering voice, then fled in turn. "Sit down, Crossbridge,” snapped Sedge as the enormity of the disaster registered. “Your attempt at revenge has set the cat among the pigeons with a vengeance."

"It serves you right." "Then you will be crushed to learn that my own life has improved immeasurably since your arrival. Cecilia and her greedy father staged a compromise designed to force me into wedding the chit. You have my eternal gratitude. Unfortunately, in freeing me, you destroyed Symington's chance to win Lady Elizabeth's hand. I doubt he will forgive that." "Symington is also here?" Sedge took pleasure in Crossbridge's pallor. “Exactly. Will you never learn to think before you jump to conclusions?" "Perhaps I can repair the damage." "I doubt it. She is not like any lady you know. Nothing you say will improve matters, and further interference may well make things worse. At best, Fosdale will hold a gun to her head while he forces her to the alter, guaranteeing that she will hate every one of us for eternity. But she may well flee—or kill herself. She is as stubborn as Symington at his worst." Crossbridge paled even further. “Does that broken arm have anything to do with this?" He nodded, then explained the whole sorry story. “Symington is in love with her,” he concluded a considerable time later. “And I honestly thought she was beginning to care for him." "Then perhaps all is not lost." But Sedge doubted it. After their discussion upstairs, he had realized that the imposture would redound against Randolph. He had even warned Randolph when they talked a short time later, and he had been wracking his brains for a solution every since. She was not a woman who took deceit lightly. **** Elizabeth stormed into Fosdale's study. "How dare you accept an offer from that man after I had already turned him down?” she demanded. "Mr. Randolph?” He shook his head as if bored at addressing the subject yet again. “You are irredeemably compromised, Elizabeth. He recognizes that fact. No gentleman could face Society if he failed to wed an innocent after spending the night with her. His only concern was that I give him enough time to bring you around because he'd rather have you willing—which only proves what a pitiful specimen he is. A real man would take what is his instead of pandering to a stupid female." "He won't take me at all.” She leaned across his desk to emphasize her point. “I wouldn't wed him if he were the last man on earth!" "You will, if I have to tie you up and cart you to Scotland." "Even Scotland requires consent. Nothing will make me agree." "You'll agree.” He rose to tower over her. His air of boredom had blossomed into anger, but she no longer cared. "I won't. Intimidation may work with Mother, but nothing you do will force me to take a husband. Why should I put myself at the mercy of a selfish, brutal beast? Watching you all these years has truly been an education."

He slapped her face. "Go ahead. Beat me,” she snapped, refusing to rub the bruise. “Show the world what a wretched excuse for a man you are. Prove that you are so impotent that only oppressing helpless dependents can give you the illusion of power.” The words flew from her mouth without thought, and she nearly cringed, knowing that she had gone too far. "Unnatural daughter,” he snarled, adding several less flattering terms. “Get you from my house and live in the gutter where you belong. You'll be whoring within the week if you can find a man drunk enough to ignore your filthy mouth and ugly face. But don't you dare come slinking back here for help. I'd watch you starve first." "You will never have the chance. I would gladly starve rather than accept a pennypiece from you." Fighting back tears, she stumbled from the room. Plans swirled through her mind, but she couldn't grab hold of one long enough to consider it. Where should she go? And how? Books. Symington had offered her money for her books... But he was a liar. He wouldn't help, for his only goal was to force her into marriage. She would have to find a dealer in London and sell the books herself. Would Fosdale prevent her from removing them? He would ignore Grandfather's will if it would benefit him, so letting him know that she wanted her inheritance might tell him that the books had value. Where could she go? Sadie would be back. But that wouldn't work. Symington would follow her. He was as determined as Fosdale, and even more devious. She had to escape where he could not find her. Clothes. How much could she carry? Fosdale would never allow her to take Aster—and he was still suffering a strain. How would she get the books away? Could she slip back later to fetch them? Questions without answers. A future in doubt. Tears streaked her cheeks as she stumbled upstairs and ran into someone. **** Randolph had stayed out of sight after his second talk with Elizabeth, especially after learning that she had spoken to Sedge. He could not afford any more lies, not even the half-lies when he sidestepped her questions. Besides, she needed time to consider his offer without pressure. And if he saw her, he would have to pressure her. What would he do if she turned him down again? He could not imagine life without her. Needing a distraction, he headed for the drawing room. Lady Fosdale usually spent the afternoons there. Elizabeth raced up the stairs and ran into him. "What happened?” he asked. Tears flowed down her face. Fury engulfed him when he spotted the

handprint on her cheek. “Who hit you?" She recoiled from his touch. “Go away!" "Who hit you, Elizabeth?" "Move out of my way,” she demanded harshly. “Take yourself out of this house and out of my life!" "What happened?” He gentled his tone, for something was seriously amiss. He hoped to God his suspicions were wrong. "Odious, deceitful liar.” She slammed a fist into his chest, adding a few curses for good measure. “Pack up your fairy tales and your disgusting friend and leave!" "Elizabeth—" "No more lies, my lord." He closed his eyes. “You know." "When were you planning to tell me?" "I can explain." "Do you think I would believe a word you said?” she demanded. “You have done nothing but lie since the moment we met." "That's not true." "Another lie. How could you agree to a betrothal without my consent? You are even more arrogant than Lord Sedgewick. You never had any doubts that you could wheedle me around, did you?" "Elizabeth—" "Don't bother. I know this masquerade was your idea. But this time you lose, my lord. I will never wed a schemer. And I'll never speak to you again." She sidestepped him and left. Randolph stared after her, his heart in his toes. She was reacting even worse than he had feared. What had happened? Another scream reverberated through the house. Cecilia. He had to find Sedge. **** Elizabeth flung herself across the bed and sobbed, then cursed herself for believing him. And he wasn't done with her. She had seen it in his eyes. A duke's heir did not accept defeat. No matter how hard she fought, he would keep pressing. Damn him! And he might yet win. Only after the dream had crashed in pieces around her feet had she admitted how very much she cared for him. Her feelings ran far beyond a mere attachment, placing her in more danger than ever before. He could charm the birds from the trees, seeming to offer everything she had secretly

desired. If he caught her at a moment of weakness, she might forget her vow to become a slave to no man. But that could only lead to disaster, for the strength of her feelings would only make the pain worse if he turned on her. She could not remain here another minute. She would have to take her chances about retrieving her belongings later on. In the meantime, she would visit Aunt Constance. No one would suspect her whereabouts when they found Aster still in the stable. They would waste days checking every cottage and shepherd's hut in the valley. Grabbing a cloak, she fled.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Cecilia was shaking with fury when she fled the drawing room. The nerve of that man, claiming he was Whitfield's heir when he was nothing but a prankster who enjoyed hurting people! Her ears still stung from the horrible words he had flung at her. How dare he speak to a lady like that! A new thought turned her stomach over, leaving her weak and clammy. What if the special license had arrived before his deceit was exposed? Whatever this false Symington believed, Papa would have forced a wedding. She might have been stuck with him! She ducked into a room, one hand over her mouth as she fought down nausea. Several minutes passed before the urge to vomit waned. What could she do now? Symington was lost, and she could not tolerate so unprepossessing a fellow anyway. She could never explain why someone of her beauty had accepted him. Even a duchy would not compensate, for he hated Town. His denials had been too vehement to believe it had all been a lie. She rounded a corner and saw Sir Lewis approaching. "What is wrong, Cecilia?” he asked quietly. Suddenly it was all too much. Shrieking, she threw herself against his shoulder and burst into tears. Once she started, she couldn't stop. Hopelessness for the future overwhelmed her. She would be stuck in this wretched valley forever, bored and miserable as she watched her beauty fade to nothing. Her life would be worse than her mother's, for at least her mother was wed. But even Lewis wouldn't want her now. He hadn't exhibited the slightest twinge of regret at finding her betrothed to another, proving that her father had forced his offer. Maybe Elizabeth was right that girls without dowries were unmarriageable. Just as she'd been right about London gentlemen and a husband's rights. Every dream she'd ever had crashed in pieces at her feet. How was she to survive? What had she done to deserve such pain? By the time she regained a semblance of control, she was sitting on Lewis's lap in the music room. "Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently. "I'm ruined!” She hiccupped. "Why?" "Th-that man lied. He isn't Symington." "True, but he remains the same gentleman as before. The name he uses does not affect his character. He is still intelligent, well-read, and has a charming sense of humor." "He vowed to destroy my reputation." "You must admit that he has cause,” he reminded her. “You tried to ruin him." "How? I deserve a good marriage." "Do you?" "Of course I do! I would make a perfect wife!"

"To the right man. But surely a perfect wife would consider her husband's interests at least as often as her own and would ask what he deserved." She almost swore, but the hand stroking her back distracted her. "Cecilia, you are very intelligent when you are not in the throes of a fantasy. So set aside your own desires for the moment and think. Using people as game pieces doesn't work. They have dreams and wills of their own. Do you honestly believe that trapping a man into marriage will bring you happiness?" "You know about that?” She felt a blush creep up her face. "I know you very well, Cecilia. And while I cannot condone your behavior, I can forgive it, provided you have learned your lesson." "H-he called me a dishonorable, conniving little witch." "Can you dispute his opinion?" She twisted to glare at him. "He had never laid eyes on you before you arranged that scene with your father." "H-how do you know what happened?" He sighed. “I must admit to a tiny deceit of my own, Cecilia. I have known Symington and Lord Sedgewick for years, for we attended school together. Symington told me what happened and asked if I would stay out of it for a time. He had hoped that his prodding would convince you to withdraw from the arrangement on your own—Elizabeth had told him that you were sensible and intelligent as a rule, and he accepted her word. But he knew that Fosdale would never release so lucrative a connection." "You make us sound horrible." "Weren't you?" She had to admit that he was right. To a stranger, her actions were base and her father's were worse. “So he made London society sound terrible. I suppose those were all lies." "Gospel, every word." "How would you know?" "Every gentleman visits London at least once. I have been there." "And you never told me?" "You never asked, and I've not been there recently. Neither has Symington, for he has never enjoyed Town." "Then things have undoubtedly changed." "Cecilia!” She looked up at his sharp tone. “Lord Sedgewick lives in London. He is one of Society's darlings, a man half the young bucks scramble to imitate, for he has replaced Brummell as an arbiter of fashion. He has the power to destroy you with a single flick of his quizzing glass." "Another lie.” She shuddered.

"No, he was speaking as Symington, who does avoid Town.” He shrugged. “I suspect that they emphasized the less savory aspects, though." "Soot?" He nodded. "Dirty streets?" He nodded. "Smell?" "Indoors and out. Half of Society does not bathe, though to be honest, one doesn't notice after the first day or two." "Rules?" "Inflexible." "Then why do people revere it so?" "Exclusivity, for one thing. And Society does offer a glittering array of entertainments, though there is a sameness after a few weeks that dissipates the excitement. By the end of the Season, exhaustion casts a pall over everything. It is admittedly special, but your imagination has never been even close to the truth." "You could have told me that sooner!" "I tried, my dear, more than once. As did Elizabeth. But admit it. You refused to listen to anything you did not want to hear.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, catching her by surprise. "I—You are right,” she conceded, distracted by the hand that had moved around her hip to caress one thigh. "Are you ready to leave childish dreams behind and embrace the more rewarding dreams of adulthood?” he asked. "And what might those be?” Warmth was radiating from that hand. "I love you, Cecilia. The real you that can fret over Mrs. Harris's agues and the loss of a few sheep, then bring sunshine to the gloomiest day with a simple smile. You would make me the happiest of men if you would consent to be my wife." "Can you really forgive me for this muddle?" "Yes. I let you play it out because I wanted you to be happy. That is still my fondest wish. I cannot offer you a duchy or a great fortune. But I can promise love and a more comfortable life than your father provides. I can promise that you will someday visit London, though home will always be Little House.” When she hesitated, he continued. “I would remind you that Fosdale will consider Lord Sedgewick a good catch, for he is quite wealthy and is second in line for a marquessate." "The poor man has suffered enough because of me. I owe him a very great apology, which I will deliver before dinner.” She drew in a deep breath and met his gaze. “I love you, Lewis. If I had not been so arrogantly insistent on silly dreams, I would have seen it sooner. I gladly accept your offer."

"Thank God.” His head dipped to hers. **** Randolph strode into the drawing room and glared at its occupants. “What in the name of Hades is going on?" "Anyone seeing you now would think you already a duke,” said Sedge with a grin. "My fault, I fear,” put in Crossbridge. "Where did you come from?” he snarled at the man he had long counted among his friends. "If I'd had any idea you were here, I would have bitten my tongue off before betraying you, Randolph. I had business in Whitehaven and thought to break the journey by stopping at Little House. I haven't seen Lewis since his father died two years ago. But one of the wheelers came up lame when we skidded into that mud hole near the Ravenswood gates." "Naturally, he recognized me,” added Sedge. “What a brangle." "Elizabeth wants nothing to do with me,” said Randolph grimly. “And I cannot blame her. She now believes that every word I spoke was false. Who told her I had accepted Fosdale's demands?" Sedge grimaced. “I fear I let that particular cat out of the bag when I was delivering a bruising set-down to Cecilia—she threw me over so she could go after you. I forgot Elizabeth was listening." "My apologies,” said Crossbridge. “I should have asked Sedge why he was posing as you instead of announcing the imposture to everyone in the room. I hope this has cured me of arrogant assumptions." "It is done. And perhaps it is for the best. Maybe she will give me a second chance." "I wouldn't count on it,” murmured Sedge. Randolph had to agree. The truth was bad enough, but learning it like this would have resurrected every fear and vulnerability she had ever possessed. Should he let her temper cool and approach her after dinner, or should he confront her right now? A moment's thought convinced him that she would not be appearing at dinner. She knew him too well. He would never accept this latest rejection. So he might as well seek her out and get it over with. Damn! He had been so close! Not surprisingly, a rap on her door elicited no response. He shrugged and opened it anyway, but she was not there. She had been, though. He could see the imprint where she had sprawled across the bed. Running his hand over the coverlet confirmed that she had been crying. He cringed. Elizabeth was not the sort who indulged in tears, but she'd spilled more than a few this time. Her sitting room was also empty, but the writing desk reminded him that she had also been living a lie. Perhaps that would make it easier to excuse his own. "Have you seen Lady Elizabeth?” he asked Wendell when he returned to the hall. "She is out, my lord.” A good butler would have overheard the contretemps in the drawing room, so the address was no surprise.

"Is someone ill?” The storm still raged, rattling the windows. "I have heard of nothing, and she carried no remedies,” he admitted, glancing at the rain. "How long since she left?" "A quarter hour, perhaps.” He paused, waging a mental war, then drew himself straighter, as if distancing himself from his words. “She quarreled with her father. He ordered her to leave his house and never return." "My God!" The handprint. No wonder she had been in tears. And an argument with Fosdale explained much of what she had shouted at him. He raced upstairs to don his warmest cloak. Would she have taken a horse? But a moment's reflection dismissed the notion. She would have taken nothing that did not belong to her—and nothing that did, he realized. Her books remained in the library. Her room was unchanged. Her writing things sat on her desk. She had fled, without thought and without plan. And probably without resources. The wind knocked him back a step as he emerged from the Manor. He had to bend nearly double to make any headway against it. Where would she have gone? "Have you seen Lady Elizabeth?” he shouted at two men who were covering a broken window in one of the outbuildings. "That way.” One of them pointed at the mountain rising just beyond the lake. By the time he reached the shore, the wind was easing, though rain fell in torrents, softening even stony ground. Tracks showed that someone had passed very recently. It had to be Elizabeth. Who else would be out in this weather? He followed, cursing steadily as the tracks left the lake to climb the mountain. Fool woman! Where did she think she was going? Was she thinking at all? The rain stopped an hour later, though clouds still glowered overhead, seeming closer now. He scanned the hillside at frequent intervals. He had yet to catch a glimpse of her, but he had no doubt she was there. Her footprints beckoned him onward. More time passed. He leaned against an outcropping to catch his breath after a particularly steep climb. She must be growing tired. More than once, she had slipped on this last stretch. Was he closing the gap between them? "Elizabeth!” he shouted. “You'll catch your death out here." No response. **** Elizabeth trudged up the mountain that separated Ravenswood from Uncle Jason's estate. The direct route was steeper than the paths she usually followed, but the distance was shorter. And she had been this way before. But after a slip nearly tumbled her over a cliff, she had to admit that she had been stupid to try it today.

Or to try it at all. She was no longer ten years old, and it was not a warm summer afternoon. She should have stayed at Ravenswood until she had worked out her plans. If she had moved into a room in the old wing, Fosdale would not have known she remained. No servants went there, for it had been closed off for years. Letty could have brought her enough food to keep her for several days. She could have collected her possessions while everyone slept, then left for good. But she had fled in a blind panic after that last argument with Symington. He was even more determined than Fosdale. A core of steel lay beneath his amiable facade, surfacing as a stubbornness no one could defeat. She had sensed that ruthlessness, which was one reason she had vacillated so long. "Elizabeth!” His voice echoed from the rocks. Dear Lord, he was following her. She dove behind a boulder, then slowly peeked around its edge. There. He stood at the top of the cliff, scanning the slopes above. She gritted her teeth. How had he found her so quickly? He didn't even look winded. Somehow she had to lose him. She followed a rivulet up a fold in the hill, accepting the muddy footing because the hill would block his view. Within moments she slipped, then stared at the betraying mark. Damn, but she was stupid. He did not need to see her. He didn't even need to focus on that mental connection they seemed to share. He was following her footprints. Scrambling up the far side, she changed course along the hill's flank. A plan was forming. Only a quarter mile farther was a cave. Merely entering it would protect her from being caught, for he could not follow her inside. And he was welcome to sit at the entrance until doomsday, for there was a second opening half a mile away. The cave floor was reasonably smooth, without cracks or crevices. A few smaller tunnels branched from the main one, but she recalled most of the layout. She would have to be careful, though. It had been years since she had explored here, and this time she had no light. The ground grew stonier. By the time she reached the cavern, she had decided to wait and see if he found her before braving the darkness inside. Thick fog had dropped, as it so often did on the fells. If he missed the cave, she could wait for morning, then resume her journey to Bornhill Park. **** Randolph doggedly followed Elizabeth's footprints. His fury was spent, replaced by fear that she would injure herself in this mad flight. The higher they climbed, the more treacherous the footing became. And fog was making it worse. He had several friends who regularly visited the Lake District. They had described being trapped on the fells when the fog rolled in, telling tales of the cold that could bring death from exposure and of the slippery, blind footing that threatened drops over unseen cliffs. Elizabeth might have lived here all her life. She might know this mountain like the back of her hand. But fog changed everything, obliterating landmarks and making it impossible to guess which direction one faced. This was far too much like his own experience on Dartmoor two years ago, when he had nearly wandered into a bog after the fog came down.

He slowed, bending double so he could clearly see her footprints. The ground was stonier here, which made it more difficult. Shouting had been a mistake. Now that she knew he was tracking her, she had swerved onto rock. But he could still see smudges of mud here and there. Ten minutes later, he stretched his back. Even the mud was gone. She had followed a slab of rock for nearly a hundred yards. Was she still heading the same direction, or had she changed yet again? He peered into the thickening fog. He could not continue without a clear trail to follow. It was suicidal to even consider it. He shivered. The fog was soaking through his cloak, chilling him to the bone. He needed shelter. A shadow loomed uphill, too large for an outcropping. Probably another cliff, but it might offer a cleft that would be warmer than standing in the open. He suppressed the image of a rock falling from the face to crush him. Risking possible injury was better than the certain death he faced here. There was more than a cleft. There was a cave. He hesitated, but renewed rain cut through the fog, adding the risk of catching a putrid sore throat or inflammation of the lungs. Drawing in a deep breath, he backed inside, keeping his eyes on the daylight and the falling rain. It's just like looking out the library window, he reminded himself as rain fell six inches from his face. But he could not force his feet even one step farther. Breathe evenly. He relaxed his fists, hoping to ease the tightness in his chest. Already, rapid breathing was making him lightheaded. Or was it his pounding heart? The soft scrape of a foot against rock echoed behind him. Images of bears and Scottish wildcats disappeared when it was followed by a stifled gasp. "Elizabeth?" She cursed. "I know you are angry with me, but can't we at least discuss this?” he asked quietly. "Never.” Her footsteps receded into the mountain. “The subject is closed, my lord. You will not drag me off to fulfill some idiotic notion of honor." "Honor has nothing to do with it." "Do you expect me to believe anything you say?" "I suppose not. And I cannot really blame you. But you do not know everything. At least learn all the facts before you condemn me." "Good-bye, my lord.” Her voice was firm—and farther away than ever. He turned to face the cave and realized that she had no light. Intrepid Elizabeth. But even if she knew this cave well, her actions were foolish. "Elizabeth, please don't make me chase you down again,” he begged.

She actually laughed. “You won't follow me. You're afraid of the dark. I'd rather die in here alone than face marriage to a deceiver." She was right, damn her. He could not force his feet into this cave. All he could do was hope that cold or hunger would eventually force her out. Or logic. He couldn't touch her, but his voice could. "How does my deceit differ from yours, Mary Selkirk?” he called after her. “How many names do you go by, Anne?" "That is entirely diff—" Rock cracked, turning her words to a scream. "Elizabeth!” he shouted. “Elizabeth!" The sound of falling stone echoed, echoed, echoed... Terror closed his throat, choking him. He tried to shout again, but no sound emerged. Darkness blinded him even as the memory of pain stabbed through his legs. A last pebble skittered down a wall to land on the tunnel floor. Its plop reverberated quietly... Silence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Randolph blinked. Dim light illuminated a rock wall. He had no memory of moving, but he was curled on the floor, his arms wrapped around his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. "Elizabeth?” he called again. “Elizabeth!" "M-my lord?" Relief left him weak. “Are you all right?" "I-I think so." "What happened?" "The ceiling came down." Falling stones again echoed along the passage. "Watch out!" "That was me, my lord. I was shifting some stones that landed on my legs." Oh, God! Pain stabbed his own leg. “My name really is Randolph,” he said to distract himself. This was far too like the collapse that had nearly killed him twenty-two years ago. "I thought it was George." He groaned. “George Edward Randolph Catherwood, if you need the whole damned list. Though it could be worse. There are at least five other names they might have added. Whitfield insists on George, but I prefer Randolph." "Why?" "Every fourth boy at school was named George, and I've never enjoyed crowds. Besides, I want no connection, however remote, to the Regent. He and I disagree on nearly everything." She laughed. "And my least favorite cousin is named Edward—he has been the bane of my existence for years." "I thought you had no near relatives." "Not on my father's side. He's Mother's nephew. Both my mother and grandmother come from prolific families, not that it did any good. Whitfields have rarely produced many children." "So you really were unconscious that night." "Of course. How could you doubt it?" "If you were alert enough to invent a new persona, I had to wonder about everything." "I don't even remember that conversation,” he protested. "When you first opened your eyes, I asked your name, and you muttered Randolph. Don't you ever

think of yourself as Symington?" "Not if I can help it. The title has been more trouble than it's worth." More stones cascaded into the tunnel. "That was farther down the passage,” she called. "Can you walk?” He realized that he was several steps inside the cave. Cold terror joined the remembered pain. She cursed, again moving small rocks. A series of grunts ended in sobs. "What is going on?” His voice wavered. "I'm trapped. I thought I could slide out from under this stone once I kicked the debris away from my legs, but I can't. Nor can I get any leverage with my hands. You will have to fetch help." The light was rapidly fading outside the cave. It would be dark soon. "Is there a quicker way back to Ravenswood?” he asked, hating the cowardice that made the question necessary. "No. In fact, there is a cliff about a hundred yards downhill from here, so be careful." He sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. More than two hours had elapsed since he'd set out to follow Elizabeth. It would be impossible to follow the footprint trail back to the valley. Between darkness and fog, he had no chance of making it intact. A slither of small rocks echoed. “Was that you?" "No. You had better get started. Water is running down from the break in the ceiling and pooling on the floor. The passage is level, so there is no danger of drowning, but all this rain must be eroding the hillside. And it can only get worse." He could hear the tension in her voice. She had to know that the next collapse might kill her. He remembered that feeling all too well. "Elizabeth, I am going to be as honest as I can,” he said, fighting to steady his voice. “It will be dark in an hour, and the fog is growing thicker. Even if I managed to find my way back to Ravenswood, no one could climb up here before tomorrow. If the rock is that unstable, I doubt it will hold up that long. Are you absolutely certain you cannot free yourself?" Grunts and sobs, punctuated by more falling stone, answered him. "I'm sorry, Randolph. I can't do it." "Are you on my side of the fall or beyond it?” he asked, fighting terror as he inched away from the light. "I've no idea. Why?" "Since you cannot move, and I cannot fetch help, I will have to dig you out myself.” Despite his efforts, his voice was shaking. He reached for his card case. It was gone. "How?” The single word contained her understanding of his fear—and her resignation.

"I have no idea." The rock closed in, stealing his breath. A groan escaped, its echo returning so quickly he knew that an outstretched hand would touch the walls and ceiling of the cavern. He was alone, helpless, without even an inadequate talisman standing between him and disaster. He couldn't do it. He was going to fail and lose the one woman he loved. And he would have to live with the guilt for all eternity. "Randolph, don't put yourself through this,” she said, her voice softer as she accepted the hopelessness of her situation. “Fate has found a way to resolve all the problems. I will escape facing a hostile world. You and Fosdale will both be rid of me. And it will likely be quick." "Stop it!” he ordered, pulled out of his own horror for a moment. He lurched into the tunnel at the back of the chamber, then cringed against one wall as terror washed over him. “I love you, damn it! I can't stand the thought of losing you." "What?” Another rock thudded onto the floor. "Are you all right?" "I think that one landed somewhere toward you. Are you serious?" He drew in a faltering breath and forced his feet deeper into the hill. “Do you think I would be in this damned cave if I didn't love you? I have only told you one lie, Elizabeth. And that was allowing the confusion over my identity to stand." "What about living at Whitfield, and your father working for the duke?" "Truth. He does work for Whitfield in a way—or did until his accident. He managed Wyndport, the duke's second largest estate. We lived there until I was eight. Then fire destroyed the house, so we moved to the Castle for two years while it was being rebuilt." "And Lord Sedgewick?" "His father's estate borders Wyndport. We grew up together." "But why did you need to pretend?" He sighed and forced another step. Her voice betrayed the depth of her pain. “Several reasons. You started it, actually. I was groggy enough that morning that I didn't realize you had been adding the Mister to my name until after you left. When I reached the village, I learned that Symington was gravely injured and perhaps dead. My only thought was to see Sedge as quickly as possible, which meant avoiding any quibbling over my identity. He had my card case." "How did that happen?" "It was the last gift my grandmother gave me before she died, so I left it in the carriage when I jumped into the river. He stuck it in his pocket for safekeeping.” His voice was shaking again at the reminder of how naked he was today. Why had he left the case on his shaving stand? Would Crossbridge have shown up if it had been in his pocket? "Close your eyes, Randolph,” she suggested. “If you can't see the dark, it isn't there." "It's not the dark. It's the rock and that damp smell. I have the same trouble with dungeons, even when

they are well lit." "Then talk to me. You wanted to avoid delay in reaching Lord Sedgewick, which makes sense. But why continue the masquerade?" "Few people see me as more than a title. I've often wondered if anyone could like me without it, so the situation was enticing. If it's any consolation, Sedge tried to talk me out of it. I think he understood even then that it would lead to trouble. But I refused, in part because I have a stubborn streak—" She laughed. “That's hardly news." "I suppose not. But my biggest reason was your father. He would have exerted tremendous pressure on you if he learned who I was. By the way, I only accepted his demand for a betrothal so that I could blackmail him into leaving you alone. I always intended to give you the final say in the matter.” His head hit the low ceiling, and he dropped to the floor, wrapping his arms around himself for protection. "Are you all right, Randolph?” she asked. She had to repeat the question before he could respond. “Just fighting off my demons.” His attempt at humor fell flat, for his shaking voice made the words unintelligible. "This is just like your own accident, isn't it?" "Far too similar,” he admitted, clawing his way to his feet. “Though there don't seem to be any bats in here. But their company wasn't enough to ward off loneliness." "It must have been much worse for you. At least I'm not alone." "You wouldn't be here at all if I hadn't followed you.” The knowledge had been eating at him since the ceiling had fallen. "Not true. I had decided that crossing the mountain in this weather was stupid even before you revealed your presence. This was the nearest shelter. There is a second entrance farther along the hill. The cave there is larger and drier than at this end. So don't feel guilty about this. It is not your fault. And I'm terribly glad you are here." "Yes, I can understand that. But as bad as loneliness becomes, the helplessness is worse. There is no more hellish experience than lying in the dark, unable to move, unable to see, yet knowing that sight would not help, because there is no way to avoid the danger. And being there was my own fault.” He paused to control his voice. “But my rescue did not banish the helplessness. Even after I recovered from the fever, that broken leg kept me in bed for two months, with nothing to do but repent my misdeeds. I never want to be at the mercy of anyone or anything again—which is why I understand your qualms about marriage,” he added. “You would be trusting me with everything." He glanced toward the opening, but either it was dark, or the tunnel had curved enough to block it. He could see nothing. "So you claimed to be Whitfield's book expert,” she said, pulling him out of another wave of panic. Her return to the subject of his imposture effectively shut off intimacy, but he accepted it. At least she was talking. "That was not pretense. He has called on me for opinions ever since his resident librarian died five years ago."

"So it was true about being consulted by the British Museum?" "Among others. Grandfather piqued my interest in books while that broken leg was mending. I am now considered an authority on Chaucer and other medieval writers. My own collection of rare books is one of the most extensive in the country." "So your evaluation of mine was accurate?" "As near as I could make it. You have two first editions that might fetch more at auction, depending on who was bidding against me." She was silent for so long that he froze, unable to move. “Talk to me, Elizabeth. Your voice keeps the terror at bay." "I'm sorry. I was lost in thought. Where are you?" "I've no idea. I feel like I've been in here for at least a century and traversed all of Asia twice." "You sound close." "I hope so. If I don't get out of here soon, I will likely land in Bedlam." "I hardly think a duke's heir would be shut away in so common a hospital,” she said tartly. "Perhaps not, but the result is the same." "I was reviewing that scene in the drawing room. The masquerade explains why you both stiffened at odd times and why you have been so deliberate when speaking. But there was something going on between Lords Sedgewick and Crossbridge that I don't understand." "That is not surprising. They have been semi-friendly antagonists since Eton. Crossbridge is stuffy, arrogant, and very proper—especially around Sedge. Their most recent confrontation resulted in a prank that embarrassed Crossbridge in front of the most powerful gossips in London. Naturally, he grabbed this opportunity to reap his revenge." "I thought Lord Sedgewick disliked London." "No, I am the one who dislikes Town. Your intuition is uncanny, by the way, and has startled me more than once since this began. Sedge lives in London. He is a pillar of Society, beloved by all the hostesses and mimicked by most of the greenlings. It is thoroughly nauseating." "Good heavens, he must be the Lord S—W—who shows up on the Society pages." "Exactly." "So the prank was the one involving Lord C—and the corset cover?" "True." She giggled. “You must tell me about it sometime.” Another smattering of rock choked off her words. His foot struck stone. It was fairly small, but a larger one rested a few inches away. Carefully feeling his way with his hands, he found a third, followed immediately by a strand of hair. “Dear lord, this one nearly landed on your head.” He caressed her face. His heart pounded crazily when he realized that she was all but buried. He was reaching through an opening barely a foot wide. It was a miracle that she had

survived. One of her hands shakily grabbed his, revealing how scared she was. The arm was wrapped awkwardly around her head, but she could move it enough to bring his fingers to her lips for a warm kiss. "It's all right, love,” he crooned softly, wiping away her tears. "You made it.” Her voice broke. "I made it.” He squeezed her fingers, relief making him a little giddy. “I really made it." "I love you, Randolph." "Thank God.” Joy chased away the last of his fears. He caressed her, reveling in the touch, soothing away her terror until her passion surged to the surface. She moaned, grabbing his hand as if it were a lifeline that could not only rescue her but lead her into a new world. A falling rock pulled him to his senses, returning all his anxiety, but this time for her safety rather than his own. "We have to get you out of here,” he choked, trying to figure out how she was trapped. He ran his hands over the rocks, looking for cracks, estimating sizes. The biggest piece was a slab that covered her from neck to thigh. It rested on smaller debris that had landed on either side of her. Other pieces spilled from atop it, forming a loose hood around half of her head. “How on earth did you escape cracking your head on the floor?" "I'm not sure, though I think I was already down before the main fall broke loose. Can you lift it?” she asked tentatively. "Not a chance. It is buried in other debris. But even if it were not, I doubt anyone could move it. It's twice as large as I am." "How about the ones near my head? I tried pushing them aside, but I can get no leverage for my arm." "Thank God for that. They form the bottom of a whole pile of rocks, love. Shifting anything might have brought it down on your head. You are lucky to be alive." His hand was again touching her face, so he felt her shudder. But she refused to give in to the horror. “There seems to be an open space near my feet. I think I can wriggle down there if you can shift whatever landed between my legs." He gingerly picked his way along the edge of the tunnel, but soon found his path blocked. “Not a chance. Even if you could get out that way, there is an even larger rock blocking the passage." "Dear God.” Her voice trembled. "How much clearance do you have in there?” He returned to where he could touch her face. “Can you move everything?" She shifted. “I think so. Why?" "Try to curl up and pull your head under the biggest stone—just like a turtle into his shell. I must shift the rocks at this end if we've any hope of pulling you out, and I can't really tell how they're balanced. Too bad I didn't stick a candle in my pocket before following you."

She twisted, her feet kicking loose rock. “Ready." Praying harder than ever before—for he knew part of her head still protruded—he traced the outlines of the stones, working his way up the pile until he reached those that did not support others. Some rolled easily out of the way. Others had to be lifted. His heart lodged in his throat every time something tumbled toward Elizabeth, but she disclaimed any new hurts. He had no idea how long it took, but his shoulders were protesting by the time he shifted the last one. "That does it. Let's slide you out now.” But it was easier said than done. She stuck after only a few inches. “Now what?” he asked, fearful that he would have to somehow raise the big stone. “Is the one between your legs pinning your gown down?" "That one doesn't quite reach the floor. But I think my cloak is caught on something.” Her hand fumbled with the fastening. He moved it gently aside, removing the brooch for her. She was right. Without the cloak, she slid easily into his arms. Relief engulfed him as their lips met. This time he held nothing back, pouring all his love and longing into the kiss. He was home in a way he had never experienced. She completed him, filling a void he had not suspected was there. Touching her brought more happiness than he had felt in years. Her kisses kindled insatiable needs that would take a lifetime to satisfy. And she was just as affected. Exploring her passion would keep him occupied forever. Slithering gravel reminded him where he was. “We have to get out of here. Are you all right?" She stretched, flexing her shoulders. “A few bruises, but nothing serious.” She stepped back and nearly tripped over a rock. "Careful.” He caught her. “Don't move until I retrieve your cloak. You'll freeze without it.” He tugged until the sound of ripping fabric echoed along the tunnel. Most of the cloak survived. When they finally reached the cave entrance, he pulled her into another embrace. The last vestige of daylight seemed bright after the absolute darkness of the tunnel, illuminating uncracked walls. They were safe. He was free of fear for the first time in twenty-two years. And Elizabeth loved him. Euphoria spilled out as she matched his passionate kiss. She was far more valuable than any good luck charm. She sighed as he nibbled her ear. “We made it." "But we'll be spending another night together. And this time, I promise to compromise you so thoroughly that you cannot possibly refuse marriage." "Excellent plan, my dearest love.” She pressed closer. “Before that contretemps in the drawing room, I'd realized that my attraction started back in the river. And admitting that you were right about my writing forced me to confront another failure." "What was that?” His fingers slid along her shoulders. "It was quite unlike me to reveal our night together, even in the throes of temper. Could I have somehow done it deliberately?"

"Anything is possible.” His mind was on her soft skin. "But that makes me no better than Cecilia.” She was close to tears. "You are nothing like Cecilia,” he said, shaking her lightly. “And even if I believed that you revealed it on purpose—which I don't—I would not care. I've wanted you since awakening that morning. I would have bared the truth myself if you hadn't beaten me to it. I love you, Elizabeth. That is all that matters." "Really?" He laughed. “You're right. I also want to marry you. Are you ready to put me out of my misery?" "Why wait until morning? I will be honored to be your wife." "Thank God.” He drew her into another kiss. Elizabeth matched him touch for touch, joy flooding her with warmth. She had never believed such pleasure was possible, but she could no longer deny the depth of his love. What else could have overcome his life-long terror? The future beckoned, offering a reality that far exceeded even her most fanciful dreams. "When shall we schedule the ceremony?” she murmured some time later. He slipped her cloak off, folding it into a rough pallet. “Mid-May is as early as we can do it without causing talk. Grandfather will insist on London—every Whitfield in centuries has wed at Westminster, drat their taste for staging spectacles. But a month in Town will introduce you to Society. And our wedding will not only add interest to the Season but will provide an excellent excuse for skipping the rest of it." "You really do hate London, don't you?" "It isn't London as much as the toadying, for I'm often in Town on business. But I am no more than a moneyed title to the ton. Even though I can now ignore the fortune hunters, there are still myriad lads who want favors and nearly as many reformers demanding support for this charity or that. I prefer choosing my own causes.” His hand slid from her shoulder to her breast. “But you might enjoy occasional visits. There are museums, theater, and some rather interesting gatherings of intellectuals that I refrained from mentioning to Cecilia. And your publisher is there." She gasped, for he had unfastened her gown and was now caressing her breast directly. “So Mother and Cecilia will get to visit London after all." "We can work out the details later. A really thorough compromise requires all our attention.” Laying her on the pallet, he pulled his cloak over them. Elizabeth worked his jacket off while he kissed her boneless. The sensations he raised drove all memory of her brush with death from her mind. And his caresses built so much desire that she nearly missed his last coherent words. "Just don't ever let me read about this in one of your books."

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